Poetry feeds my soul
like a needle feeds the thread
upon which you have sewn
your ruby-colored letter A
across my heart,
marking the shame that
I must carry each time
you tell me you love me

and I’m a slave
to you.

there’s no release
no release from the
purgatory that you’ve
placed upon me.

Food for the soul
(I think maybe I am your slave).

in this thing
called life
yet everyone
still tries
to make me
visible
just to
make me
d
di
dis
disa
disap
disapp
disappe
disappea
r

do you ever see yourself
from the lens
of someone else
and marvel at
what you see
or do you paint a scenario
in your head
of what you would
change about yourself?

i'm drowning but no one seems
to notice so i allow myself to succumb
to the cold, murky waters of the dark abyss
and everything goes quiet.