No bars on the windows.
No locks on the doors.
No reason to stay here.
No way I’m ever leaving.

You spoke about constellations.
But you’re just a black hole.
You ripped me to pieces,
And swallowed me whole.
You were all-consuming,
And I was the starless night.
In the end, we now know,
Two voids don’t make a light.

We stood together as brothers in arms.
Our side was small, both in stature and numbers.
Fighting daily battles, we knew the war was lost.
The tattered battlefield was a living room carpet.
We received no weapons, but our enemy did.
Armed with wooden spoons and open palms.
We retaliated with tears and with silent obedience.
The yelling in the house echoed like explosions.
In that grey one-story house, my siblings and I.
We stood together as brothers in arms.

I fell madly in love with you.
Your sweet compliments drew me in.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your soft kisses won me over.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your advice told me to listen.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your discipline made me better.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your harsh words caught me off guard.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your apologies regained my trust.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your bad habits became mine.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your anger made me feel protected.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your disappointment was immeasurable.
I fell madly in love with you.
Your love made me feel crazy.

I fell violently out of love with you.
Your sweet compliments stopped coming.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your kisses slowly faded to pecks.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your advice led me astray.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your discipline left me confused.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your harsh words stung like tears.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your apologies were double-sided.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your bad habits ruined my life.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your anger scared my childlike heart.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your disappointment made me feel even worse.
I fell violently out of love with you.
Your love made me feel unloveable.

The tide waves goodbye as I drive back to the mountains of my home.
Though there is no snow at their shallow peaks,
I miss those fall colors which raised me to wonder.
I wonder where the mountains meet the sea.
I wonder if those who only see one or the other
will ever truly understand the beauty this earth provides.
The tide waved goodbye,
and then the leaves on the mountain trees waved hello again.

The shadow in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my father.
He stands behind my mother’s chair like an advisor to the queen.
He does not poison her mind or plan treason against her throne.
Her tyranny extends to the invisible shackles on his long-broken mind.

The ghost in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my brother.
Though he has died, he never passed on to the better place he deserves.
His phantom lingers in my mind, trying to reach out and touch this plane.
He can’t feel the tender dew on the soft grass unless he uses my hands.

The witch in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my sister.
Though she has left the inner coven, she is still trapped under her oath.
Her spells of cord-cutting and separation can only do so much against it.
As her mistress sleeps, her work to free herself from her bond does not stop.

The monster in the mirror reminds me not of myself but of my mother.
She controls our movements like a puppet on a string, never stopping.
There is no freedom to reign over my or my family’s actions but hers.
Her little marionettes may never break free from the suffering they endure.

It’s funny
The way I
Stop breathing

When I see
You. Your face
Beautiful

Not even
A gasp can
Escape me

As the sea rises, the stern falls.
The moon is my last view before blackness consumes it all.
Waves beat me like an angry horde.
Ropes circle my neck like an assassin's cord.
I take my last breath, half of it water,
Before my untimely death. My body sinks under.

There is this feeling I’ve never felt.
Given one less card when cards were dealt.
A constant gambling poker game,
Not for money, nor for fame.
This **** was rigged at the start.
The lost feeling was love, joy in my heart.
It’s taught by some mothers but never mine.
I pity the souls who were raised in kind.
I love others; don’t be mistaken.
But it feels like love for myself was taken,
Away by my mother, or maybe God.
Either way, I think it’s rather odd.
The way I was treated. The way I was raised.
The way that, despite that, my mother was praised.
My dad, he’s alright, but I think he should
Stand up for himself, for his own good.
It’s not my fault, but I’m given credit,
For my parents’ emotional deficit.
Regardless of where my poker game started.
I hope I can win, when I’m departed.

I would describe this feeling as pain,
but it doesn’t quite hurt like being burned.
And it doesn’t feel like being completely incinerated either.
No, it’s a dull ache. A deep feeling of loss.
Even my body doesn’t know how to process it.
Not that my body knows how to process most things.
My stomach is bad at digesting dairy and anger .
My ears don’t interpret conversations very well,
And my tongue can’t stand spice.
Spice burns. A pain I can identify, but can’t tolerate.
Heartbreak aches like a black hole. Cold. Empty.
What was once a burning star has been changed,
Rendered into an all-consuming, lifeless nothing.

