Go ahead and mourn all the things
that have, and can, and will be.
Lay flowers at the foot of the grave of borrowed time,
kiss the past her sweet goodbyes,
and rest assured the cycle always happens again;
another life gives time a new lover
who she'll take back someday.

Sometimes I think I see it in your eyes;
you want to devour me,
to have me, solely,
all to yourself.

Do you see it in my eyes too?
That I would give myself so willingly to you,
that you could have me at your feet in a single, sharp snap of your fingers.

Pulled into a trance like that,
I'd almost say 'yes'
each time we lock eyes.
I could relinquish myself to follow every suggestion that flows from your soft lips,
but would you believe that?

A scary thought,
my dear,
is that you’re the only reason for living.

I promise I’ve tried finding some other reason,
hoping I could forge a healthier relationship
with life,
but I’d sooner have death than live without you.

Not even art makes me alive anymore.
All I have is you, you know,
and my friends would hate to hear
how much I long for death or for you;
life gets to choose what path I take,
and I hate it.


At this rate, I’m scared of failing,
I am trying so desperately
to pretend I know what I’m doing,
to pretend I still have a drive,
but I’m only here because you’re still here.

I love you.

From week in to week out,
the cracks in foundation do form,
and the ceiling begins to leak;
should those in the castle's embrace choose to evacuate?

The lovers huddle in the stillness of their room and contemplate their position,
but something crumbling so quickly needs an equally quick decision.

Dare they take a break and flee from the impending ruin?
And what does it say about them if the structure of their loving home won't support them?

And if the lovers falter
from the tower to the uneasiness below,
will there be enough arms to catch them both?

Feelings soon forgotten,
Had it not been for him,
Lips unlike before; fragile,
But the flutter all the same.

Playful, light glances,
Reveal much of the heart,
A renaissance began anew,
Inside the mind, body; start.

Awkward steps, a cold voice,
Washing over like the tide,
Left true to see a fleeting stance,
As they said their final goodbye.

Pure reflections of the face,
Left a smile to trail the sky,
The sun would whisper, clouds abound,
To dissipate among the stars.

Ought I be so scared
of the monsters I fell in love with?

I should know by now
that a man with such an acquired taste
for knives and playthings
could tear me in half.

Their desires to be like me, of me,
torments me as much as the thought
of being like them;
and oh, how my false confidence
destroys me in the end,
pretending I could never fear them.

How quaint it is to exist
inside, between, such disfigured forms
of speech and image,
but must I tremble at their voice,
must I crumble at the feet
of something so deformed?

I know if I see him, see them,
I would much like to be afraid,
and every part of my bones
will collapse into flakes and shards,
only for me to later inhale
my brokenness, with disturbed breath,
and I will feel my eyes swell with lamenting salt,
sensing I'm letting my weakness show.

I've never wanted to run away
as much as I've wanted to run away from him,
from them,
from the absolute tormenting weight of them,
their brown eyes, their brown hair,
their terrible smiles,
they've always claimed to want me
and now I fear they might come
to take me, just like they always said they would.

Haven't you heard
that breaking and entering is an offense
and that maybe every attempt
you make to barge into me,
every door you bust open,
every single step forward
into my soul, my energy,
against my will, is trespassing,
and I'll be ******
if you think I won't
take care of a wiley trespasser
like you.

It’s a trigger, I think.

I’ve had a talk like that one
a million times
in three voices, two men, one woman,
in my many nightmares,
in my day to day living,
I’ve heard that one too many times.

A swirling tunnel,
a downcast drain, flushing
twisting impressions
of time and space, corrupted
in their voices
in my ears
and I think, surely,
that had to be a trigger.

I tricked myself
into trusting that I mattered
as much as I thought you did
and that every gentle touch
meant you'd work to be
everything you said you would
and that each fragile whisper down my neck
was a promise
of affection,
not a signal of coercion,
not a white lie to keep me down,
to have me resting next to your body
in shallow warmth,
lost in translation.

Eyes are windows to the soul,
but you always put down the shutters,
closed them tight when you smiled
and told me it was normal;
I believed it.

Loosened tie,
loosened dirt,
one's gonna **** you
one's gonna hurt,
what's it gonna be boy,
when everything's turned,
suffocated misery
or the underground resort?

I'm the kind of flower
that grows out of concrete,
but with one look,
I appear just like a ****.

I've got a reinforced stem
and a will to burst through the cracks;
I don't wilt without water,
and I refuse to cut back.

I grow in adversity,
under the shade, in the dust,
in the hard rock pressing against
my roots, when it's rough;

but I'm not some simple dandelion
waiting for grubby hands to rip from the dirt,
I'm a flower, not a ****,
I cannot be deterred.

It's so unfair to us roses,
truly,
to be admired by every passing glance,
but what of our desires?

It is only fair we get a chance,
to peruse among such lovely sights,
and instead of glorifying our petals,
we could take fascination in your image.

I must be a vampire
because every time I peer into
my tall, demanding mirror
I don’t see myself
in any reflection
bouncing back.

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.

Disgusting,
tongue stuck out,
nose closed;
she always hated it,
and no matter what
we’d press and press,
forcing her to stomach
things she never wanted,
smelling that sourness,
those vinegar troubles
and tangy juice
covered in coercion;
we’d ask her time and time again
and never once did we respect her wishes.

Why must I consume?
is it not enough to exist,
is that not enough consumption?
How greedy it is
to expect me to take
more than I desire,
to force me to eat another
out of house and home.
That’s kind,
so very kind,
a sickly kind,
the sort of “kindness”
that destroys marriages,
uproots families and destroys psyches.
I’m not like that,
I don’t want to be controlled.

