the hollows under her eyes
got deeper
as invisible hands
scraped further.

sometimes he'd sit in his room
feet on opposite thighs
holding a kitchen k n i f e
tightly in both palms
ready to a t t a c k
the m o n s t e r s
if they got too close
to his q u a k i n g
shoulders.

their eyes carve letters in to my back, spelling out words that will break me.

my words fumble
and trip over one another
screaming on the way down.

half scribbled thoughts
written with darkness
cover sheets and sheets of paper
and litter the floor
of my already disorganized mind.

in the morning
ill be alright
but for now
I let the tears come freely.

there is no feeling equivalent to that of scribbling your thoughts down in a crowded public train.