An open mind-
An open mind is
        An open door
        An open window
        An open book-
        An open book
                Full of blank pages
                        Nameless
                        Wo­rdless
                        Silent
                Paper before the ink-
                        Ink
                                ­My tears are droplets
                                of ink that I cry into
                                poetry
                     ­   Ink
                                My blood is droplets
                                of ink that I bleed
                                into poetry
                        Ink
                              ­  My sweat is droplets
                                of ink that I work
                                into poetry
                       Ink
                                Tears, blood, sweat
                                Salty
                     ­           Like the sea
                       Ink
                               A bottle of
                                       Stories unwritten
                                       Words unsaid
                                       Promises broken
                       Ink
                               Emotions that I bottle
                               up and reveal only in
                               my writing
                               Things that could've
                               been and almost were
                               if not for
An open mind

and honey you know they could paint the town red with the blood they lick from our palms

No
I will not only speak when spoken to
No
I do not belong to you
No
I do not belong to anyone
No
I am not a prize to be won
Not a trophy to collect dust on a forgotten shelf
Not a perfect doll with lifeless eyes
Not a possession
Not a territory for you to mark
Not a piece of meat
Not whatever you want me to be

And yes
I do kiss my mother with this mouth

perfect matches
seem to stare down the
stars,
but together, there's
chemistry - which
turns to
tumultuous
dreams
despite the fiery
mystery

In a world where playing dead is safer than speaking up, I rise.
I rise.

someone once told me
no one cares unless you're
pretty
or
dying
but it scares me
how often those two overlap

i'm sorry
i don't talk much.
it's hard
to think
with all this
chaos
in my head.
quiet people
have the loudest minds
and it's
loud enough
in here.

Spinning your lies into gold

I might as well change my name to Secondhand Smoke. Nothing more than roadkill. Not a tragedy: an eyesore.

i know it all too well
what sounded at first like the sweet promise of freedom when sung like a breathy ballad tell me what does your siren song sound like? mine sounds like everything i've  ever wanted, like dreams come true. i lived my life in search of warmth and light but i didn't realize that house fires seem a lot like warmth and light when you don't know any better. i spent my life throat choking on smoke, eyes watering, lungs starving, flesh burning, and thinking that i had finally been warm is this what it's supposed to feel like? i tell myself it isnt suffocating me, i just can't catch my breath around them, they take my breath away. i cannot hear the siren alarm in my ears to get out, it only sounds like fireworks, and the heat feels like passion. there is no safety in the tongues of burnished white-hot flames like fraudulent deception masquerading as miracles no, no, it is so much more than that.

if you had asked me as a kid,
"what do you want to be when you grow up?"
i could've rattled off a whole list
but i never imagined i would grow up
to look just like all the skeletons in my closet

Death
is
the
Confession of
when the past
comes back
to haunt

maybe
some
promises
are
better
left
broken

why do we
hold ourselves back?
we tell ourselves
not to fall for
the boy in the cafe
or the ******* the train
or whoever it may be
because what if they don't like me?
my answer is
then they were never worth your time.

don't risk missing out on what could've been
when all that was holding you back
was you

There's a kind of surreality that comes with depression. I used to hate that word - depression. I used to be afraid of it, as if naming my nightmare would make it more real. I've become accustomed to its manipulation, now - the way its self-hatred coils inside you, the way its fear winds itself around each of your ribs, the way it twines against your collarbones and strangles you and steals your breath, the way it makes a home of your body by becoming your body, by becoming you.
Your parents always warn you about strangers, but what if the stranger is you?

a little less like an alarm,
a little more like being trapped in a burning building,
mistaking the fire for warmth,
mistaking the heat for passion,
mistaking the smoke for breathless bliss,
but things that promise light seldom go unheard,
and you aren't any different

i think the reason why i fell so deeply and helplessly and utterly in love with him was that he was not broken. i thought that maybe loving him would somehow unbreak me, make me a little less shattered than i was. i have seen and felt and fallen and broken and aged and heard and been more than i ought to have but there's nothing i can do about that now. and so i was drawn to his innocent, unbridled naïveté, which may as well be the last thing that has been left untouched by the bitter darkness of this world.

the sky
flutters,
alighting
with
powers of
the ever-droll
last performances
of certainty -
or so they would like to think

Honey don’t you know that conscience makes cowards of us all but so does ignorance

When I look at you I see women’s flesh that you wear like animal pelts from another victorious conquest and I wonder whose face you will wear next and I wonder if it will be mine

And what am I if not collateral damage

Don’t eulogize me before my body’s even cold

Boys taught to equate harassment to flirtation grow into men with flesh-eating hands

Why do your lips taste like fools’ gold

I wonder what language they will write my obituary in

Whoever said nothing dries sooner than a tear must have never had their heart broken

And boy when you grow into your predatory grin you will know I was right

I’ve been biting my tongue for so long that blood is dripping down my chin

He built a wall
But honey don't you know that fallen walls become bridges

Living
Getting worse
People finding out
The pity
The sugar-coated lies
The "oh, she fought so hard"
The "she just did this for attention"
The "I had no idea she was so weak and fragile"
Waking up every morning
Going to bed every night
Being alone with my thoughts
Never being able to stop
Gaining weight
Rejection
Judgement
Breaking down
Going crazy
How easy it would be
My weaknesses
My thoughts
Myself

we found our
wings
but
the world saw butterflies

Again, it's a
mystery

The main reason I haven't killed myself yet is that if I do,
no one will know all the thoughts and ideas and dreams I've had.
No one will know exactly how my mind works.
No one will know that I think my ceiling fan looks kind of like the moon
or that I use ink across my wrist instead of a blade
or that I am utterly puzzled by the universe and its secrets
or all of the questions that plague my mind when sleep deprivation has stolen my inhibitions.
My mind and all its complex mysteries would completely vanish from the world the second I
swallowed one too many pills
or made the last slash in my skin
or let gravity take me
or finally pulled the trigger.
That is the only reason I have held on so long.
It's almost as if I can pretend I matter in this world.
Almost.