Words gone unsaid, hanging in the air like overripe fruit waiting to fall; a sickly sweet guillotine made of things past their prime, cutting through the awkward silence. Pen and sword are equally sharp, being two sides of one coin. Crying disguised as fatigue tears melt into the crowd of rain and sweat; blend in don't smile don't laugh. clouds hide skyfuls of hurt I hide my face in my hands I hide my smile, tuck it away to be used later. happiness preserved for special occasions sadness used only in private. changing faces like changing clothes has become second nature, but I cannot hide from my emotions .

a child with a heart as red and raw and open as a wounded hand, goes the story, but this is not a story and this is a wound that won't heal. I stem the flow of ******, red hot emotion and hope for the best. It's claustrophilia, not agoraphobia; look under the table and you will see my private pains, my jealousy pressed between the pages of this book, emotion folded up small and placed in a niche no one can reach. I was meant for moonlight, the low road, "a heartbeat in a volley of heartbeats", so to speak. I used to think solace and solitude meant the same thing and they do. To me.

frozen in time, stuck in place. a machine,
a puppet moving along the path I always go
in circles
I always go in circles,
on repeat
on repeat
on repeat
on repeat
on repeat
I always go in a circle go in a
circle, beating around the
beating around the
bush the bush
the bush.
trying to reach inside myself to
find the words
to find the words
to say
to say
to say
to say to say to say to say to say to say to say to say to say to say to say to say-

Digging deeper and deeper. I search for courage for inspiration
inspiration
inspiration
but all I find is silence,
heavy as a stone.
my
back
my back bends beneath
the beneath the
beneath the weight of it.

i.
lone wolves wear solitude around their necks like a medallion, but also a chain, a collar, tying their strength down.

ii.
some hide solitude in their ribcages or build forts, ***** walls. the desperation shines through the cracks.

iii.
many wear the solitude on their shoulders like heavy cloaks, attempting to block out the cold and rain, but only weighing themselves down.

iv.
people have dragged it around like a troublesome child. they want to be rid of it, shove on someone else to deal with, but they grip it tight.

v.
i've seen some spin solitude into a thread so fine you can barely see it, and tie it around their life like a noose. pulling it tight, they use this solitude to stitch their life into a tidy package .

For once this isn't about you.
For once I can breathe freely.
For once the ocean doesn't remind me of hunger and blood and daring, and therefore of you.
For once you're not stuck in my head like a sad love song, a bubble of bittersweet that resurfaces holding a reflection of your face.
For once it doesn't hurt when I find your hoodie, still under my bed, still stained with ketchup.
For once I have the courage to put it away, to touch it, to touch the sore spot where you were once attached to me.
For once missing you isn't an urge to run to you, it's just wanting to stay and watch you go.

when you bike in circles
when you read Murakami again
when you read what's between the lines

self-consciousness is realization of the flaws within this self.

when you listen to music
when you fall apart
when you fall asleep

this self right now cannot escape or be escaped

when you scratch away the fading façade
when you rewrite your old works
when you rewrite memories as fables

'Home: a place to escape to or from.'

when you realize it's over
when you fall apart
when you fall asleep
when you fall asleep.

light magenta vertical;
gaurdian of the margin.

light blue horizontal;
conveyer of the ledger.

the space
between -
white teeth gleam,

refracting
lunarlit scribbles

across one loose leaf,
fell by some god
awful idiot,

all for
you
to space

out
on.

i will be
written
down
yesteday

in elegant
recursive
flicks
of the

wrist -

a has-been
fate.

so, i am not supposed to be here.
not anymore, anyway.

i know that.
i am three-hole
punch drunker.
awkwarder.

but those potential
whatif's glyph bright
behind closed eyelids,

and
it

makes
me wonder
just a little longer.

indigo
cursor
blink.
blink. blink.

blink.

i think about all the insurmountable times i have
watched myself shave off the bark of my skin
to watch others thrive and blossom violently like
wildflowers and chrysanthemums. i think of how
you have always been a tree – tall, mighty, powerful
- with roots that don't seem to make mine feel like
weeds. teach me, for i aspire to be luminous, tree.
i dream of worlds made of jasmine and honeysuckle,
of utopias devoid of the bark i've shaved off my back.
i dream of sap that feels a little less like magma and
a lot more like maple syrup. i dream of roots that
doesn't feel like granite and completely calcified.
teach me, for i aspire to be luminous, tree.