I have ended wars single handedly,
Brought gods broken to their knees,
And dragged down the very lights
From the gods of Heaven.

But my greatest victory
Was always that I was the fire,
That sparked your brightest smiles.

My fingers are screaming
As I beat a rhythm into my desk's surface.
They strike in the same rhythm over and over again,
But you will never understand why.

It is mistaken for a distraction,
Or perceived to be anxiety.
And my classmates scowl and tell me to stop,
No matter how panicked I seem.

It is not a side effect of ADHD,
Or wanting pity.
It is a silent scream of pain
And fear.
It is my cry for help.

...---...

When gods claimed her story was pre-written among  the stars,
She stormed up to the heavens.

She extinguished each burning fire with red,
Scorching hands.

The burning lights hold no claim over her head,
Nor her life.

The glittering night sky is hers now,
And she will carve into it with constellations of her own.

This is the hill I will die on.
I choose to stand on the high ground,
And fight in the war.

I will be bloodied.
Bruised.
Broken.

But I will not run to the safety,
In the home at the bottom.
I will not cry for mercy,
As you raise your blade above my bowed head.

I will stay.
I will empty your lungs of hot air,
And shove you over the edge.
I will watch your body lie at the bottom,
Pointed at gruesome angles.

For in your one-sided battle to knock me down,
I have turned the tide.
This place that I have chosen to rest
Is no longer my grave,
But yours.

If I hurt myself on purpose-
...
Would anyone even care?
Would they show compassion
And empathy?

Or be cold and bitter like this cruel world?
Would they turn their heads and pretend they don't see,
Or simply close their eyes at the sight of me?

Would I be a monster?
One to hide children from
And push away?

Maybe I should find the answers to my own questions.
Maybe I will.

Vultures are the holiest creatures,
Tending with honor to the dead.
Bowed low to kiss the corpse,
With death covered wings and bare head.

They whisper to the frigid flesh,
Of words we could never hear, nor see.

“Your old name is not your own.
This dying earth; Not your king.
So forget the seeds that you have sown,
For I rename you “everything.”

I feel Hollow.
Barren.
Empty.

That hollowness erodes my body,
leaving a trail of decay.
Cracks crawl through my brittle bones,
shattering my skull,
fragmenting my thoughts.

A carmine-colored river floods into my caving lungs,
before dragging itself up my throat.
The metallic taste slowly overwhelms my mouth,
and seeps through my gapped teeth.
My glass smile falls and shatters.

Terror grips what was once my voice,
holding sound captive-
my call for help erased by despair.
Only strangled sobs exist.
I'm left choking on my own life force.

Each sob collects upon my face;
a veil of tears cover my broken visage.
Shrouding me from prying eyes that encompass judgemental gazes.

Without even seeing,
their stares spear my soul and blacken my heart.
The forgotten, grayed ash
smothers out all that remains.

My rotted husk: a void, a dismal skeleton.
A vast emptiness that nothing can fill.

Broken.
Decayed.
Hollow.

It's what I am.

Some people are just born to fight,
I think.

...

It's not that they're born brave,
Nor that they're born strong.
But that the universe has decided that this one,
This being will have grit
And fire
And steel in their blood.

And it shall be tested,
This cosmic mettle of theirs.
They'll face trial after trial,
be broken and damaged in countless ways.

But this one was born to fight.
Maybe it's not the life they would have chosen,
For maybe they'd love to lay down their arms.

Yet they were born to fight
For the weak.
It's what they know.
It's what they do best.
It's all they can do.

It's perfect,
My life.
Not a single worry to be found.

But when will it all fall apart?
When will I bolt out of bed
And realize it was never real?
This life of smiles
And laughter

It’s too perfect.
And feels too real,
Even as the corners fade to black.

Convinced:
Not awake,
I know I'm dreaming.

But the thing I dread most…
Is waking up.
How much longer do I have before the hourglass is empty?
How much farther can I tread before the road ends?

Not far, it seems.

The alarm screams at 6 am.
The fever dream shatters,
As I grasp at the jagged pieces.
I am dragged through my existence
In this dreary, gray world.
Until I fall back asleep.