Within my soul I’ve found yours
Are they different?
They are one, they are one with the cosmos,
But our sub souls have a strong gravity acting on them,
A gravity unexplained by science,
A gravity we’ve chosen to name love,
Scientifically oxytocin creates this feeling, but oxytocin is a by product of this very gravity,
What we choose to believe is up to us
The sky is blue
Love is the fifth dimension
A day will come, far far away,
A collective surge of this gravity,
Will pull all creatures together,
There will be no anti love - no hunger no wars,
This dimension we only experienced in parts,
Will save us from our own destruction

There's this glass cylinder full of water
inside my chest
it quivers and shakes lately
when people talk
and try to reach out
and touch
threatening to break and spill
green seaweed and red and goldfish
from my eyes down to my feet
to tangle around my ankles
and disappear into the shower drain
till I find new ones

I’m not going to use 5,000 similes in this poem.
Why?
Because your bones do not tickle my throat like constellations,
Instead you abused me.
And I’m not going to make abuse into a pretty aesthetic poem.
I’m going to speak it how it is.

People assume abuse is pretty because people write about it in pretty terms.
But no, abuse is scary and messy.
It’s the forgetting your birthday and how you were born.
It’s the significant other hitting your thighs because you’re “too fat”.
It’s not getting coffee in the morning because “you’re a big girl” and can sweat out the hangover
-you didn’t ask for- off in a few hours.
And most importantly, you can’t forget how much of a **** you’d look like if you shaved your head, so you don’t.
Abuse isn’t “wrap me in your arms and put me in a choke hold so i can feel what it felt like to be mom”  
ABUSE IS NOT AESTHETIC
ABUSE IS NOT AESTHETIC
ABUSE IS NOT AESTHETIC

I can’t say it enough. I can’t phrase it different ways. I can’t say “hey dude look, abuse ain’t cool
man” BECAUSE YOU NEED TO KNOW IT AS IT IS. AT FACE VALUE.

finding out the one you love
is different than what you thought
is kind of like finding out
"daddy's not a superhero"
you feel sad
disappointed
scared
and worst of all like it was all
a lie.

1, 2, 3, 4
count the ridges my thumb brushes over
as it runs over the hills of my bony knuckles
tanned and rough
"these are mine"
stress the mine
as the mantra parades
through my head
it does not click
i am still floating
far away from this fleshy costume
i pick up the strings
of the puppet that is supposed to be me
and walk out the door

invasive thoughts
penetrate the solid protections
surrounding my mind
bribing the guards
with a touch of adrenaline
the only drug that fills their veins
"what if you jumped off?"
their seductive questions are appealing
i lean slightly over the edge
the fence restrains my body
"you should step over
it's okay, i've got you."
reassurances with no basis
but i continue anyway
i would've fallen that day
had someone not seen
a petite body
suspended between life and death

Depression and Anxiety are Death's wingmen
together, they appeal to my heart
with promises of how good he is
how he could make everything better
how i would be much better off with him
he could hold me forever
and i would be safe in his arms
i must admit
i've tried to run away to him before
the promises were so beautiful
and it seemed that everything would be fixed
once i met him
but i didnt realize that
Death was a player
and Depression and Anxiety were his
******* comrades
wanting to see how many
he could get through
seducing them with empty promises
and not let them think of anyone else
forget the easy ones
force the way through the tough ones
conquering people has become a game
how many will meet with Death?
although i know the truth now
sometimes i still long for him
and i stare at the knives in the kitchen
but i've rejected Death once
i can do it again