I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.

beware when you fall in love
with an artist
be it a painter, a singer, or poet

for the artist will
paint you
with strokes and hues
in shapes of every kind

sing about you
with heartbreak lyrics
and feelings which rhyme

write about you
with the simplest words
and a secret message she wants to say

beware of the artist,
and her love
one wrong move
and you're an artwork in her display

i am not who I think i am
but for a moment i was who i wish i could be

i was in class when it began
a clap of thunder and a bolt of lightning shook the sky

i walked out with my head held high
and smiled when the first droplets met my face

i laughed when a puddle soaked my shoes through and through
the feeling of clear, cold water settling on my *****, warm skin

i was by myself but i was not alone
the journey became my friend, my co-conspirator

i don’t know why i did it
but i hope that i never stop feeling it