Her anxiety
              An ocean
                           A wave of emotion
                                                     Rips through her
                                                                          All too often.

It trickles through her everyday
seeping into cracks in her core
small springs turn to gushing floods
in a split second.

She crashes down on me
and I stand
the force of her tide
drowning in her doubt.

Holes eroded by the constant drip;
rapids ricochet through her body
her mind awash;
thoughts tumbling in the whirlpool.

She crashes down on me
and I stand
drenched in her
a lighthouse in the storm.

Screaming at the world
Will never tell them you have
A beautiful voice.

You drew people so close to you, and that was what I loved. You could tear away something as if it was in your way and begin to know them deeply, not like the others. Perhaps that was why we all loved you so.

But when I tried to get even a but closer, to be as special to you as you are to me, you held those other people so close that I wasn't able to move them either way, to worm myself in.

And I know you can't control charm; I know it's simply got to be used and you can go through life attaching people to you that you don't want. (Oh, God, how I wish I had that attribute as well.)

I don't blame you in the slightest. I only blame you for kissing me on that warm night in May. I suppose it was the golden flute if champagne that did us in.

I was drowning before I knew it, whether in salt water or wine i still cannot decipher, and you strung my awe-stricken corpse over underwater graveyards while you sat above sea level on your luxurious yacht, playing with your new choice. I like to think you still retain those emotions behind your looks of love to other starvelings like me, though.

I want to warn them against your deadly elixir, but I've found you stole my voice as well as my state of mind. I wander in the barren plains you left me as a kindness, searching without reward for my belongings. I fear I will never recover them.

he claims to just be blatantly honest.
but he calls me lovely.
and compliments me.
and listens wholly.
and has extreme dysmorphia towards my weight.
and reads my poetry.
and compliments it.
and treats me as if I possess some sort of innate value.
and makes me feel secure.
---
was he lying about being honest?
or am I lying to myself about my value?

When he ran
it was fire that followed.
An orphan with a family.
Remembering all the wrongs in the world.
These false pretenses
will be the death of him.
Forget what the past says,
and just keep running.
Through fire and wind,
change will occur.
Only when it is least needed.
These lies are eating up the insides.
They are making for a dark future.
Regret.
Regret nothing.
Just look for the wrong answers and
find the truth hidden in
this scorched Earth.
When he ran
it was fire that followed.
It was fire that extinguished
the truth.

“…wait, are you afraid of the dark?” he asked with a tone of disbelief.
“So what if I am?”
“Well, I'd say that's a shame. You allow your imagination to control you.”
She couldn’t disagree. He was right and she was embarrassed.
“turn off the light,”
silence.
"and just listen to my voice."
And she did.