Everything a person can do creates a thought,
a car that runs through a persons mind when they are
trying to sleep, but they can't.
But, with a poet,
a thought isn't a car.
A thought is a wave of water,
it's a dunk tank at a carnival
and everyone has perfect aim.
It's a soft touch on cold skin,
one that feels like a lost lover.

And when a poet writes,
and a thought is used,
it lives forever.

How long did the water clog your throat before you could finally breathe in death?

Reflection.
It’s in everything, everywhere.
in the water you run away to when things get hard,
in the glass shards on the ground every night,
in the spoon you hold while you eat breakfast alone,
in the screen of the phone you use when you have thoughts.
Reflection is everywhere, in everything.
Almost.
Because it’s not in the mirror you stare into,
when it’s 2 am and you’re desperate to know yourself.

I am not Atlas.
I can’t carry the weight the world on my back,
Watching from below as
symphonies become sorrows
And hopes become hopeless.
As hearts stop beating despite the flowing
Of blood through the veins along scarred wrists.
And bones fracture after words stab into
Discarded bodies with lifeless heads.
And maybe Atlas didn’t have this problem.
Maybe Atlas could bend his knees,
Perhaps they were sculpted to shift that way
But, even if I wished upon the brightest star
My knees would not bend at the hands of chaos.

I am halfway to becoming an artist,
someone who will have the power
to weave beauty at her fingertips
into true masterpieces.
However, the journey
is no longer one I can enjoy
as it has become a race;
I am halfway to becoming destroyed
and what scares me most
is I feel as if the killing
will happen sooner than the awakening.

I’m filled with lightning.
It shines bright, flowing through my wrists.
It cracks through with everything I do.
My smile, my laugh.
The way I walk and talk.
It’s electrifying.

That December,
I was a mess.
A pile of broken bones
And discarded hopes.
Skin clammy and lips cracked,
Devoid of anything.
You ignored it,
All of it.
Now, it’s April.
Two years later
And I’m still a mess.
I’m still a pile of broken bones
And discarded hopes.
My skin is still clammy
And my lips are still cracked.
I’ve still devoid of everything.
But mostly?
I’m devoid of you.