Here,
i am slowly learning
that i am slightly more deserving
than what i’ve been given in my past
I am always on the right track
onto the next practical coordinates
and i no longer believe in crossing paths
i am a believer in destinations
that is the confidence and pride speaking
when i plan the journey ahead
i am good with direction
not hindered by crossed roads
not the path less travelled or the path created
i am not on your maps
distance is what i have asked for
time and time again i have fallen from a cross road
i am where you cannot find me
you can’t find something you can’t recognize
here at a dead end and still continuing
i am not on any path, but I am
Here

we always have
perception
open mindedness
an idea
us
humans
created
to feel as if
theres some hope
in becoming pure
but theres
no pure people
if theres still earth
beneath my feet
to remind me of
the dirt of our
past and present
and pupils
differently sized
to remind me of
our future
and blood
that pulses off beat
to trigger a genetic
passover
to remind me
of the nature of it all
that imperfection
and mutation
drive evolution
that we are
essentially
****** up

When have I not been all of me
to soothe all of you.
Loving you past insecurity,
rubbing your back in
my small dim lit room.

I would have given you
my holy Sundays,
my boring Mondays,
and both my shoulders.
Just to hear you say,
“I Love You.”

Worth loving through
the doubts and terrors.
But I dream still,
of waking up on an August Monday.
Drinking coffee alone
feeling worth more than money.

Sitting in a green bright café,
rubbing my toes in anxiety.
Loving me past insecurity,
and still soothing all of me.

When have I not needed all of you?
I guess I’m learning to find that out.

Barely nineteen, he shipped for life.
On a cold windy Pacific shore
carrying relatives?
Old polluted tin cars,
and refugees mailing brown letters;

Silently noted
his lover of his depart.
               One July dawn,
               when the boat calmed.
He knew his biggest regret sailed too.

Later, with new wife and son,
he’d scan the lake for her scooner.
Kawartha grasses grew deeper.
He had a daughter Rosemary,
his past, only a cinematic keeper.

A smirk and a pinch meant “love”.
He ate jam on toast at 7am sharp.
His daughter wore whorish nail polish,
another mistake he’d eventually forgotten.

At Eighty, trembling his hands;
he put on the nights hockey game
        meeting death on a shoot out.
Embracing the warm uncertainty
of the son he left behind.
                     Only to set sail again.

my thoughts tremble at a name
a name at which i've learned to never speak of
if i did speak of such a name
i'm sure it would still taste just as sweet
but ironically enough i've never really liked sweet things
like a strawberry
something about strawberries
my mom always seems to buy them
yet they only rot away in our fruit bowl
i know them too good to be true
to bruise easy at a light touch
and their red can only be described as a false exuberance
because they're only actually good through one season
which leaves me wondering
it's a shame to people who would go through all that labour
to enjoy something so uncontrollably sweet
for such a short amount of time

loving someone
does not stop
at the pain
they caused you,
or the pain
you caused them.

it exists somewhere
deep within the mind
between suffering and forgiveness -
because forgiveness IS love,
and that sliver will always remain.

With you I am both larger than life,
and steady enough to walk alone.

i laugh and take a sip of air
the taste of my blood has a ting of iron
the snows starting to stain a passionate red, and so are my lips
i manage to get on my back, and make out the sky
its the only thing that isn't red
1,2
i reach for the park bench to my left and i ***** underneath it, twice
under my breathe i whisper “keep pushing” to the patch of grass beside me
i admire its determination through a rough winter, i think i hear it say “hold in there”
3,4
to my left i see black, but its a blue kind of black, a nice change from accustomed red
i soon make out the figure, i look up at the sky again, i don't want to be seen like this
then their feet quicken, and i manage to calm my breathing as the steam from their mouth escapes them, glistening in the air
5,6
i repeat the words “keep pushing” in my head, as stable arms take my weight
over his shoulder i see the patch of grass, i wave goodbye, ill see you again soon old friend
he smells like sugar, i whisper to him “im sorry”, his shirt used to be white
7,8
i tighten his neck and manage to gain sight of the distance
i close my eyes for only a second and wake up in my bed, new sheets
i whisper hello, but get no reply, probably for the best, i wouldn't want to wake my parents
9, 10
i wake up around 6am to the sound of gusting wind, goodbye friend i think to myself
beside me i find a glass of water and a single advil, i reach to grab the water, and a note falls out
it reads: “this is the last time laura”
i laugh and take a sip of water.

