While you sleep, I am awake, I sit at the foot of your bed and I stand guard,
Believe me
                      it is difficult to ward off the imps that chase you far and hard,
To me it appears you are asleep, yet you toss, you turn, whimper and startle,
I hear your groans and I drop my head, I may look defeated, but I am just in prayer,
I can't stop those mares who stamp at night,
                                                             ­                        bridled rein in the hand of a dark heart,
They rest in the daylight when you are not able to stop or go slow, but hark,
they come calling as the sun is low and you are a feather falling lightly, oh that stark,
reality is they are waiting for you land like a rock,
you always do hope for a soft one on a blanket in a park,
but I know concrete slab and cold steel greet you and
                                                             ­                                         the shadows take aim and mark,
your journey this night, the scars don't show by mornings light, yet the drains tap,
into your energy, and I can only watch, no weapon in my hand, no tear from my eye,
will ease the battle, so I pray and I pray to remind me to pray,
                                                             ­                                                        as you alone enter the fray,
defenceless, against the assault, we know there is no fault,
                                                             ­                                                       or if you were to give in and stay
until the dreams ran out,
of their hold, that heartless vice that turns and won't
let go of your beautiful fertile imaginative mind, vulnerable
                                                             ­                                                     and alone.  I am beside you and
yet I wait, to comfort, with only a word that I am near,
you are not alone, "I am here", night watching.

Oh lovely, a new friend.
Would you be so kind to listen to my story?
I need to tell someone as I fear I may be going insane.
If you are going to listen to my story, could you please try not to judge me?  
Oh, what’s that?
You’ll listen to my story?
And you won’t judge me?
Oh well, isn't that just lovely.

Now, the question is where do I start?

I want to draw.
I want to paint.
I want to make music.
I just want to create.
Create something tangible.
Maybe create something magical.
I want to create something that will last.
But more importantly, I want to be remembered for creating that one magical thing.

Dear Him,
My name is, wouldn’t you like to know? Wouldn’t you like to see what I see every day? You’re fragile and simple and just pink, raw humanity all rolled into this shape, this form, this line of your jaw. I want to fix you.
Just don’t let me down. Don’t let me think that this will be over, because I can’t stick up for you all of the time. I’m moving on to greener grasses. I’m done with these half empty glasses. Does it matter that I’m hurt when your lying broken on the floor? I want to fix you. I want to pull the gray that’s shading your life and twist it round my finger. I want you to know, and to remember that this isn’t who you are. Life is a process of becoming, and we need to figure out who we want to turn into. Don’t turn into one of the bad guys. My heart breaks every time. Every time. And I won’t let it break again.
I will fix you.

Like watercolor paintings our sadness pooled at our edges, deepening our pigment, staining every move. And I turned into you like something tragic, something broken- voicing apologies, but with sweet security you traced a finger to my lips and kissed them speechless.
So we melded together, twisting like ribbons ‘round our limbs, every exhale his inhale, every arch of my back supported by gentle hands, fingers curling into skin. He stole my breath, leaving crimson bruises in the curve of my neck.
Then suddenly I ended and he began. Vaguely aware of my nails along his spine, I couldn’t tell which heartbeat was mine anymore. No space between us, just skin on skin on skin on skin ‘til the blur of motion was just waves on the ocean that was us. No more soft spoken sighs, names whispered into the night- down to bare raw syllables, kissing shoulders, enveloped in his arms- I felt connection I’d never known before. Something pure, something more.
Last night our hurt became the glue that bound us to each other. And I’ll never forget such love.

Your heaven has failed me
On the days when I felt loading up the dish washer was a
Personal assault on my psyche
Your god has-
Run me over with his fists too many times
And made me believe it was paternal pat’s on the back
All the-
Pain I was feeling,
You carry the gravel in your teeth
To make sure its full of grit,
When you speak,
I say;
“you’re full of shit”

You say im just weak for the things
That have made me unholy.
I am weak for the things that have unbroken me.
These words are shrapnel
You let them sink into our skin there is no more dirt to chew
I will spend my last moments
Holding onto the fucking noose
I’m going down swinging
And if that means I’ll hang
So be it
There are worst ways to die

I know
Because I’ve died before

Nothing special happens. Ya’ll can stop dreaming.

Kindness isn’t supposed to taste so bitter
Being saved
Isn’t supposed to hurt so much
You-
Never knew how much the night sky despised the daylight
Until you moved to a country where it gets longer every year
You never knew how kind
The sun was to your skin-
Ive got tan lines where my noose used to swing
It took me three years to untie myself
And I still have scars

Whether they will be there or not in a few more years
I guess ill stick around and see just
How much ive
lost

Pretty
Pretty.
What does it mean to her?
Since the beginning time, she was always told she was pretty,
But at one point that little girl began to question
If what she was told was a lie.
Everybody seemed pretty,
But her.
She was no longer the “You should sign her up for modeling” girl.
She became “Oh, she’s ….. tall”
Or “Wow, you’re big! Oh I mean big for your age.”
When the “pretty” faded, so did her spirit.
The omnipresent smile was gone,
As well as her joy.
She became her mother’s nightmare
Moody,
Sensitive,
Irritable,
Argumentative.
She covered up her self-destructive insecurities with faux confidence and
“No really, I’m fine”
Just as if one covers up their unsightliness
With aggrandize grand eyes, cheeks and lips
No one ever knew that underneath all the bravado
There was still a little girl,
Who seemed grown physically and sometimes mentally,
Longing for someone to tell her she’s pretty.


Incorrect.


This little girl was waiting to tell herself she was pretty
And believe it.