You can’t eat money.
Not when every river has dried up. Not when every tree has burned, its ashes coating the sky—when our children think it’s snow.
Not when the world is too hot to inhabit. When our scarred bodies bear the marks of explosions nearby.
You can’t eat money.
Not when our teeth have fallen from the radiation.
Not when our fingers are gone, our brains decimated—our regret the only thought we have left:
How did we let this happen?

Stupidity comes in all shapes and forms.
But the most stupid of all, is he who refuses to be aware— simply because they think the fact of it to be inherently stupid.

My only crime was to have been born a woman.
a crime with no trial, no verdict, just sentence.
The world does not break us all at once;
it whittles, peels, pares us down
until we fit the hollow it has carved.

They say we are too much.
Too loud, too soft, too sharp, too small.
A contradiction they built,
then condemned for its shape.

We fold ourselves into corners,
tuck our rage beneath our tongues,
wrap our worth in apologies
and call it survival.
That is not living— it is simply existing.

But we are not ghosts.
Not echoes of something lesser.
We are steel spun fine,
fire woven into silk—
soft does not mean breakable.

We are here.
We have always been here.

And we are not leaving quietly.

who am I without empathy?
a soulless husk, drifting through life,
whispering passing lies into the void of wind, wandering into the ears of those who are vulnerable.
a manipulative animal that doesn’t break for others in their timeless needs for help.
a sinister darkness, that prays on the downfall of those weak, unfortunate souls.
what would I be?

I think it’s time I go.
Where I take all my bearings and swallow them.
I take every ounce of me and throw it away.
I consume every pill, slice every ridge in my skin.
I think it’s time to break free.
To leave this earth, and to go some place I’m not quite sure of.
I’m not quite sure of where I’ll go, or who I’ll be after.
Perhaps I’ll wonder aimlessly in pursuit of coming back.
Or maybe I won’t want to come back.
You will forget me soon.
I think it’s time I go.

Years ago I knew a girl.
She was small, and timid— and believed cleverness and friendship would solve everything.
She believed that good would prevail bad— because that’s how the fairytales always went.
There was always some virtuous ending.
Some righteous belief.
Lately, it doesn’t seem so.
Lately, I’m noticing that it was all wishful thinking.
Good will not always prevail.
Now is not the time to relegate to oblivion— or to let one’s mind wonder.
Violence is never stomped down with peace.
Now is the time to listen— to stand up, and let your voice be heard.
A message I wish the world to hear.

Gone are the days of desolation and stillness.
Gone are the days of hostility, and murdering other people’s thoughts for my own.
Gone are the days of the hatred.
Gone is me.
The me that is loathing, and jealous.
The me, who leers at the sun.
Who smiles in the downfall of those I despise.
Me who won’t care to listen to conflicting arguments.
The me who shoves words down the throats of unsuspecting sufferers,
judging those who seem to be more certain about themselves.
I’m gone.
It’ll all be gone.

"Anywhere but here," I whisper as I lean over the railing. "Anywhere but here," I repeat like a prayer, a tuneful hymn. Maybe the hymn is the icy wind whipping against my face—whispering words greater than I can believe. The salty tears freeze as they plummet, shattering into pieces—my heart among them.
Down, down, down.
"Anywhere but here." The sentence plagues my mind, twisting and contorting. I turn it over and over in my head as I consider my chances: certain death or major injuries? To live or not to live—why must I ponder such an unjust question?
Why is it even a consideration?

The world is cruel, but I?

I am far crueler.

The grass is brown, and the skies are dark.
The wind is crisp and icy; the people are frowning.
That house is on fire, and the fire department is nowhere near.
The pages are burning, and we’re forgetting history.
Lies are believable when they have pretty lips—but the teeth are sharp, and the tongue is rotting.
The paint is peeling, and the floor is falling beneath us.
Yet everyone has filters applied to their realities—versions in which they tell themselves everything is fine.
To ignore everything will make it okay.
And I wonder—when the last filter fades, will they still believe it?

you come and go
through my mind
a passing murmur
of something sinister
death so sweet
whispering in my ear
manipulations that cannot
be unheard
and I plunge.

No one sees me the way I see myself. And that’s very beautiful because it’s something I can harbor all to myself— no one can ever see me the way I do— simply because they’re not me.
It’s something I can call my own, myself, my own identity.
Wholly and unequivocally me.
And no one can change what I’ve decided to make of myself.
What opinions I’ve declared my own, how I free up my heart for just anyone.
How I believe anyone can change. How I split my heart open, even for a dying ant on the pavement.
And I weep for it.
And I weep for you.
And I weep for the world.
For there is no greater good than feeling everything and nothing all at once.
For weeping even for the unfortunate,
the unlucky,
the undeserved,
is inherently me.
And I’ve decided that for myself.
Maybe you couldn’t see it the same way.

War is never-ending.
It doesn’t forgive anyone— not even those who created it.
It will enslave every piece of your soul, strip shards out one-by-one.
It will leave you as a soulless husk in the aftermath of it all.
Your eyes widened.
Your breath constantly short.
Your head always turned over your shoulder.
Watching.
Waiting.
You weren’t forgiven for fighting in something you never even asked to be apart of.
War doesn’t stop for anyone.

I will never know hunger as they do.
That searing pain, so earth-shattering, you’d **** a thousand men for a plate of food sitting at the end of a hall.
Holding your own abdomen down to block out the feeling as you try and rest your eyes at night.
That desperation— that could tear limbs off of innocent children.
But how could I know?
I’ve never stepped foot in that desperation.
I’ve never had to wonder when my next meal would be, if I’d even eat that day, or the next.
An abundance of life in this world, and yet some don’t even have the liberty to feed themselves.
A feeling that is too guilty to think about.

I wonder who sewed my clothes,
who made my shoes, who carved these walls that surround me—
carved my face, the sharp planes and the soft ones.
Who made me fierce, yet left me with a bleeding heart.
Who decided I was to be anything at all— and why it chose to shape the world as such.
Why this universe is one I am forced to grace—and taint.
One that, perhaps, taints me in return.
How these walls I call my skull are truly me,
and not some elaborate illusion.
I am but a piece of meat, a floating brain bumping around in a soup of blood, muscles, and bones.

What even am I?
And who are you?

Give me the key.
The key to your heart.
That desolate place you hold so dearly to yourself.
It seems empty to others, but I feel as though it is too full.
Full enough for you to feel every little thing ever, yet you hide it.
Why can’t you let me in?

At the end of the day, you settle down and glance around.
You think endlessly.
You realize that you have not one person to call to.
Not one person who cares enough about the singular organism that is you.
Not your mother, your father, your brother.
Not your friends who only pretend to like you for the sake of it— only to talk behind your back.
My darling, who is really true to me?
Myself?
Not even I can trust myself.
What shall I do?
Shall I end it here without a second thought?
Or should I write?
My love, should I **** my self or sink onto the endless delusions of my own mind, splattered on paper?

Hope in this world drips out of the barrel of a gun.
Deafening our ears are the devastation of bullets— the screams of loss and hunger.
Our eyes, shielded from what we once imagined our innocence.
Seven shots, six dead.
One right through my heart.

Life is an unthinkable impossibility.
It’s all hopes, and dreams, and wishes blended into one fantastical sentence.
Strung together with punctuation, and stutters, and hesitation.
Final exclamations and declarations of pure love and hatred—whispered through ravaged minds and crazed hearts.
This, I think, is how it was meant to be.