everyday is an exertion
if you look hard enough
you can see my brain
in two places at once
but being this competent
has a consequent price
& I'm not even sure how to explain it
it seems with every accomplishment
i get further caught up in my abilities
my talents being a by-product
of unattainable stress
that i'll never be able to recognize
so when its time to shutdown
& cool off from the heat of the days work
i'm always stuck in the warmth of it
the fuzziness over my head
the future tasks awakening me
digging burrows in my skin
& nesting upon my amygdala
emotional strain detached
until the time comes when
the stress of accomplishment
becomes too much for even me
the double tasking
anxious achiever

i wanted you there
i wanted you to want to be there

Have I always been
a relentless version of what I seek?
Afterthoughts of what I say,
or ignorant splendours and epiphanies?

Refuge to black ink, a loved ones right arm,
or the everlasting solace of my four walls.
Eager, Anxious, Loving, & Unapologetically
most things they’ve so often feared.

To take advice from the branches,
when the roots are deeper.
To take love from the waves,
that have been set to roll back.

This is not your tree analogy,
or your ship gone afloat.
But I am leaping forward,
and falling backwards.

And it looks all the same from
here.

our battles are often fought
with our hands tied behind our backs
because no one ever sees
perception holding you up for grabs

in your fight with varied outlook
your opponent will be torn
due to their lack of better judgement
or the opinions that they've sworn,

were completely right to begin with
don't disregard these facts
if i talk in this particular tone
what kind of purpose does it have?

the answer is: it doesn't
have a purpose or a gain
unless you're one for false politics
then continue on in vain

do not get too close
to the one you love
for they have out grown
what you may become
they have their own thoughts
opinions may vary
love is grand
but it can be scary

icarus loved the sun
he gallantly flew
to hold what he loved
to find further truths
he just got too close
what can one do
love is something dangerous too

when you love someone
don't get too close
their thoughts are their own
their space is uncut
be cautious with your questions
your proximity can lose
but don't get too close
you might get burned too

You’re always in my minds corner,
but just too close to home.
I’m just a few stops, from preventing us,
to being better on our own.

I kiss him by his pink thin lips,
I guess I work with what I’m thrown.
But take your shots and forget-me-nots,
because my educations better off shown.

You’re just out of reach, the edge of my seat,
out of touch with my emotions flown.
Listening to your old jazz tunes,
I wonder what keeps us both alone?

I never thought I’d be one of those people
the ones who sit in coffee shop's on Bay
readied note pads in hand, sitting with engraved pens
bought by mothers with high expectations
of their child drawing out the new future

But here we sit, a collective sum
drawing out pathetic fallacy’s
peoples right arms
someone else's future in poetic prose
finding details in the blur
of business men rushing past
so green is a theme in these woods

Grande Decaf 2 Sugars 2 Milk
and a shot of espresso
I stayed up late finishing a politics paper
What’s keeping you up “Todd of TD Bank”
Your extravagant 2 bdrm 2.5 bth on Bloor?
Or the realization your wife cheated on you
with a younger college drop out
i don't actually care Todd
i just want to write a new **** poem

Satchels hang from wooden chairs made by moroccans who get paid bottom dollar
I sit drinking over the sweat of latin americans picking coffee beans in a summer heatwave
the music plays to mask the confusion i feel here
displaced
my sperrys muddy and unkept
i am a large flaw in this small system

i'll keep my pen gliding
finding the answers to my questions
hoping when my words meet they shake hands in agreement
they are thoughts but not entirely
thoughts are questions short lived
and often unanswered

it turns out theres no answers in my silver pen either
engraved with an edgar allen poe quote
to a poem my mom never bothered to read
she wants me to draw a future
yet doubts me in every step to achieving one

walking across my neighbours lawn
creates a deja vu
sometimes the moments i've lived
feel completely see through
i always make the same mistakes
and sometimes there's regrets
but the only thing i can remember is
how my mind felt complete unrest
during those times you played your mind games
the ones that left me bare
cold to the core at a single moment
telling myself i shouldn't care
it left a couple marks on me
at the time i felt completely used
but now i'm trying to move on
across a lawn
covered in all the memories you put me through

Here
Is where I'm safe,
Writing
always safer,
Somehow my pen can’t,
stutter as my lips do,
Words get stuck in throats,
But never fingertips

Curses
instead of cursive,
We won’t stumble
across paper,
We save that for our
Unfolded rugs,
Here we won’t
fall off the edges,
Because even if we do
It has elegance,
Balance idly follows poise

That’s why we have
our guides,
Solid trails of blue lines
Form our foundation,
Making definite and clear,
our ideas, thoughts,
         selves

Reading this, you can't tell I’m crying,
   am i?
Reading this you can't tell me I’m wrong,
          how can words be wrong?


