She is the unsung lyrics,
the pieces of her favorite quotes stitched together.
When one plucks the lyre of her heart
melancholy melody soothes another heart.

She is a pallet full of rich and moody colors.
Sometimes she is bold like the streak of red of the sky at dawn
or delicate as soothing soft colored pastels.
At times she's vibrant
with her colors high on hue
and at times she is dim and quite.

She is contoured with passion;
whirlwind of colors
coaxing the brushstroke
as she is canvassed.

She is the evocative strokes
of a tempestuous soul
of curious contrast;
an exquisit chaos.

She is the raw,
broken tiles pieced together
into a mosaic
s intricate masterpiece like picasso's.

Her body
Her soul
is constantly moulding
sculpting into a phasing masterpiece.

She is an album;
a gallery.
She wasn't built to validate
to be understood
and loved by all
She's supposed to make you feel in the way she thought.

For she is the enigmatic narrative of her truth
and a beautiful ambiguity.
I would've torn myself
limb from limb
to appease your hunger
but you still would't have wanted me.
I would've broken my bones
to build you a throne
but you still wouldn't have wanted me.
I would've wrung myself dry of blood
to quench your thirst
but you wouldn't have wanted me.
I would've skinned myself
to stitch you clothes
but you still would't have wanted me.
I would've burned myself
to keep you warm
but you would still leave.
To be in the eyes of others,
your name on their tongue
you can not control whether
poison or honey drips from their tongue.

Some marker your skin with their opinions,
and dissect the capillaries of your life.
Examining the intricacy,
scrutinizing and doubting
the flesh you wear,
the work you do,
the person you are.

Some compliment,
support
and believe
making you feel full;
a whole
and leave you overflowing with love.

It is ironic
how some see the same parts of you
as light
whereas others see it as dark.
The best parts of you
as the worst
and your strength
as the lack of you.

So dear one,
don't let their perceptions
poison your intention.
Crippling self doubt
plagues my existence.
Injecting itself into my blood stream;
immobilizing my muscles
numbing my tongue
and muting my voice box.

It quenches its thirst
by tearing my self image
limb from limb and
ploughing my insides
till there is nothing left.

It either bombards like
gunfire inside my head
firing flaws into questions
or drain each cell's confidence
leaving the muscles to shiver and shudder
and words hesitant to leave my tongue.

My flesh that houses doubt
is familiar with every capillary of my insecurity;
Whispering my shortcomings
and scrutinizing the details that make me, me.

It is a constant fight, invisible to the eyes.
Internal;
it's all in my head.
My heart was falling
But you were not there to catch.
For what I felt were
Heartaches instead of butterflies
Cries instead of a smile
All pain and suffering;
that is what unrequited love had.

Every fiber of cell yearned
Every nerve created sensation
Couldn't you feel the connection?

Blue is its tune
with no reciprocation.
A love so lonely
Everything so one sided
and oblivious to you.
Detached;
My strings have detached
Like the vowels and constants I speak detached.
I watch the world
Through eyes not of mine
And live in a body
Living a life that doesn’t feel mine.
My chest feels empty
And my tone sounds vacant.
I am floating
Further from conscious
With no one to ground me
Everything seems not to be mine
To feel to touch
No matter how much I try.
For it merely feels like mist
Through which I pass my hand through.
When I write
I let myself taste the expanding darkness
deflating my cells of its vibrancy.
I let myself be touched by those crawling hands embedded in my bones.
I hear my oozing heart’s echoing angst.
And watch as my thoughts turn bitter
and my shoulder starting to weigh me down
As the memories start to climb up my spine.

Now that I’ve written
How do I close those doors once more?
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