I handed you the scissors
And expected you to cut holes into my battered wings
Instead you took the napkin from the table
And carefully cut holes
Unfolding slowly
The snowflake that hid in the folds

Snowflakes over tattered wings

you are now a memory to me
and i dont know
if the thought of that

makes me or breaks me

I hate writing
Because what is on paper can be seen
What if they don’t like
When they see the real me

you like the attention
and being the center of the world
but when it comes to pointed fingers
you never let them be waved towards you
you always redirect them to someone else
because you were not made
to understand the power of a pointed finger

i stand in front of the mirror
making faces at myself

poking at my stomach
and pinching my sides

i run my fingers down my stretch marks
and my eyes trace the marks on my wrists and ankles

i am still alive
but i feel very much dead

when i look at myself in the mirror
am i seeing the real me
or an illusion