Thoughts can
we catch them,
Like thieves in the night
Slipping
In between the cracks,
green eyed warriors with broken smiles,
            broken promises

Thoughts becoming our subconscious bombs
underground, unheard,
We walk into no man’s land
without a cover,
stepping,
          testing our grounds,
       waiting for the blasts

So we write about our past,
romanticized
Our future,
anticipated


We write ourselves a map
because this time we’ll figure it out,
this time,
the words will make sense
One day

Words will whisper,
tell us what we might not know,
            what we might not understand
Tell us our present
Can it be returned?

Writing makes things clear
our own words cannot hide the truth

Writing is real, raw, ridged
forever undisguised,

It can be whatever it wants
whatever we might need it to be,
Either a "yours truly",
       or a "yours sincerely"
or maybe it was never really ours
Maybe it ends in
               "best regards…"

Through written words alone
we can understand ourselves,
Open up closed doors,
heal the cracks left behind,
By our green eyed monsters
that we never seem to find

Emoting becomes a cure all,
        end all,
        of time,
        of silent sufferings

We’re all born blind
we don’t see what we don’t understand,
what we never want to have to understand
Until we write it down
unhinge

We stare into broken mirrors
the reflection of our ideas, opinions,
Unable to detect the fractions of light
or the scars we like to keep covered

Words,
an honest to god friend
Guiding,
through those blue lines
the hidden crooked valleys
magnified by our storms
our moments

All the in-between white spaces
missing pieces
we look to fill with black,
Making us finally learn to analyze
to ask ourselves
About those white li(n)es

Opening ourselves,
Trusting our words,

to the unknown

My blue tavern house in old Giverny,
with yellow bright daisies as a welcome.
We've swam on the wheat banks,
diving in absinthe and dealing in apathy.
Kissing the swirling midnight skies in secrecy.

Dark blue cascades the midnight hills,
I've spent another night in the open fields  -
looking at hay bails like an old friend, and worst enemy.
I've met your sharp eyes at noon and known better,
with your white shirts, stained socks, and slick smiles.

I remember you told me of the women stealing jam,
east of La Seine near Clackaloze,
You said she reminded you of me,
good until gone, broken undeniably
and the way I say I could do it all quietly -
paint the shining night sky with ease and one brush.
But if I was what you wanted, I wouldn't be,
too stubborn, too jealous, and too mad, honestly.

So I may as well write you what I am - underneath.

he wont be there in the morning
i will turn to my right
& his sweetness won't infect me
inside and out he is warm
his plump lips pursed
he snores but denies it
he has infected me
my mom studied microbiology
she doesn't know how to fix me

he wont be there in the afternoons
crisp leaves crunching under toes
hands in another's pocket
i always forget my mittens
head on a different shoulder
eyes on a different lake
i bet that lake is prettier than ours
my dad studied geography
but he never told me
this lake is melting

he wont be there in the evenings
bundled in sweaters and blankets
a pizza between us both
another shoulder to drool on
your eyes looked different
in the light of each dark night
my brother he's been labeled an artist
but he couldn't draw up
dark eyes like yours

you are one good thing,
in much that is bleak
but your made up of,
many good things,
like your laugh,
a special treat

i say this because,
it hardly comes around
i wish i could invite it to dinner,
and take it out to town

because when your goofy grin,
appears right out of thin air,
i think just for a second,
i might be good enough,
to dare

to love you,
and care for,
every good thing that you are,
and tell you how much i wish,
i could compete,

because all my good things,
have been previously scared

Trailing rigid yellow satin robe,
you have hugged my curves the longest
and felt the way I leave the grounds running.

Traveling up and down my long lean legs,
and the lower United States too.
I am a mess they do not dare quantify.

Towering my misspoken 2AM un-sents,
the half licked envelopes of Sunday's unrest.
Over detailed lines of over stated emotions layed.

Taking a moment to mention the mourning
of my lost ability to create more than myself.
Maybe it is not what i've created, but when.