My mother is a spider.
Carefully crafted webs fill my childhood home.
With great care, she weaves day and night,
trapping her family inside.
We struggle but only doom ourselves further.
I am a fly,
buzzing as I wrap myself in her silken strands.
My sister is a butterfly,
flapping her wings as the webbing pulls off her beautiful scales.
My brothers are bees
who once sought bright flowers and hives of others like them.
My father is a moth,
guided to the web’s shimmering light.
Now, we all lie still, drained of life,
slowly being consumed by the weaver.

For you, a hand-made mother’s day card
For you, curiosity about your hobbies and interests
For you, endless forgiveness and grace
For you, tender, loving care during dark moments
For me? Abuse, trauma, and manipulation

Trapped in paper. Printed. Copied.
Repeated for generations to read,
though few will know the words.
Captured on a page. Do they cry?
Do matching tears fall from both
the reader and the read pages?

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Eating yourself like this
Gnawing at muscle and bone
Just to feel at home

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Cheating yourself like this
Quitting before the game begins
Just to wallow in your sins

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Beating yourself like this
Smashing your head into walls
Just to silence the noise of it all

You need to stop treating yourself like this.
Defeating yourself like this
Betting on a losing dog
Just to hide in the fog

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Deleting yourself like this
Editing your words before you speak
Just to hide the feelings underneath

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Repeating yourself like this
Echoing past excuses and mistakes
Just to avoid the time healing takes

You need to stop treating yourself like this
Completing yourself like this
Assuming this is how your story ends
Just to never make amends

You cause your own downfall
You make yourself doubtful
But you can change your tune
Let the light in and bloom

I soak up rays of warmth from the sun
as it covers my limbs like a blanket.
I am calm, content, and curious.
My curiosity is unbridled,
and my creativity is bolstered
by the satisfaction I feel.
I wish to grow and reach new heights.
This freedom comes from the sun,
as my leaves photosynthesize its warmth into energy.
My stem reaches taller, and new leaves unfurl.
I create a new version of myself with every sunny day.

I liked me better when
you hated yourself.
Now that you have found
beauty, I have lost my own.

Golden light streams from the heavens.
Streaks of vibrancy smear the sky,
Tearing into the clouds, as the sun descends on the earth.
Like rockets, an explosion of color decorates the above.
With fiery love, a sunset falls like a sparkling firework.
Eyes watch as the brilliant bombing takes the light from the hills.
Alas, night has overtaken the warzone of the sky’s stage once more.
May the battle continue tomorrow.

“We don’t claim this one.”
“Well, then we will! He’ll be one of our own”
“You can’t do that!”
“Watch us! You didn’t want him.”

I’d like to apologize.
Not to you though.
No, I’d like to apologize to myself.
I’m sorry for never being strong enough
to express myself fully or honestly.
I’m sorry for never being brave enough
to stand up to you.
I’m sorry for letting myself suffer
for your comfort for all these years.
I’m sorry for letting you control
my thoughts and actions this whole **** time.
I’m sorry for thinking that I was the perpetrator
instead of the victim.
I’m sorry for thinking I had done anything wrong.
I’m sorry for continuously letting you use me
as a tool to hurt myself.
And above all else.
I’m sorry that it took me twenty years to fully realize
that I don’t owe you a **** thing.

Bright pink clouds, Sun’s dying breath.
A final push, and a final shot.
Climbing the sky, an indigo depth.
A daily war, and a nightly loss.
Full darkness now, no moon tonight.
A devastating defeat, life on its knees.
Hours and hours, no natural light.
Still life continues, the bugs and the trees.
A brightening starts, to gray from black.
A new day, a new battle.
Rising sun peeks above and starts to attack.
We wait now, in bright blue, for its next death rattle.

Maybe I’ll be happy
Maybe when I’m twenty-five
Maybe I’ll be home
Maybe if I’m still alive

Maybe I’ll be different
Maybe when I’m forty-five
Maybe I’ll be content
Maybe if I’m still alive

I know I was hiding
I know I was only five
But I was not innocent
I’m surprised I’m still alive

I am now nineteen
I still feel scared and small
I am not the same person
I will try to stay alive
And maybe rescue us all

I’m losing myself every day.
I’m tired of fighting these battles.
I want to be fought for for once.
Sometimes I wonder if anyone
Is glad to have me in their life.
What’s so wrong with me?

Some people fall deeply in love,
With ****** touches that evoke pleasure.
I have not fallen deeply in love with you.
No. I fell softly. Like a fallen angel,
I am coaxed to the ground by soft wings.
These wings do not consist of feathers,
but instead sweet words and kisses.
I hope you fall slowly like I do, lover.
As the wind whispers sweet nothings,
Do you gently glide through the sky?
I pray to the god that merged our paths.
In these prayers, I beg for eternity.
An eternity descending with you.

