Steady thumping thoughts in a head overfilled
Rebuilding situations into twisting memories
Into monsters, the distant cousins of real events
Gentle then violent pumping of the breaks
Trying to stop, to go back
Screaming for reverse

The mind trudges forward,
Forcing you along with it
Apathetic to the lingering wish to detach
From not only it, from the world
An angry consciousnesses inflicting burdens
Invisible burdens that weigh infinite amounts
Drowning you in worries

Sitting in the peak of morning
Second guessing long forgotten speeches
And wishing things were different
(But knowing that they never will be)
Holding onto whats left in a vain attempt for happiness
As it slips and withers away

Closing eyes slowly with a wish-
Maybe my dreams will be better.
When it is known they will torment you worse

There is a pile of stones
left between the morning light
and the evening duskiness
that holds the sky in tandem.

Tread softly, my dear,
This land is full of dread,
Do you know not what is in your own head?

Tread hastily, child,
You may not find what you seek
The mind is full of pitfalls and it is sure to be oblique

Tread lightly, little lamb
Each mark in the dirt is visible
And those who find it will be most unforgivable

Have you not heard a single foul yelp?
Any echo of a cry for help?

This is your Bete Noire, cherub
A nightmare built for you
A place you must surely pass through

Constructed by your imagination,
It needs only a single macabre thought in your head
As you lie softly in your bed

Here is your Bete Noire, love
You will surely see it to the end
No matter what it is that you intend

Houseplant,
why are you depressed?
Most people- er, plants-
don't get Seasonal Affective Disorder
in Spring.
Houseplant,
I've watched your tumultuous stretch
and subsequent shrink
but I don't think
you truly want to decay.
I've watched teardrops roll
from your heavy leaves,
depositing life to the tile floor
in the part of the kitchen
best suited for afternoon light.
I'm begging you,
Houseplant,
there aren't many religions that
give an afterlife to plants.
This is your best shot, houseplant.
I promise I won't let the cat
push you off the counter again,
not like last time when the soil
spread out on the floor,
a puddle of
rock right there,
with earthworms that chewed through it all
and seeds that rooted in the
somewhat blobbish flower tiles
my ex-boyfriend insisted on.
Really, houseplant,
I'm the one with the pink slip,
and I can't survive on
light, you know,
not like you,
and I need more than rain
to stay rooted.
You don't need a roof over you,
Houseplant,
in fact,
you just need the earth,
I need a lot more than you,
Houseplant,
but if you can't keep it together,

how can I?

Mocking bird singing through my window
Pecking at the seeds of my sweet smelling flowers
Hopping up the vines of the wall, He hums my mistake again
Tranquil rest of the leaves is taken by the wind of His wings
His freeness is my cage
Never able to feel His beauty fully
Only an empty glimpse
One day, He says I will show you
And you will be amazed
Doubting He’s even really here
I continue existing until He comes again in a little way
And I pause to see His trueness

He who thought silence golden
washed his hands of conviction.
This malnourished conjecture of men,
cut off, stolen from the ears,
produces a solemn yearning for sound.
A paradise of steady, unyielding conscious
with no outlet.
Words held in paper:
a second rate home to the warmth
of breath thrumming through them,
passing uncontained into the world.

When I rose up,
Everything was crisp hard edges and lonely echoes.
When I rose up,
My breath came like fleeting plumes in winter.
When I rose up,
Anticipation swelled and rolled in me.
But when every solid gray door that found me was not mine,
When I got to the top and found no place for me,
There was only one place to go.

I wear self-hate like a scarf.
It wrings itself into a fashionable noose
that knots a comfortable weight around my neck.
"There is no shame in depression," they tell me,
so I wear it like the locket I got for my twelfth birthday,
still hollow eight years later.
I remember to wear gloves for the anxiety
and cry when you can still see my hands shake.
Belts pick up the slack from days of skipped meals
and vomiting sessions.
My eyes are permanently fixed to the ground
and I carry myself like I am being dragged into life.
My body is a time bomb,
a controlled burn,
and the last grains of sand are spiraling down
Just like I am.