Tasking away to write more than i should know,
they tell me that I have never really known.
But what do they know?

Tenaciously giving life to words with low meaning,
streaming about the lines I weave whilst sneering.
I am not livid, but I have been alive.

amidst the loud noise
& the sweat that drips from heated foreheads
your hands slip from a new friend to a red cup
& for the rest of the night you’ll idly stand
maybe concerned with tomorrows homework
trying to catch a feeling
of the way peoples arms look without weight

you weren’t going to even go out tonight
but your friends said you’d regret it
even though you knew you wouldn’t if you did go
you went anyways, worried this time was different
but now that your here
and they’re playing fetty wap for the second time
this time isn’t different

what is different is the artwork
someones failed attempt at collaging girls *****
tasteful side **** to full exposed kardashian
the only thing unexposed is the exposed brick they covered
ironically and sadistically
you remember frat boys don’t do metaphores

you manage to get your hands on some chips
as your eyes meet some guys across the room
awkwardly and unobviously locking in place
you step away from his line of vision
moving backwards towards kate
who can’t remember your name from film class
so you have to hint at chanelle for input
stumbling to call your name through liquored breathe

lost in thought, but somehow forming sentences to kate
someone nudges your side
Alex
He was the guy across the room
the lighting must have been weird or something
you talk for a bit about middle school
he hugs you uncomfortably
wondering if there was some broken rule
about accepting hugs from people that aren’t your boyfriend

He tells you about his skate board
attempting sarcasm at every turn
his voice burning into the air
soon the conversation swoops to music
he asks about your taste
you say you don’t have any
and you’re arms start to feel weightless too

You say bye to Alex (and to Kate)
Chanelle mouths “where the hell are you going”
before you know it your on line 2
drifting to bloor and younge
writing about a party
that you weren’t even suppose to be at

you're writing about a party that never really happened
but somehow that night still really ****** you off

Maybe it’s at 3am with the lights on
or 1pm in the orange gleeming sun.
When I think about dying,
it’s not after my brothers punch.
It’s the moment between feeling everything
and absolutely nothing at all.

I am eating clean, working every muscle,
and still this part of me is oozing black.
On Sunday my smile fades
like the orange sun in November’s 6pms.
Meeting my friends disappointment in me,
and for dinner my godmothers dismay.

How many girls does it take to die to make you believe their emotions are valid?
How many men does it take to fix
a lightbulb without a fuse?

and the ground is soft as it should be here,
eleven minutes past midnight on new years eve.
you've seen me for who I should be,
in all my sweaty palms, broken stars, and pillowed moons.

and I see you for who I could be,
a kind hearted, celestial, tall glass of admiration.
ending and entering more years that could be
more ours if you'll so thoughtfully see through.

and if you'll still smell your tropical breeze best
singing in the Honda with me as we will be
in the next years I can drive you to the airport
as you kiss me down where we should be,

humming old jazz tunes like we could be,
and I'm telling you that we will be
on the hard grounds again
in Jacksonville, Florida.

Rich rigid bricks,
your sheen green cat eyes.
Your mom’s huevos rancheros -
spilling into noons.

Fireplaces off the window panes,
crisping open a warm chest
for a bed of new delights.
Dozing in my ice sheet hands -
I was meant to be bitten,
then bitter.

Lips pushed their forgetful illusions,
His rememberable forehead lines -
tasking away at lost minutes
of too many 14 hour days.

Here between long firm legs
lying in your large white cottons,
over collections of moles,
and forests of scars.

Wondering if she hurt you
in the same ways
that he hurt me.

Hookup culture is a beast I cannot tame.
Drawing at my insecurities
again, picking and gnawing.
Nothing will be left now,
except the empties from the party.

My cellphone rings,
and it feels like nothing.
Pushing buttons and
overdrawn lipstick.
Bite it anyways,
apply the waterproof.

I’m gonna get it tonight.
Catch a feeling or two
Teach a lesson or three,
And for the first time –
Teach you to understand human emotion,
empathy,
and too often the human cry.

I won’t steal your keys,
and make you walk home.
But if you leave me with the Cherry pits,
the bill, or the half-smiles,
you’ll be lucky to leave with your sweater.

I am a terrible girl,
but a great date!

I’m not the girl you kiss on a New Years Eve.

I’m not the girl next door, just across the street.

I’m not the girl who pretends that they think you’re funny.

I’m not the girl that runs or pretends that they’re neat.

