No one will believe this story written on my chest.
Hell, I don’t believe it myself.
How can I believe it when it’s so hard to read,
So hard to read because I’m **missing my ribs.

my stomach drops at the sight.
who knew the eyes had such control over the body?
lungs frozen,
heart burning a hole through my sternum,
hands trembling.
hearing the story in pictures with no words
no commentary, no explanation
only Silence, only Assumptions.
your easy smile, given so freely
scares me into a corner where jealousy and doubt meet
fear threatens to asphyxiate me as i try to choke it back down
transfixing, magnetizing, beautiful, in ways that are only yours
i know others can see even if you cannot
and they will want you, as i want you.
and as i've said before,
one day you will tire of me
tire of my fear, my sloth, my sadness, and my emptiness
and she will be more of what you want.
she'll like the same things, have the same goals, be just as passionate as you, and share your love for debate.
she'll be better for you.
and until this happens,
i will fear its arrival with every posted picture.

i am afraid
that my nervous energy
and my accustomedness to lack of sleep
will soon drag you down with me
into my depression-well
where i like to drown myself
when i do and don't deserve it

and i am afraid
that you will soon tire of my antics
my fears and my sloth
and i will force you to do what you fear:
hurt me
i'll deserve every pinch of every nerve
when you leave my bed cold

and the waters will come
as they always do
faithful as my self-loathing
and i will drown in the absence you'll leave

but you'll be better off, Love.

breathing breaths
into beautiful bodies
hands that hinder passage
into hidden places
sacred to those
only enough.
toes and fingertips trembling
at the tickling terror
in those beautiful broken bodies
and love like lilies lying
lies across your lips
open ears earning no trust
in eyes too blind
to notice the pattern

It is one thing to hear about
Beethoven,
And learn about his diminishing hearing.

It's another thing
Entirely
To meet him.
And he knows it's coming.

19 years old and counting
Down the years until
He can no longer hear pitch,
Tone, or the correct notes.

A singer, music enthusiast, and beauty,
Who will some day

lose the music to deaf ears

the moments before art happens
are Agony.
like giving birth,
you're forcing out this potential for greatness
pushing this creativity
out of tiny pores in your skin

you feel like you're exploding.

brain battles heart
inner turmoil erupts
just like the layers of your skin want to do
and it all plays out to the soundtrack of
"i can't do this"

pain of birth, of explosions, of erupting
for some it is all too much
too much to bear that
we let our fear

take Control
and we cave.
put down the brush, the pen, the music,
and we step away
into regret, into sadness

the moments before art happens
are Agony.