Her skin tastes,
that of stars,
and her hair,
has the scent,
of lilacs,
and driftwood,
tainted by,
morningdew.
I can’t help,
but stop,
and stare for,
just a few.

There’s a tornado,
in my throat,
and I,
can’t seem,
to get the words,
out of,
the pit,
in my stomach.
I’m choking,
on letters,
that make words,
never heard.

Don’t drown,
Mr. Fish,
he forgot,
how to hold,
his breath.
Glub glub,
he says.
His fins,
don’t work,
Mr. Fish,
can’t you,
swim?
The water is,
too deep,
in his bowl.
Don’t drown,
Mr. Fish.

There's a girl in the glass box,
poor little bird can't fly.
Her wings have been snipped,
bound in ribbon,
made of knives.
Girl in the glass box,
what are you doing in there?
I can see you screaming,
why can't I hear a sound?
Please, shattered doll,
don't you cry,
you're out of time.
Girl in the glass box,
who are you?
With your brown hair,
made of curls,
won't you please tell me?
Poor broken doll,
with her bruised,
bleeding porcelain skin.
Girl in the glass box,
will you let me in?

I am unable to be happy,
that is my conclusion,
a self-diagnosis.
I simply just,
cannot be satisfied,
it's just that,
honestly.
I sit there,
and stare,
dumbfounded,
I don't know,
I don't care.
Bottom lip sticking out,
legs crossed,
arms folded,
tapping the mole,
on my left bicep.
It's not my fault,
really,
I'm frustrated,
it isn't fair.
I don’t care,
I don't know,
how to be happy,
that is my conclusion,
a self-diagnosis.

My legs,
I can’t feel them.
Dear God,
I can’t move.
The devil,
put a curse,
on me.
He cracked,
my bones,
used them,
as forks,
and spoons.
I've become,
cutlery,
for Satan,
instead.

I found myself,
drowning,
unable,
to reach,
the surface.
Not quite,
dead,
yet unable,
to be called,
living.
My lungs fill,
to the brim,
as if I’m the,
sunkissed pitcher,
with sour lemonade,
inside of it.
I can’t breathe,
I’m pursed lipped,
wont accept it,
it is not,
my decision.
My cheeks,
warm yet,
wet.
Salty,
unlike,
my lungs.
It’s not,
fair,
but I’m not,
a child,
anymore.
Throwing,
tantrums,
until you give,
and I get,
my way.