I’m not the girl that tells you what you’re suppose to say.

I’m not the girl that knows that their hot, okay?

I’m not the girl that thinks they’re good at your sport.

I’m not the girl that pretends that you’re only a joke.

I’m not the girl to say yes just because of how you’re feeling.

I’m not the girl who conceals everything they’re really meaning.

I’m not the girl who sits low when you raise your voice.

I’m not the girl who thinks that they have no choice.

I’m not the girl who’s funny, docile, and sweet.

I’m not the girl that collects pointless expensive jewelry.

I’m not the girl who lives off their parents dime.

I’m not the girl to tell you how to live your life.

I’m not the girl to leave you if you had no money.

I’m not the girl to eat kale salads with hungry.

I’m not the girl to hold your past like a knife to the back.

I’m not the girl that doesn’t know what kind of power she has.

I’m not the girl to reveal all the tricks up her sleeves.

Actually, here’s the trick...

I’m not the girl.

I’m the beast.

“I’m here”
I take off my shoes and look up
He lies across my sheets
His eyes staring eager like a little boy
I smile hoping he’s questioning my day
He doesn’t ask anything about it

“I wrote a new song”, he says
“Should I play it?”
I nod, as he moves quickly across the room
When he reaches back with his guitar
He looks at me so concentrated
Without delay he begins to play

He stares into me, and past me
Focused on the music he sees
Because he’s never even read music before
He’s been too busy trying to read me
It doesn’t take me long to realize
That he didn’t come to me for lyrics this time
That this song doesn’t need any

After he’s finished playing, he packs up his guitar
And glides on his favourite jean jacket,
Covered in buttons from all the concerts we’ve seen
He looks at the ground and bends down,
He puts on his shoes and looks up
“I’m leaving”

The Crack in My Voice

the one held by structure and poise
the one held by sincerity yet worry
the one held by the thoughts of you
and I together

The Late Night Deep Breathe

the one that got me through my wednesday night anxiety attacks
the one that whipped away my tears 5 times in counting
the one that carried my suitcase across cities and trains
the one that made me finally see you
and I together

The Van Gough Poster

the one which makes me think of better things
the one which sees the starry nights to come
the one which takes me back to the core of myself
the one which creates what is you
and I together

The Argument We Had On Church Street

the one that led me to ignorance
the one that made me cry for 2 minutes straight
but i haven't cried, even 5 months later
thats how i know that everything is real with you
and I together

it is like i'm being pushed away from myself
my brain hoping to be tethered down
but i always seem to forget to buy the string
and i will lie endlessly in bed
wondering when i last had seen myself
time moves so slowly here
i can't even find the time lines
or a rhythm
or a reason i don't deserve this
i deserve this

i no longer know if this is a personal torture
or a lesson i forgot to have learned
but it's awfully lonely here and i forget that
girls are suppose to be "social creatures"
i guess i'm not the only one here after all

accompanied by suppressed thoughts
whispering secrets and love me not's
that i never even knew were happening
somewhere in the background, week after week
collecting all my mistakes and inner comments
to shot when the times are the worst
making it two weeks unscathed
with half my wits left

that's a good week

My love does not rise
like a mothers eternal joy.
It fades like the embers
of a dying candle to dawn.

My love does not sit
like a bernard at steel gates.
It’s consciously inept
to old kingdoms betrayed.

My love does not flaunt
or lure for local gaze.
It’s meticulously shifting
through stone alley ways.

My love does not slow
when the foxes catch their prey,
and the thimbles string out of
endless velvet displays.

My love does not leave
like the bay doors at wind.
It gusts for the moment
where the new gardens begin.

& the problem with you
is your inner confliction
and your dire need
to leave without listen

but you need to realize
you never have to be tall
regardless physically
there's nothing wrong
with being small

not all art
has to go down in history
nor will all humans
but here we are
glistening

though you might not make it big
your ambition and strive
will give love a ring
because the art thats not famous
is still known by few
and appreciated by many
in all that it represents
all you can do

all the lives you touch
all the people that will interpret you
you're not a famous painting because
i’m the only viewer
smart enough
to have fallen in love with you

in every single month
you wipe away a tear
you take away a worry
you mask another fear

in every single day
you ******* alive
shine out of parts of me
i often try to hide

in every single hour
you continue on in muse
my optimistic lover
my right hand and my bruise

in every single minute
you leave your mark on me
give me a varied outlook
constantly helping me see