Loud head. Silent mouth.
Loud thoughts. Empty words.
Loud pain.
Screaming, deafening pain.
Numbness.

Color the sky with cerulean blue.
Know in your heart it will be true.
Paint the clouds titanium white.
Use indigo to pigment the night.
Oh, painter, your palette is as sharp as your knife.
May it guide you towards vibrancy all of your life.

Your questions
So carefully
Selected

Like bullets
In a gun
You loaded.

Bang bang bang.
They only stop
When I am dead

I swear he’s an angel.
His wings bring him
down to Earth slowly.
They spread out,
reaching across the blue sky.
His white feathers create
the silver lining on the horizon.

A lingering glance.
I look away.
A subtle flirt.
I don’t notice.

Blatant ignorance.
But not blissful.
Months pass.
They tell me.
I understand.

A lingering glance.
I still look away.
A subtle flirt.
I blush a bit.

New knowledge.
I didn’t see it.
It eats at me.
Guilt for not knowing.
Never questioning.

A lingering glance.
My eyes hold.
A subtle flirt.
A blushing smile.

I think I understand.
They connected with me.
I think I understand.
Why they see me like this.
Why I see them the same.

A lingering glance.
I make a funny face.
A subtle flirt.
I finally flirt back.

Like mushrooms, we are connected.
It is hard to see where one fungus stops.
And the next one starts.
The complex network of mycelium
Ties us all together at the root.
We grow from the mossy ground,
Unsure if we are a new being
Or just a new extension of the whole.
Regardless, we are each unique.
Distinguishable.
We stand alone as ourselves,
But we grow together as one.
Are we a family?
Or are we different organs of one organism,
Working in tandem, doing our part?
I suppose all these descriptions can coexist together.
We do work together, sharing resources,
Distributing based on need, not want.
We are a family of mushrooms.
Our spores share the same DNA
As they float through the air.
We are one with each other,
But we are also our own selves.

My earrings are handmade by hands that don’t love me.
The fingers that bent metal into joyous, beautiful shapes were my own.
But I struggle to love those hands.
I struggle to love the body or mind attached to them too.

I was raised by hands that don’t love me.
Ever since I was small, I’ve known somewhere
that my tiny fingers were only valued
once they grew into working hands.

You have me on a string.
Like a leaf caught in a stream
You drag me along
You are my song
An aria I sing
You have me on a string.

knowing you are gone
is a blessing from above

because my wide eyes
are not unlike the others

they shimmer with hope
and naivete like a dove

but that hope, your evil
heart only smothers

I have this fear.
I live under its control.
I follow its instructions to the letter.
I avoid its anger and shudder at its mere presence.

I want to reach out and grow,
but I am trapped by glass
walls custom-made for me.

Whisk me away, my love.
To lands of enchantment,
With streams of milk and honey
Flowing past trees as tall as castles.
This lifeless place is nothing like
the realms I wish to visit with you.
I am in need of saving,
Like a damsel in a high tower,
I am trapped in a dull world.

Oh, whisk me away, my love.
To a cottage in the woods,
And let me sew in a rocking chair
While you carve me a small trinket.
As we sit by the fire together,
I will think about the place I am now.
I am in need of saving,
Like a grandmother stumbling.
I am unsteady on my feet.

Please, whisk me away, my love.
To safety and comfort.
A quiet apartment is all I ask,
With warm tea and warmer hugs.
Watch the sunrise with me,
As we watch TV with the dog.
No longer in need of saving,
Like a feral cat with a forever home.
No longer scared for tomorrow.

Surrounded by beads and notions,
she creates with no hesitation.
She is struck, like lighting,
by the fires of creation.

I hope you are cleansed one day.
After your life fades away.
I know you won’t change overnight.
Because after decades,
you still ignore my plight.
I can only hope you will be purified.
But not in a way that is dignified.
No, you must be burned and smote by fire.
Because only flames can cleanse a liar.

Red is for roses,
Or so they say.
But roses are green too,
At the end of the day.

Why focus on flowers,
Temporary, fragile?
When instead there are thorns,
Durable, agile.

Think about it really,
What is red giving?
For green is still lovely,
Lively and living!

Green holds pine needles,
Oak leaves, and ferns.
Red holds hot fire,
All that does is burns!

