PRETTY LIES CANNOT DISGUISE
THE EMPTINESS BEHIND YOUR EYES
YOU LOVE TO TALK AND HATE TO THINK
WHY DO I EVEN TRY TO SPEAK?
YOUR EYES ARE CLOSED
YOUR EARS ARE CLOSED
YOUR MIND IS CLOSED
YOUR MOUTH WIDE OPEN
UNLIKE THIS FLOW
OF INK TO NOTE
YOU’LL NEVER KNOW
THE HEARTS YOU’VE BROKEN.

why does this ink look like a bloodstain?
it sings like writing on the wall.
it stings like the mirror i shattered
and the darkness i spilled and i splattered.

why does this page allow its face
to be struck, scarred, mangled, and marked?
these words tear themselves apart at the seams
eviscerate themselves to understand what they mean.

why does this poet stretch her jaw ‘til it breaks
just to show the world what’s inside?
she should hide. she should hide!
but the price of her pride
is to endlessly, manically 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆.

“don’t make yourself
small for anyone,”
You say to me.
i say nothing but i
think to myself,
“i used to be larger than life,
i used to be big as the house,
the stars,
i used to reach for the sky
but then
You told me to be quiet.”
“don’t let them push you around,”
You say—
but You told me not to fight.
don’t question, don’t argue
don’t cry, til i choke
on the tears that i swallow
down, down, down.
You tell me to be strong
but where do You think
i learned how to make myself weak?
i went and i made myself weak
for You.

is that not how i’m supposed to be?

I’m over here spending twelve stupid years
Becoming a parrot who repeats what she hears
It’s not for the learning, it is for the grade
So I turn off my brain seven hours a day.

I’m wasting, I’m wasting, I’m wasting my time
Even that phrase is a waste of a line
And I’m sick of all of these definitions
Pressing on in, getting marked in red pen—

What am I doing here?
You convinced me there’s answers for everything,
Unvarying, black-and-white lettering,
Supposedly bettering, more like you’re fettering
Me like a prisoner, mental inhibitor
Wish you were valuable, you little swindler,
I’ll play your game, ‘cause that’s all that it is,
A paper to frame, that is all that I get
But if I’m wasting away at this desk,
Forced in the system, then I’ll be the best.

I dot my i’s and
cross my t’s,
a perfect ballerina
dancing across the page.
Graceful as a butterfly
soothing like a summer sunset.
Sweet, simple, flawless.
But already there are
scribbles, mispelings,
blots of ink and suddenly
this perfect canvas is no longer
blank.
Oh, to write like a wildfire,
no remorse or formulaic
meter!
Just bared wide, torn open
displaying my wholeness as
us poets so often do.

Like a quote that I cannot remember
Like a song stuck right in my head
A fire once, now it’s an ember
Ash pages of words that were said.

Like a waft that drifts out of the kitchen
Just a hint of the past, so sweet.
I have scars that I know were once stitches
But I only recall summer heat.

Like water, like sand, to hold in your hand
To cradle when it just slips away.
It was art, it was home, not written but shown,
Now crumbled, broken pieces of clay.

I miss it!
What was it?
I miss what I lost!
It was warm, it was cold, it was piercing and soft.
It was something, just something
I feel calling me back.

I’d go to it now if I hadn’t lost track.

Heart beat-beat-beats quick
Like a drumbeat-beat-beat—or tick
Of the clock, sent speedily
From my chest cavity to my amygdala.

All neurons alive,
Just like a ******* fire,
I haven’t felt this
In a long, long time.

I thought all the good ones
Had deserted this place.

But here is a good one,
You.