I don't trust myself these days.
From one moment to the next,
     I don't know how I might feel
     or what I might do.

Who am I?
Who am I to judge, to look,
     to pass by?

Where can I fit in?
     Where can I stand,
     where can I go
     to find

A flock of butterflies
and a swarm of otters.
Urchins and clams, and maybe a mountain goat.

Where can I stand in this spectrum?
What color am I?

There's an ambient sound in the light of this sill, this wooden panel of glass and appreciation of architecture and planning and the lack thereof. There's a scent to the air which is like somebody wants to care, but just doesn't. A crow sits.

There are rusty tools in the shed and rotting wood on every building. Dead leaves on all grounds. Silent fires. Silent animals and corpses.
Silent golden jewelry sitting in a drawer, waiting for it's half life.

The man with blonde hair is new. So is his blood and sweat. Things are changing.
He's running for his life.

He walks with no extraordinary gait,
No abnormal actions,
No external signs.

His steps sound human.
They are.

His voice sounds human.
It is.

So why does he hate himself.
Why do the charred hands within his chest scratch at the clay doll he calls a heart.
Why does he pick away at the chipping layer of lies and truths and in-betweens which coat his insides with a yellow paint.
Why does he pressure the unpressurable.
Why does he push every boundary but one.
Why is he the bad guy.

Why is his hero absent.
Where is he.

Burn me,
With acid.

Burn me
Alive.

pacing around my bed at night
and leaving paths
through the back of my head
they are always there
just out of sight
ever at the corner of my eye
fleeting glimpses of greasy
black slinking behind me
tracking me through
the halls of my school
and the edges of my mind

a teddy bear is all that stands
between me and them
these things more real
than the people shooting me
worried glances

when i close my eyes
they are still there
red glowing eyes
yellow fangs

maybe if i hold tighter to my
teddy bear the world
will fall back into place

a blank world
          surrounded

by crayon scribblings
and a beaming sky
but
          where
is—

green
          orange
          blue
                    purple
red
                    yellow

—a bright sign and
          flashing
neon

pointing
          showing nothing
          but
submission

          only

shackled wind

The wind floats through my
fingers, tickling my sticky skin.
My children fall to
grow up strong or
become fodder for the
small, nimble creatures
that scramble up and down
the length of me,
my family, and friends.

The air soon turns cold
and frozen water falls from
the sky. My friends lose
their green and turn
the color of fire, but I
stay the same, even as
the biting cold shakes
their shivering skeletons.

Sometimes hairless bears
meander through our
home, making funny
noises far less pleasant
than that of our bright
winged friends that
sing jubilant phrases from
high atop our arms.

I wonder what they see,
those graceful spirits that
glide through the air
and clouds above. I
wish I were as free as
they; with wings to take
me far up towards the sun.