Why flare up in moments?
Why flare up at all?
When you can be a constant,
Like a bright green moss wall.

Ever growing, ever changing,
But never erased.
Doesn’t that sound much better
Than a love laid to waste?

It soaks in the power
And warmth from above.
Yes, green is ideal.
The true color of love.

The look on her face is longing.
A subtle pout. Distant eyes.
She looks out the window at the sunset.
Yet another day spent quietly alone.
Plans were made to end the quiet.
Those plans were canceled. She longs
for community, connection, camaraderie.
She wishes for acceptance and empathy.
Alas, she must open the door
to welcome in such things.
So she sits on the floor.
With longing painted on her face.

It wrapped her head,
covering her auburn hair
in golden yellows and bright blues.

When the wind stole it away,
I raced after it,
hoping to catch up to the breeze.

The red and orange leaves
traced its path as it flew
through the brisk autumn air.

My fingers barely brushed
the fabric, but the current
brought it to the branches overhead.

The air carried it to
a high bough above our heads,
hanging it on a branch with care.

There it hung, beside
the glimmering yellow leaves of
the tree, swaying like one of them.

I reached towards the sky
to retrieve it before the breeze
could lift it away once more.

She caught up with me then,
laughing at our attempts
to rescue her bright yellow scarf.

Looking up at the thin piece of fabric,
I offered to climb the tree
though I didn’t want to.

Her infectious giggles at the
proposed idea graced my ears
like a soft, sweet song.

That music lulled my once-lonely mind
into sleepy peace and serenity
for the rest of my days.

Oh, I trust you and I love you and I need you.
I trust you more than I have ever trusted myself.
Your words sing truth against my shattered mind
as they glue pieces back together with glittering gold.
I love you in ways I may never truly understand.
Your smile brings joy to my life while your guidance
brings me back to the path of safety.
I need you to stay to help me.
Your absence felt like a dark cloud on my very existence.
I was lost without you.
Oh, I trust you and I love you and I need you.

I crave soft touches and gentle words.
Reassuring hands holding mine in the
darkness of this world. Sweet humanity
cradling my soul as I no longer fear for
the present. I wish for tender care given
by rough hands, silky hands, and every
hand in between. Love isn’t shown in
bravery or strength. It is shown in kind-
ness and compassion. Love is as bright
and soft as a full moon on a starry night.

Oil on canvas can show reality,
but truth will not be found in a realistic painting.
No, truth hides in expressions of
pain, fear, love, awe, and even hatred.
Such strong feelings rapture the viewer and rupture their heart.
Only feeling can convey truth.
To be creative is not to create. It is to feel.
Creativity is not a desire, it is a command
to represent what you feel in what you make.

Successful artists are rarely happy.
The depth of emotion necessary to create
riveting artwork is not often found in joy.
Creating truth requires shadow. It requires darkness.
It requires exploration into the deep and murky waters of the mind.
You do not reach mastery of art until you have achieved mastery of the self.
Success is not fame. Success is reaching and
recreating such truth, such beauty, and such pain
that you have depicted reality in its rawest form.

Why do I growl when I'm upset?
Grrr I want to hold you
Grrr I need your touch
Grrr please help me
Maybe I growl because the only part of me that is allowed to feel pain is the Beast.
Maybe the Beast lurks behind my tongue,
wanting to scream, but only able to scare.
I pity this Beast. It does not bite, and it cannot bark.
Its sole connection to the world is a defensive, angry, growl.

Beat me down, break my skin.
Like a glowstick, the party begins.
After I’m broken, bruised, and bleeding.
Celebration starts as I’m on the floor, reeling.
Rolling on the floor with laughter and pain,
I join the party, still ****** and maimed.
Together, we laugh. Alone I cry.
No one sees this pain of mine.
But I find it okay.
Even better this way.
Don’t let them see it.
But let them do it.
Let them hurt me over and over and over again.
Let them hurt me, these monsters, my friends.
They beat me up; they broke what didn’t bend.
And like a used up glowstick, the party, it ends.

She hangs above, not upside down.
Waiting for her turn, never wearing a frown.
She is a patient woman, wearing a man’s face.
She cannot run, she walks at her own pace.
Who is she? This dark, hidden lady?
She is so bright, when she isn’t shady.
The Moon, oh, the Moon!
Who’s lover comes soon.
Her lover, the sun, sits so high in the sky.
On opposite sides from her sweetheart at night.
But every once in a while, they meet up to kiss,
Covering the world in a gloomy, dark eclipse.