I feel my energy sifting
out of my limbs and torso
like a broken hourglass
draining onto the floor,
and the grainy sections
and the grit sits in between my toes,
void of structure
as it collapses.

I don't want to patch up my cracks,
pick up the sand and glass,
or even take the time
to figure out what happened;
I've given up
and there's nothing anyone can do about it.

The troubled serpent seeks me
in the dimness of the night,
in the luminescence of stars,
in the hallowed shadows;
it asks me to relive
and I beg of him,
saying,
was eve eating the apple
not enough?

I don’t know of what sins
you think I may have
or will commit,
but must I, too,
suffer for the ones others did?
Why do I have to constantly
be in a headspace that allows
for these things to happen
over and over,
when I was not the one
to keep taking bites of forbidden fruits?

I want the blistering hot, caked asphalt
to fry my heels as I run,
I want my skin to peel back
and for my bare feet
to form calluses in its place,
I want to run and to keep running
until my knees rust
and my lungs burst.

I want to collapse in the streets alone,
just so I know I can make it
that far.

Have you ever seen a tap dancer
sit on a stage
with their legs crossed,
their metal plated shoes
facing away,
and their sound stolen?

No?
Well, have you ever seen a girl
sit on her bed
with her legs crossed,
her feet tucked, hiding,
buried away,
and her voice silenced?

Don't tell me the dragon's been vanquished,
surely he has more fight in him!
I would have guessed
he'd shoot me another riddle,
make me run in circles
wondering who would die first;
I would have thought that
I'd spend my whole life
with a sword in hand,
chasing after him.

Is it true?
Has he fallen off his plateau, his crevice
crumbled before him?
That brute lizard finally gave up?

What's left behind him,
I'd try to see and delve into his caves
searching for clues if I believed it,
but something makes me think that
just because he's dead to me,
doesn't mean he's been vanquished.

Don't tell me the dragon's been vanquished,
it's surely not that easy!
I had thought that maybe,
he wouldn't give up his bed of lies,
tossing and turning,
his chest bellowing with flames and smoke,
I expected a temper tantrum or
roaring deceit, screaming acid and blood,
and I imagined my sword
falling to his feet.

It does bother me greatly
That my plights might be,
Well,
Shunned, misunderstood, ignored,
Or that my words are inert,
They will not, can not, touch the reader.

I am inherently scared my poetry only means to me,
And yet, I find some tiny shard
In all of my worry,
That says it wouldn't matter anyway,
It's okay to only write for me.

Please do not ask me
about why I cannot give,
or in what ways I feel unable
to start over.

I've told you before,
I've told you so many countless times,
that I cannot feel anymore,
and when I do,
it rests in a porous place in my head,
not my soul,
and I refuse
to pretend I could love another
fully,
so please,
do not ask me again.

I've told you before,
I cannot bring my heart to a pulse,
much less trust
anyone, not even myself,
with that responsibility.

I know better than to pretend
I am capable of romance,
and no sorts of pressures
will allow me to breathe easy at night;
I already have so much trouble
letting things go.