We without wings,

On our bellies crawl,

But, you paint the sky so beautiful.

So beautiful.
                                                                ­                                  Yet, so distant.

I’m sorry.

When you find her

She’ll probably tell you all the awful things I’ve done
.
How I stood her in front of a mirror and pointed out everything I hated.

Down to the last atom of her existence.

How I whispered to her every night before she slept that she was unwanted. unloveable. unnecessary. 

How I gave her heart to men I knew would break it.

How I laid her body down for men who made her confuse lust as love.

But knowing her, she won’t tell you any of this.

She’ll hide her stories. 

She won’t show you her scars.

She’ll keep it to herself, locked away in the darkest corner of herself.
This is the place she will visit often.

A place with no windows and one door.
Her palace of pain—
I tricked her into thinking that’s what a home is.

I taught her how to smile too.

To spread her lips wide, so her cheeks pushed her eyes into half-moons. 

Half-lidded truths but full lipped lies.

I taught her how to listen.

Her ears are sharp, cutting your words down to the quick.

She’s searching for the goodbye she thinks is hidden in your words.
She’ll be quiet often, but even though her lips are still, her thoughts are running lightyears in her head.

Most of those thoughts will be about you.

But she’s not thinking about how much you love her.

She’s thinking about how much she loves you and calculating how much that love will hurt her.

Love is an enduring pain and she doesn’t believe it can be anything else.

I did this.

I made her this way.

But these were the lessons that were taught to me. 

I did not have kind teachers, so how could I be nothing but cruel to her?
—A poor apology from myself to You

I reached out, stretching my hand into the void

My fingers scraping deep into the stillness 

In desperation, clawing the emptiness

Hoping to touch the absence

In order to understand, 

What caused this hollowing inside

Do what you want.

I know your hands are rough and hungry.

Touch me. Taste me. Take me.

You don’t have to hold yourself back.

I may look like porcelain but—

I grew my skin thick. I made my bones steel.

Don’t be kind. Don’t be gentle.

This is wanting. This is lust.

This is nothing.

These whispers burn red, flaring up merely to become ashes

What’s left of the words I want to say

Scatter

Shriveled things blown away by the breath leaving me

Without words.
Without voice.

This tongue. A coffin.

These lips. A tomb.

Silence makes the Death of me.