I am back
to that blank space
to that black hole
eating me whole
like crawling flame
to my paper soul
Who is it to blame?
Still I'm running in shame
away from my shadow
of filth and rot
Even my skin
have scorned itself
but to flay my being
is not enough
Have I forgotten how to love?
And if my body is to live
but the soul is dead,
Will I ever forgive myself?



-Dying Star, Margaret Austin Go

i once fell for a boy
who let me hold my breath
until i turned blue
waiting for him to say
three simple words
but he set me free with
three other words of his own:
"you're not her."

i once befriended a girl
who went apple picking
with her family every fall
and swam with dolphins
every summer.
now she spends every christmas
and new year's with men who will
run their hands up her thighs
but cannot remember the color of her eyes.

i now dream of men
with colorful tattoos and smoky hair
who let me rest my head on their shoulders
and take my cares away.

i am now like ones who prefer
to dance and sleep alone at night.
i come into contact with those who
carry broken hearts in their ribcage
because maybe we can put the pieces all together.
and make something beautiful.

|rh

Some care too much

Others, not enough

I wish I could drink like a lady
I can take one or two at the most
Three and I'm under the table
Four and I'm under the host

art isn't a thing
it is a fractured composure
misunderstood by defiants
yet rises to better expectations of reliance

art is praised
through the melodies of random kindness
through the pictures of story-telling
through the written speech of your imagination

art is a soul
that is purely intoxicated
pre-judged with mere perfection
consoling the lightworker in you

art is you
bestowed to eradicate mediocrity
created to being inanimacy to life
distinguished for an exciting simplicity.

Let today teach me the things that yesterday did not.