I used to draw on my arm all the time
Nothing big or elaborate
Just a triangle
One triangle
Then I wouldn’t hear the end of it
Everyone complaining
Ink poisoning
Future punk
What’s next, a motorcycle?
So I stopped
I stopped drawing that little triangle on my wrist
Right above my pulse point
But with it
I
Stopped
L I v I n g.
A triangle was supposed to be the strongest shape
It was supposed to make me strong
But I wasn’t even strong enough
To let it stay

See through their souls
And the things they like,
Write like they want to read it.
The writing style that according to them
Shall be successful.
Make it more simple,
More complex,
Whatever they like,
Make it realistic,
Or dreamy,
Happy
Or sad.
Tell a story
They would tell themselves.

you rip apart the seams of this family
you are a hurricane and we are the destruction in your wake
you are a wildfire and we are burned
you are an earthquake but you aren't the one rattled
you have caused mass destruction and singed everyone you touched
you hate us
you natural disaster

My heart was heavy, so I wrote, turned ghosts to words, let poems float. You read, you stayed, you understood—and that alone made bad days good.

So here’s my thanks, a whispered sigh—
I’ll step away, but not goodbye.

She is a dog.                   She is my sister
Your half sister.             We share our trauma
She bites.                        She was neglected
She barks.                       It’s not her fault
She’s dangerous.           Her owner is dangerous
I hate her.                        I love her
She pees on my bed.     My dad locks her in my old room
We are so different.        We are so similar
So far apart.                     So very connected

Razor
To
Skin

Pain
Pain
Pain

I am alive
I am screaming for help
It is silent
Like my cry

Why
Why
Why

I think it’s gotten to the point
Where only poetry can save me

They said I’ve changed
That I’m different than I was in September
That they liked her more

Of course they did
She was another dead fish going with the stream
She was scared
She didn’t want to make them upset

She tried to pretend that she was sane
That she was normal

She was sad
All the time
She was trying not to cry

She’s gotten better
Why is that not good enough for you?

The scars are starting to heal
Don’t make me make new ones

I wonder,
wander,
falter.

Back — forth.

Now I’m
backed in the corner.
Silence is comfortable
to move in.

For the fourth time?

Back — forth.

Running,
cowering,
to cover my back.

But love seems to burst
forth from my gut.

Back — forth.

Singing,
humming—
it’s quiet.

But it’s sweet,
and now you’re back.

And I can’t seem
to bring the strength forth.

Back — forth.

P- pages torn from books coated in prophesies  
R- razor blades slice through memories
O- open wounds drip crimson blood upon chalk stars
P- pen drawn runes coat your skin drawn in black ink
H- haloed in holy fire angels descended with knife blade wings
E- eyes gunmetal grey rimmed with puffy red highlights
T- they call you proclaimer, gods words carved into your bones.