I did not stop writing but I swallowed each word whole
Without remark, buried where I could not read them
Or myself. I could not stop having feelings
But I hid them away- spirited far- speechless
They spoke anyway. I tried to die. I did not.

I can't blame you, or anybody specifically
but I was afraid of what I was made of.
The thing that was growing- it was me,
wildly me, wild anima. Whirling and warming,
I threatened to metastasize. But I did not.

I only swelled and grew and hurt, really tried hard
to find a window, to make space, and a home.
Terrified the author and editor- no one will buy this.
And so I killed that thing. I cut it out, and discarded it.
No one noticed. The parade moved on. I did not.

I hid like a wounded fox. I turned myself inside out
away from light, from sound, and love, and trust-
I erased memories, wrote better endings, kept it easy.
And this suited many, but never myself. Because
You can't actually **** what grows. I did not.

It's late now, and the moon is too loud.
the cold touch, surreality
and the harshness of knowing are too much.
I need the static and to chew glass,
to dive beneath the grassy waves
or become part of the mattress.
it's too loud, too light.
i need to be still, so that this will pass me by.
if no one breathes, and i close my eyes
perhaps i can purge myself of sense
scrub my mind, my insides
and think of nothing at all.

i try
everyday
to make myself cold
small and  jagged
so that perhaps
you will believe the lies i tell you
everyday
and leave.
i try
everyday
to make myself
leave you
your warm smile
and soft hands
that thaw me, because if not,
you'll think that i love you.
and i will.

Watch the stars fall down
a metronome guiding through
the electric buzz.