i always have
the urge to run.

but what is it like
to be a tree?

to be confident enough
to root yourself
and grow with
wild abandonment,
being unapologetically
you?

i'm still running,
but i wish i knew.

She plays violin on her wrists
Sinfully beautiful symphonies appear on her skin
Like paper sheets her blood will flow
With eyes determined on the price
She watches the last bit of her soul seep out of her wounds
A lonely sound escapes her lips
The last lonely sound she'll ever make
Now she's in a different place
And replaced the violin for clouds