When I dropped the plates,
When he pushed me against the wall,
When his hand was at my throat,
When nothing was right,
And I wasn't good enough,
When I was bleeding on the floor,
And the crimson stained his shoes,
When I fought his lecherous touch.
It wasn't enough to save me.

Oh! Creativity,
Why do you  runneth away from me?

You tempt me with your golden locks,
and knock my head on every surface when I attempt to understand you.

My poor mind is restless,
I'm rushing through my poetry
So I can take my time and figure out who my muse is meant to be.

But right now,
My dear,
My head hurts.

do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.

Slivers of crimson sun pierce through
clouds that try but can't
hold back a single ray with the
illusionary shields of
themselves.

some bounce off the oil rainbow
puddles by the containers.
rust forcing its way through
flakes of green paint that

surrenders its grip on the metal
with every clank, thud, scrape and
unloving move by machine
operators and passers by with
tool belts and shouldered
sharpness.

beaten. broken. filled to the rim
with worthlessness.
I'm glad I'm not a container.

anymore.

I bite my nails
when I'm nervous
but I took what I had
and painted them red
to match my blood.

They say red is a sensual color
They say it is ****.
But all I see in red
Is blood and drowned hopes and pain,
But maybe pain is ****.
It's oh so beautiful for the sadist to watch me fall apart.