We don’t see the carrots to be cut,
We see the sharp knife that could cut us.

We don’t see the bridge,
We see the other side of the railings.

We don’t see painkillers,
We see medication we could drown ourselves in.

We don’t see the train,
We see the tracks we could lay on.

We don’t see the nice view,
We see the cliff's edge we could jump off.

I knew a girl who used poetry as a weapon.
Who broke hearts for fun, only to dip her pen in their blood and write lines in the sand.

I knew a girl who used poetry as a shield.
Who thought her words were justified if she dipped them in honey before she spoke.

I knew a girl who used poetry as a blindfold.
Who hid her betrayal behind selfless lines and artful lies.

And she called me her muse and I thought it a compliment when really it was a curse.
Because I knew a girl who only wrote poetry about broken hearts so she let me fall so she could watch me drop and describe the sound of my impact with honey-coated drizzle.

Because it’s my heart that was pen-dipped.
My ears that were darkened by honey-covered lies.
My eyes that were obscured by a blindfold of silk.

And when my blood dried and the sand was used up, she went for another boy.
A broken boy.

One she didn’t have to break to write her twisted lines.

It just hits him sometimes. He was fine one minute, and then all at once, his mind would begin rearranging itself, like jigsaw pieces forcefully fitting together to form a puzzle he was never able to make sense out of.

His thoughts were doses of potent psychedelics, and when he would share them with you, he would lure you in and meticulously detach you from reality.

His voice was monotone, but listening to him speak made you feel like you were floating. Every syllable, every word, lessened the earth’s gravitational pull, every sentence lifted you further off the ground.

Sometimes I would look into his eyes and see nothing but dread, and sometimes I wanted to reach into the depths of his being and drag his demons out, but they had already built a home inside of him.

When his tragedies would bleed through his body, he would collect the blood in jars and use the red to paint self-portraits, and when he would burst with anger, he would rattle the core of the earth, and everything around you trembled.

I tried to love the pain out of him, but to no avail, because it seemed like the pain had become him, and if I were to love the pain out of him, then I would love his soul away.

I am a flower, a flower that was near its last days, hanging on its last petals
Till one day he came
He came into my life and suddenly it started to rain.
Suddenly I started to regain my color and my petals and I felt beautiful.
And it was all because of him
I only heard his voice, never saw his colors.
He was so distant from me but close
His voice was like a trail and I wanted to explore it so badly, to finally thank him.
I finally worked up the courage and every step I took, I said a reason why I loved him, why I wanted to thank him, how he changed my life, for the better.
I was finally there. About to look up.
I thought he was a flower just like me.
but he was much more

He was a rose, with the reddest petals I have ever seen. He was beautiful
But along with the reddest petals, he had the biggest thorns.
Even though we were close, I still couldn't touch him.
I realized he can only be with his kind
Not just a mere flower.
But he kept insisting
Trying to water me with his kind words.
But I knew when to stop
I knew when was enough.
A rose can't be with a mere flower.
A rose is too beautiful, and the mere flower is just distant from beautiful.

but the rose kept loving the flower, as the flower walked away.

the rose saw the flower lose all its petals

The rose saw the flower lose hope

and when the flower died, so did the rose

Even in death they were different but still just as in love.

If only the flower knew the rose was just like her

A seeker

Maybe then they could've stayed together

I'm lonely.
I'll admit that.

When I was in school,
I noticed that everyone had a friend with them.

That's when the feeling hit me,
I was alone.

I have friends,
but they'd pick someone else other than me
if given the chance.

I know that I should be sad,
that I should be asking for friends,
that I should be needy.

But that's not who I am.
If I've made it this far without anyone constantly there for me,
who's to say I need one now?

I've been alone,
and I might always be.
But honestly, I have no problem with that.

Let them talk,
let them judge!
It doesn't matter unless I let it matter.

I know I should be crying,
that I should feel an emptiness,
but I don't.
And I won't.

i killed the things i miss the most
my passions
my children
my mind

i opened a box i regret the most
my troubles
my divorce
my addiction

i haven’t remembered the last time i worried
the tears in my children’s eyes
the fire spreading upon their clothing

i haven’t remembered the last time i cried
my husband running away
my house in foreclosure

i haven’t remembered the last time i kneeled
to the one who stands above me
to the one seeking my soul

So many past names
And almost given last names
Too much to ever keep track of
Who the hell are you?
Who am I supposed to become?

Too many passing glances
And familiar faces
To ever keep straight
I'm sorry, do I know you?
Do I even know myself?