my mind is a crimson sky.
stars hidden by the red hues of summer.
clouds cannot be seen beyond the stormy chaos that is free thought.

my hands hold crumbling wheat fields.
each plant destroyed by a sun that shines too bright.
the roots are torn up along my fingertips.

my eyes carry empty oceans.
once full of life, purpose.
the corpses of dreams lay scattered along the iris,
battered by flame.

my wrists are a crime scene,
life ripped away in a single, crisp action.
hanging from each violet vein is a rope of red intention.
skin pulled by string, a tightrope of regret.

my mind is a crimson sky.
stars hidden by the red hues of summer.
clouds cannot be seen beyond the stormy chaos that is free thought.

my body is...
a landscape of colour,
a sky of regret,
a sun that destroys everything in its path.

but my mind is a crimson sky,
a beautiful sunset,
masking the truth.

when i was 8 years old,
i got off the bus.

i got off the bus to two words.
the next 72 hours were spent hiding in a basement.
nothing was coming.
i think, at least...

the whispers in my head told me otherwise though,
so in the basement i stayed.


when i was 10 years old,
the news woman shared stories.

the news woman told me the end was near.
maybe that wasn't her exact words.
i didn't sleep...
just in case.

insomnia became a friend of mine.


when i was twelve years old,
the new year rung in and i was alone.

the house was blanketed in silence,
and i sat on an empty couch,
and everything had seemed so quiet.
a razor blade was my only company.

we became quite close that night.


when i was fourteen years old,
i wandered barren hallways,
adorned with crimson.
they had given me free socks when i'd arrived.

the psych ward was not nearly as loud as the voices in my head.

i am now sixteen years old.
medications flow through my veins,
scars dance up and down my wrists,
and although i am surrounded by people,

i am so alone.


the moral of the story:
tell me when you figure it out,
because trust me, i'm still trying.

I stare inside an empty chest
Where used to, there be such a mess
Panic, fear, urgent anxiety
To certain varieties of these drugs
I make a toast to my sobriety

A right of passage,
Was my consumption.
What I chose to do
How I chose to function
My takings of nothing and making them something
Are nowhere to be found,
Except away from me, running

What’s gone is gone
What’s mine is mine
What’s outdated and failed
For it, there’s no time
No rhyme or reason
No proper season
No excuses
Now, we’re even

This heart shaped box
Was in disguise
Though it told truths,
Now they are lies.
Truth is subjective
It’s all about time.
Mine has now changed,
How sublime!

Full of love,
Not driven by it.
No reckless outpours,
I keep it quiet.
And in my mind,
Rather than a riot,
The fog is cleared.
I’m glad I tried it.