be the vines,
exist slowly. cautiously.

crawl up, looking for any
footholds to expand your reach.

exist violently.
tear down the bricks of
the building you conquered

and above all else—

rise to the top of what you hate the most.

My footsteps were memorizing
the cracks of the floor,
vines creep along the grounds
as the constellations,
they are the patterns to my wonderland.

Gold flush,
rose blush
You are beautiful in my memories
and I unlocked  the box of my dreams,
wounds are deeper than to what I feel
Stitched with the strings I tied to you,
People are vines as they fall in despair.

all we feel is pain
from a society that has torn us apart.
our words ignite thunder,
and our actions burn scars.
our views have altered because of
dreams crushed by stars.
our reality has deadened,
like our once-beautiful hearts.

I love the color Red.
Mostly, when it spreads across my mouth
When I bite myself hard enough.
I wince to draw blood for comfort,
Keeping my mind from racing too much.

I can’t get enough of it I confess.
The splash of crimson red
Compliments the tone of my skin.
Makes my face seem less
Pale I suppose.

As painful as it is,
It slows the raging beats of my heart.
Makes the pressure dissipate for a second.

Serenity is in the metallic taste
That I crave like morphine
To a drug addict

Mellifluous red noises
flow out from a violin like arm
with a bow of steel
and a song of death

For my 11th birthday I bought myself the prettiest gift.
A paintbrush.
It was a shiny silver.
When I used it for the first time, I felt relieved.
The burdens fell off my shoulders onto my wrists.
I created the most beautiful crimson artworks.
I packed my burdens into fine lines, drawing the red of their weight.
I am an artist.
I am covered in my creations, from my wrists to my thighs.
Now, forever.

brooklyn, new york
is not just a place

brooklyn, new york
is sunshine caught in sandy blonde hair
it is the light dusting of eyelashes
it is a pair of deep, hypnotising blue irises
it is a warm smile and a pair of strong arms

brooklyn, new york
is morning kisses across the cheek
it is the smell of sweet syrup on pancakes
it is the sound of 70s music in the background
it is the taste of vanilla ice cream from a tub
it is the feeling of a smooth bubble bath against your skin
it is the view of earthy undertones wherever you turn

brooklyn, new york
is my lover's embrace.