skin over bone,
muscle tissue hanging off

i wish i was younger,
when the world was still black and white,
and i

lived

There are bones in the wood;
cracking, groaning, shattering.
The skeleton of what could
Have
            Been

There are bones in the wood;
whistling, wailing, whispering.
The skeleton is not pure—not good
It
            Still
                        Has
           ­                         Flesh

we were playing
in the garden,
goddesses,
feeling the heat on our skin
the goddess of love,
the goddess of trees,
the goddess of anything
and everything

that was nice

then her mom died
a hit-and-run
so she left,
and i played by myself for a while

then she came back
but she was different
and we were older

so we made
the goddess of revenge
so her mom would have justice

then we played the goddess game
                                                     "Wear this blindfold"
i stepped out onto the road
                                                     "you won't let me get hit, right?"
                                                     "Keep walking"
                                                     "i'm scared"
                                                     "You'll be fine"
so i was

she left a note in my locker that day
REMEMBER

then she left for good

broken
                    the lonely shard in a trembling hand
******
                    gripping it tighter
beautiful
                    pain, sharp and real.
bone
                    through skin

veins,
                    exploding
arteries.
                    shattered
dreams
                    and
lost
                    screaming
splintered
                   whispers


end it all

wandering through the woods
the darkness all-consuming
holding the shards of a life lived
and dreams exhausted
the voices whisper
NO STOP PIECE ME BACK
PLEASE PLEASE
PLEASE
but the glass cuts
so it's dropped

falling

Some days, I avoid the mirror,
as if its glass might speak.
As if it might tell me all the things
I already whisper to myself.

I tug at fabric, shift my stance,
try to fit into spaces
that never seem meant for me.
Like I’m always too much, or not enough.

I trace the outlines of who I wish I was,
sketching softness into strength,
erasing the parts I’ve learned to hide,
as if beauty is something I have to earn.

But I am not a mistake,
not a problem to be solved.
I am a story still being written,
a masterpiece still in progress.