The rumble of wheels beneath my heels.
Wind in my hair, forgetting that noone cares.
A heavy heart and a brand new start.
Oh, where should I go?
Will I ever know?

I dance upon the shards of glass in the sands,
To train myself to always bleed for my stance.

I tiptoe around each snail with trouble yet grace.
Not a single soul, except mine, will be displaced.

I open my arms to both the sunshine and the rain,
For what is basking in light if you don't know pain.

I wish I could dissipate like water
Wind up in a rain cloud in the sky
Fall with the weight of the world
And wait for the sun to dry…

Ever feel like the wind is speaking words
You can almost hear?
Howled syllables that give you shivers
And dance upon the air.
Just a trick, my imagination throwing a fit.
And yet…
Is somewhere there?

“Oh I’m so sorry, you look just like that guy’s daughter…”
But I’m not.
I’m just the daughter of a dead man.
And I feel it too.
You might be sorry sir
but you are not as sorry as I am,
that’s for sure.

Earlier today, I saw a blurb about how this girl wishes
she could write the way that she thinks.
In hurricanes.
Endlessly.
Breathlessly.
About everything.
But especially her “you”.
But I can.
I can write what, and how, I think.
I can write about it until I’m blue.
I can even write every single feeling
I feel about my “you”.
But I choose not to.
Because nobody wants to know
how girls like me think.
And nobody wants my “you”,
embodied over and over again in ink.
Gets old, don’t you think?
So I stay silent and still,
and let every single word sink.