Sometimes my heart aches, with a pressure of an ocean of tears I never shed.
Not because I don't want to but maybe because it seems too precious to lay upon shallow ground.
My pain, my mind, my love, my grief. All things mine in a confusion and desperation unappreciated by others and therefore unnecessary to anyone but me.
I'm desperate for connection in my own nihilist way of being miserable and forlorn. I don't trust anyone, not the ones I love, not me, nothing. But I want to want to. I want to be able to. Always mid-sentence though, always reticent, in a never ending/never blooming hope.

I never know when it's safe to talk.
I never know when it's safe to show cleavage.
My male friends disappear when claimed by other woman's love.
The streets are not safe.
The nights are not safe.
Internet is not safe.
Talking to a commited friend isn't safe.
When you are a woman it's hard to find a place to exist and be who you are.
There's jealosy, there's lust, there's wickedness, there's confusion.
There's loneliness.

Sometimes I feel so sad that I think my face will melt.
My tears come down dissolving everything that is me, everything recognizable and leaving only vestige of what once was.

It's interesting to find solace in the arms of a cloud.
I want my thoughts to be recorded and expose my heart behind a glass wall.
I want to be seen but never touched
Yet, I don't comment on the footprints I leave everytime I decide to walk online.
Maybe I don't want to be exposed
but found.

Sometimes I feel like I'm stuck inside myself, only writing and feeling things about myself when the world is so big. But the eyes I have are mine, my brain and its synapses, my tongue and my lungs, my fingers and movements, these are also mine. Therefore, it's hard to see something other than what my eyes can see, or feel and wonder about things my mind can't reach. But even if I could, my lungs breathe for me and my mouth is a slave.
I can not escape myself, because I am human. And after everything, it means to be a prisoner.

I have seen you naked, in more ways than most.
But somehow your words still can't reach me.
I'm not an easy person, you see, and my trust seems to be nonexistent
So somehow, between our layers, I still can't give you anything.
But you will always be the love of my life
and I will always keep you close, in my thoughts, even after we inevitably die.

The ink on my skin tells me to keep going
But the ink coming out of my fingers create messages of departure.
My head screams in my silence, urging me to punch me in the face until I can see the purple under my skin designing another art piece of my feelings...
Maybe everything would be different if I could sleep.
But maybe this insomnia is a way of keeping me breathing,
keeping me from following seducer Hypnos into the numbness of eternal slumber.