Our secrets followed us here
Into this aged room
With dusty walls
And a stale smell
That reminds me a lot of us
Stuck in these patterns
Of not telling the whole truth
For the sake of others
For the sake of ourselves
Saving face as if it were a race
To see who can hide the most
But my hands our tied
I can no longer be the one that lies
Because lying next to you
Has become a painful facade
A ridiculous charade
A song that’s been overplayed
A novel that needs an end
This is the moment that breaks us
When I stop biting my tongue
Until my mouth is filled with blood
This is the minute where truth floods
Downpour of rain
Drowning you in disdain

i touched your soul
and scribbled my name on it
love, you’ll never get lost again

Dont worry
My wounds
have almost healed
And Ive doubtlessly grown
a very thick skin
Over it
Now the bullets
That you fire
Habitually
From the seams
Of your mouth
Wouldnt harm me
Like before
They would
just scrape
My edges
And i wont
Even bleed
A little
And yes
I'll soon forget
All about it

A body holds on to trauma like salt dissolved in water
I am the water and I am swimming in it always
Somedays it’s an ocean and I am floating
Trusting the moon to pull me in a direction that makes sense, one that’s natural and ancient
Other times it seeps into open wounds and stings
But salt cannot hurt salt
Not yet diluted enough to breed life

Today might be the day it all becomes too much
The day I grow tired of scratching at this wound
Digging deeper and deeper, scratching until my fingers are raw
Pulling at my skin, pulling myself apart
Pulling at these twisted tendrils,
hoping to finally strip them away
Hoping that there is still something salvageable
and I wonder: what if nothing is left unsoiled underneath it all?

Is today the day it all becomes too much?
The day I grow tired of obsessing
Obsessing over every thought in my mind or move I make
Obsessing to the point that I find no rest
Spending every waking and sleeping moment dissecting every situation
Only to find that I am helpless to change what has already happened
and the actions of others
Still I wonder:  was it something I did?

Is today the day it all becomes too much?
The day I grow tired of the ugliness
An ugliness I carry and see in the world around me
Nothing seems worth hanging onto for another aching second
As I confront myself and am forced to look in my own eyes each day
I grow more tired of being in this skin
so I pick at it again and again
Longing to hurt myself, to feel any pain but the pain of existing
Still I wonder: would they be better off without me?

Is today the day it all becomes too much?
The day I grow tired of trying
Trying to find meaning in a life centered on meaninglessness
Trying to keep smiling when my heart and soul feel so heavy
and my face feels as though it will crack if I pretend for another minute
I wouldn't wish this on anyone
Fighting an enemy that isn't tangible for so long
Still I wonder: is this enemy even real?
Something I can't touch or describe,
but have in my mind every day
Urging me to hate myself and bringing me down,
every step feels weighted down
Pulling me further into myself and away from my surrounds
Is today the day it all becomes too much?

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?