But we kept on shoveling
these aged, old traditions,
those nasty pickled ideas,
those greedy, grubby hands
of control over her,
and she could never let herself forgive.

Have you ever woken up inside a flashback?
Do you know how it feels to be pushed down into your own body after years of being pulled apart?

I awoke many times in a haze,
wondering what year it was;
months ago I finally came to and I thought I was trapped in 2014
and instead of waking to go to school,
like I was so convinced of,
I went to work and went through the motions of something I somehow knew all too well.

How did I go so many years in this separation of self?
I awoke to all of this abundance and responsibility I don't remember creating.
I could have cried out screams of mercy
for whatever stole all these years
to give them back.

I typed away at my computer,
but it all felt so foreign.
I was supposed to be in high school;
I'm supposed to be myself.

I've awoken many times in absolute fear,
not even sure who I am,
where I am,
what time period I'm in.
It's terrifying and I'm so tired of being ripped apart from reality like this.

Have you ever been consumed by a flashback?
Hurled and spit out by the jaws of the past
and regurgitated into the present?
I've never understood why it has to keep happening.

I am tired of living in waking memory;
I want this tortuous cycle to end.

I wasted my time,
Trying to figure you out
But to my dismay
You found nothing to say.

I don’t know why
I thought that maybe I’d try
To talk to you soon
But that plan was doomed.

So I waited it out
Took small steps in the crowd
Hoped you would look back
Yet it wasn’t like that.

Oh why did I think
That maybe it’d work
If I just put in
More than it’s worth?

Don’t think twice
I made mistakes that aren’t nice
And I know I’ll keep trying
Though your presence is like ice.

In the mirror, I see art.

My dark hair curls, accentuates,
crafting my royal cheeks, smooth,
against my olive skin.

My figure, curved, full,
like the sands of time; slowly,
crafting my shape in splendor.

My eyes, a rich coffee brown,
earthquakes thrive; shatter,
resonate in my gaze.

Yet...the painting becomes forgotten,
the frame tilts with the pull of Earth,
worn hands fail to paint.

When I walk, they perceive me.
Am I as beautifully crafted as a Renoir? Or as scattered as a *******?

Each stare a different audience, another sketch, a frame lost in the viewer's eye.

But my thoughts are forever,
burdened only by another's dream,
ideas stirred, juxtaposed with my own;
an artist's piece at odds.

The colors smear, lines smudge, but yet my eyes always see the beauty. Do you?

My whole body feels weak,
and I can’t help but imagine
this would have been the perfect time
for you to use me,
if you hadn’t already.

These doors are shut,
can't you see that?

I've got half a mind to let you hear
my screaming rattled insides,
but I know better.

I know better than to subject you
to the ever compressing, binding,
and oppressive part of my existence
just so you can play pretend
with who you think I am.

Stop acting as though one of you can
hold a key to the door,
taunt my demons out to prowl,
and make love to the idea of me;
you are no knights in shining armor,
and surely, you can see
I'm not open to visitors.

What does she do when you sit in distress?
Your bowtie askew, this I asked:

What does she do when you stay up late, a restless fit;
an empty plate,
you do so sit, what does she do when you silently wish?

What does she do when you cope and pray, when you have wasted your entire day;
dreaming and hoping,
but to your dismay, what does she say when you look away?

What does she say when you laugh and cry, and how does she feel when you say goodbye? Does she smile, and beg to stay? I bet you wish it were that way.

What does she do when it comes to you, is this the life for just two, or are you rushing by too fast? Or must you hide behind your mask?

What does she do when you seem content, but can't muster a single, calm reply,
when I ask...
What does she do to your heart that I can't grasp?

Where would I be,
had I decided my fate earlier?
Changing timelines,
feeling sadder,
or maybe not at all;
would my life be nothing
like it is now,
gunking up my flow,
like a wounded baby's crawl?

Would I even be myself?
(Or was I ever really?)
Could I remember how to feel?
(Other than just dreary?)
Should I even bother caring?
(When it calls to me so clearly?)

Well,
they say fate determines all,
others claim free will,
but have they considered
compromising skills?
Because I know I caused my path,
and I made it pre-determined,
as without my desires,
my future isn't certain.
So to question what my past
may have had to offer
is to question my own
mind, self, and author.

You mean to tell me
That every letter typed out
with grubby,
Grease-covered fingertips,
Should be laid out in truth?
"What’s that?" Never heard of it.

...Whose voice is that?

She likes to ask me this
when I finally lift my fingers up,
and sometimes I have to tell myself
I'm not quite sure anymore
but at least she's honest.

A wilted lettuce leaf, I am.
Look how weak every crease happens to be,
and how sad it is to see me,
limp and soggy,
Skin turned dark,
An unforgettable, unpleasant sight;
Such an unforgiving body, I have.

You remind me of a man I had once written of,
so intangible I hadn't realized
it was true.

His eyes a vibrant brown, haughty,
full of bravado; a confidence
so blaring it could set the world on fire,
a jab at the veneer separating excellence and perfection.

I question if I created him myself, or if he rest a portrait on my page.

Their names synonymous.

To see such a creation living,
silencing,
I think, maybe, the ink never reached the paper,
and he knows.

I've been limping because of them,
but I've seen others paralyzed,
tortured,
or burned alive by them,
and I'm so scared
that next time,
I'll be torn apart,
and then no one will be left
to protect the next victim.