in every single second
i wait for the next one
hoping it never changes
all the glory that you are

that i have become

i crave your eyes
the soft look of wanting
slowly teasing
around my legs,
watching me laughing
with my girlfriends

i take a sip of gin
and pull you into
my magnetic gaze
shifting focus onto
the dj playing
techno beats

and you’re still watching

me

17 hours
before your flight to
egypt
and i can't say
that's too short
because then
you will leave milan
speechless
just like you made me
the night you left
just like i made you
leave me without
finishing a single sentence
because 3 weeks
i can tell doesn't
seem like
a whole lot to you
but to me it's enough
to know
what it's like to live
without a sidekick
and i don't want to know
that feeling
i don't want to know
what your doing
because all i know here
is that your sweater
doesn't smell as sweet
as it did filled with
your strong arms
just 5 days ago
and i find no good
in goodbyes
because last time
there was distance
it had fell apart
so just promise me
you won't say goodbye
unless you really mean it
unless you really want to
because i'll let you leave
just make sure
you never
finish the sentence

you felt like my cabin,
when the wood sank under.
loyalty doesn't take time,
it takes character.
seeing fallen branches
crating to one side of it,
like rough patches,
which I saw him through too.
and there i sat with you
with 3 drinks too many -
and saw the way you spoke to
strangers under the canopy.
did you notice me watching?
i knew it as soon as we sat down
and shared battle stories,
like coming back to comfort,
then into torrential feelings
i found parts of you in me,
shavings of pain and joy,
contingent to democratic debate
and i found parts of me in you
pairings of ego and art,
conditional to romanticising realism
did you notice me too?

my whole life has been a loss for words
because how do you explain a feeling
no one has ever felt
how do you explain a feeling
that no words were invented for

i'll start with a metaphor
and end with a sigh
because most minds can't fathom the race
my mind makes these games
i never get time to read the rules for
or were there any to begin with?

i get tired after a couple of laps
my mind begs for forgiveness
for a break and a breathe
but i never seem to get one
i'm all too busy trying to get
everything else entirely

here i sit, bottle in hand, on an adventure with no end
the search for you in late night alleys,
at the bottom of bottles, ash trays.
I think I start to see you in burning embers, striving for life at the edge of my dying cigarette.

I ache in the absence of your arms, ones caught up in other strangers
women with different proportions,
smaller voices, and softer cheeks.

despite it's appeal, I will continue to search, in all places known, places
you swore you’d never be.

just like you swore you’d never leave.
But all I can imagine is pale lifeless hands caressing your sweet dark skin,

pale hands that could never be mine
and it burns in my mind like a nintendo64 on pause.
it can last for days and weeks.

I wonder how I’ll ever find you in the places
you swore you’d never be
just like you lost me,
when you swore you’d never leave.

the water in the shower was hotter than july
and i can't remember when my head hit the side of the porcelain tub
but it did it painlessly

when i fell and started to cry
i couldn't tell the difference between the ground
or the pure white floor
everything seemed to twist and turn into a dark bruised mess

i sat there naked and vulnerable for hours at a time
wondering when the next wave would crash
hoping this time the tide wouldn't pull me in so far
but it did

an hour or so later
when my dad asked me why i'd been in the bathroom so long
i told him i was cleaning the tub
but he knew that wasn't true

he knew what a tub was for
afterall,
i went to clean myself

fallen from the path
you forced me to land on
i stand here at a crossroads
two roads diverge
your favourite poem
and i don't choose
the one less travelled
i choose
to build my own

i am a shaper
i was moulded to be your everything
i was who you wanted
who you loved
by design
but that was never me
i was reading from a script
of what i thought was the truth
even if i did write it
in the end
i was the only lie present

there is no one to blame
but the insecure girl
held by promises and lies
who took what you said
and made it seem like it mattered
but matter is relative in space and time
and i am something much more
than i had ever even thought
or dreamed

today i'm still an insecure girl
but i'm held
together
only
by myself

this familiar feeling
one i tried to forget to have
always seems to linger
in the nights where i learn to laugh
about how my brothers upstairs
playing video games quietly in his room
do you think he can hear us kissing?
i'm not sure, but i'm in tune
to the way you respond to my touch
or the way you shut your eyes
when you listen to me whisper
another stream of rhymes
ones that are held in conversation
or maybe in your arms
i'll take you anyway i can
just please don't leave a scar