i do not trust my mind anymore
the sockets of my eyes
contain a thousand burning suns
and the voicebox in my throat
traps white noise
but the cranium i possess
is merely a container
of pandora's worst nightmare

there are fire drills in my school
we practice evacuation routes
to prepare for the threat
of a burning, raging fire
but what about
the similar, all-consuming, scorching
blaze in my mind
is there a way out for me?

copper tang in my mouth when you walk by
knee acting up just before you call
you're a regular thunderstorm
and my body, as always,
is attuned to yours

if i ******* on these sheets
will you just melt away?
will I be left with just your bones
to cradle and cry into-
tears hitting the husk
of what you used to occupy?

blitzkrieg,
that's what you are
an army couldn't fight you off
so how am I supposed
to save myself

I've forgotten


that I can't


won't



your ghost is a phantom menace.
your memories haunt my thoughts and the wisp that follows it around, trails after it-
the scent of death;
the touch of a broken promise.

I am used to
the folds of the fire
burning hot on my skin,
the light it gives
a mockery of the darkness
I surround myself in.

I am used to
covering myself up
in the tidal waves of my sadness-
these tsunamis are my solace,
the way I drown is my comfort.

I am used to
how it feels like
being alone and sad and alone and sad;
these two words so simple,
so relatable
but not by you.

You are not used to
the black holes that form your sanctuary,
as much four walls as any room is
stars are not distant pinpricks
you restrain yourself from reaching for.

You are not used to.

i wish
there were ways
you could let yourself out;
slip little bits of your soul
back into the wold
free it from your vessel,
your prison,
let it no longer anchor you.
the cracks in my skin:
be the gateway to
my end.

you will be buffeted by the winds
you will sail far over the seas,
skimming its surfaces;
the hot winds in the desert might parch you.
and you will have lived
as long as you think you did.

there is a time in the night
when your breath catches
and it doesn't actually let go.
your marrow retreats a little further into your bones, it seems,
and there is a feeling of age
one can never express.
you are seventeen years,
but when each year is compounded
by all things horrific
the stars glow a little dimmer,
the clock's ticking a little louder.

she ran home with her sins;
down the steps
and round the flower beds-
careful not to trample them-
and through the back door.
it was freshly painted, that door.
she went into the house
where it all began:
the sins, she means.
she hopes you understand.
there is too much in this world
that she cannot allow
so she tucks each jewel
back into the crevices of
each brick
that her house was built of.
that was where
her mother's screams
and her dad's belt
and the blades in the night
and the empty bowls of soup were;
she kept them
in each jewel
in each brick
buried
deep down.
home was where the heart was,
after all.