Crisp September breeze
Carries memories
From too many years past.
Feelings unprocessed,
Echoes of uncertainty.

Promises left unkept,
Dreams and hopes
Scattered to the four winds.
And wounds untended,
Deep, ugly, gnarled.

Something in the chill,
Hauled in on the wind,
Makes the hurt return
Like an old fracture
That aches before a storm.

I often feel as though
My childhood scarred me-
Marred me, knocked me down,
Emblazoned insecurity in scarlet
Upon my fore brow;
“Damaged.” “Unworthy.” “Trash.”

Not meant to succeed.
She does not belong.
Hidden behind a mask of perfection
Desperate to cover angry letters,
Scrawled in crimson, tender, raw.

Who resides in the large stately homes?
Are they average, are they beautiful?
Are they kind or are they cruel?
Are they both perhaps?
Does it matter?
Who calls the stately homes their own?
Have they longed for it all their lives?
Did they grow up on the outskirts of society,
always wanting for more?
Do they wake up each day and thank God?
What keeps them up when night comes to call?
What haunts them at three
when demons prey on their slumber?
Who is the stranger inside?

Life feels like:
a grand and tragical
theatrical performance,
in which,
I'm the leading lady.
Despite the fact,
I did not audition,
and I know not the lines.

The moon calls to me tonight—
I cannot resist her charms.
I slip beyond the confines of my room
To let the evening soak into my soul.

A full moon spills her silver light,
Darkness braided with her glow.
Rocky earth crunches beneath my feet,
Each step alive with sound and scent.

The high desert hums its song:
Stars glimmer, coyotes cry.
A noisy stillness fills the air,
As daylight’s brightness fills the sky.

My heaven is green grass,
And scent of sagebrush and hay.
I belong in this moonlit nirvana,
Where constellations burn like fire.