Blistered feet and worn out minds
We work the day away.
Who am I to scrape together these coins?
“Pain demands to be felt” he says,
And of course, work does too.
Scarred hands and tough skin,
Harvesting the last thoughts from their minds.
A little thinner, a little prettier.
Will this product be bought?
Is it good enough?
Am i good enough?
Dig deeper, hit harder.
The product must be sold perfectly
The rest is thrown away
Just like my values, my opinions.
Hold it in, work harder, longer.
More, they want more.
Tear it up, burn it down.
Give it without imperfections.
Try more, work more.
Work until your dead.
Explode it until it’s gone
Restart with nothing
Fail the product
Try more, work harder
Until....
I’m dead

How do I say it?
Whom must I say it to?
Lost thoughts in my youngest mind
From years ago.
I am in love with a woman
And a man
And maybe even someone who is man by morning,
And woman by night.
He is mine, worried if her words will steal my heart in the darkest hours.
But my heart is only truest to his song,
18 months in the making.
My parents are shamed,
My siblings are scared,
But I am my own.
And she and he and them are the same to my heart.
But for now on he shall hold it ever more.

Soft are his hands who so caress my cheek
Warm is his smile who brings happiness to my eyes
His eyes are raging pools of soft light
Oceans to swim in, exploring the depths.
His hands are worn as his expression late at night,
And his tears are emotions firing into the abyss.
His skin is tan, but hidden under walls of clothes are the white insecurities.
But she also holds a piece of my shattered heart.
Her humor keeps me alive,
A slow heartbeat barely lighting the dark.
Her hidden depression is mine to share,
Her happiness the fruit of my efforts.
Her love so strong,
Building like the tsunami terrorizing her soul.
Together, we make a crooked whole,
A misshapen heart
A sideways soul.

Fluttering against the screams
Like the silent echoes they can’t hear.
Questioning the meanings
Of the things they never said.
Torturous moments of pain
That paint the scenery on your walls,
Slow brush strokes to antagonize every moment.
These are the broken pieces,
Fragmented across your life,
That control the crystallized teardrops you cry,
Safe in your bedroom.
Where there is no sound
But the cracking of your mind
And the groaning of your bones.
Compressed into soft syllables
Whispered in the night
To ink and moon and stars and blood
Until the veins are empty
And the ink bled out,
Until no other sound utters
And no other soul knows.