There is a name calling out
in the silence of the mind.

There is a space
where clutter occupies.

There is a creation
at the end of destruction.

There is pain,
and love,
and pain again.

A wheel of self-abuse,
the likes of which gets us high
in each and every revolution.

There is a feeling of bubbles forming from my chest
that threatens to spill from my mouth,
but instead, flowers grow out of my throat
and reach upwards to the never-ending sky.

There is no way to know how I feel,
as I do not know myself what goes on
in my body, in my head --
I am but a passenger as my form works on autopilot
interacting, recharging, moving.

There is a dull pain, sometimes --
a hollow kind of loneliness that spreads like miasma,
bone-deep and cold to the touch.
On those days I'm anchored
to the bed, to the ground.
My mind knows there is nothing keeping me down,
yet my body refuses to believe it.

There is a screaming in my head
that I wasn't aware of
until I started smoking, until
the nicotine had suddenly
muted everything going on up there.

When you live in a void of white noise,
silence is what you seek.
But there is no fixed price,
no settled equivalent on what you stand to lose
for you to gain.

That which I breathe in and exhale
That which shows itself as fug on the window panes;
Is this proof of the warmth, or the cold?

It howls in the evenings,
angry and desperate as
it whistles through buildings,
the shush of trees, thejingle of roof tile shingles,
the eery groan between the cracks.
Is this a war cry or a lullaby?

The cold bite on skin,
the thrash on limbs,
the buffeting -- upward, downward, wherever,
intent on making man fall;
Is this the trial or the sentence?

I once bought a box of fresh strawberries
from the market
I've hated strawberries all my life,
but not because of how they tasted,
how they smelled,
or how they looked.
To be honest, I've never really eaten
a strawberry before;
but I just knew I'd hate it.
People think that it was just because
I was a picky eater;
that I wasn't up for trying new things.
I hated strawberries because
people thought all girls were supposed
to like them -- their taste, their scent.
All sweet and innocent and pure and nice.
I hated how they expected me to be
confined in a pink, dainty box,
expected me to like or smell like
fresh fruits and honey,
all sugary and giggly.
So I bought a box of fresh strawberries,
put one in my mouth,
and the rest in the bin.
I still hate strawberries,
but for more reasons now.

I like to believe that I am a sunflower.
Blooming beautifully and shining with all the grace and poise of a dainty little winged fairy, flitting from petal to petal,
sun rays in my hair and tinkling laughter falling from my pointed shoes;
On these days, I am happy.
I am myself, and I feel on top of my game.

Of course, there are some days
when the sun doesn't look like it's shining;
it doesn't even feel warm.
Where, then, does the sunflower turn
on the days of clouds and rain?
Does it wilt, or close up,
spin around in circles maybe?

I like to believe that I am a sunflower.
In my imagination, sunflowers on rainy days
go on a little hike.
They pull up their roots from the earth,
and start walking in any direction they feel is right.
Sometimes they walk with friends.
Sometimes they feel better alone.
Sometimes, when the sun starts shining again,
they're not in the same field as they once were.
Sometimes they find a familiar, empty flowerbed,
and sometimes they grow in a newly tilled one.
Sometimes they're admired at by people passing by,
and sometimes they're tossed over like a sad, limp vegetable.

And that's okay.
That's okay.
People say that it's okay.
Even when it's not.
Maybe, if I think about it enough times -
it will come true.

That that's okay.
It's okay.
You're okay.
I'm okay.

I have not felt like myself in a very long time.

Instead of a human being, I feel like
a mass of molasses the color of tar,
swinging with old creaky bones
over the edge of a bed that never gets made;
where the sheets pull over the sides
and there's a dip in the middle,
like a hole that was pre-dug in the ground,
waiting for a body to fill the void.

Instead of a student, I feel like
an imposter, walking around in
shoes that are much too big,
typing in notes and little reminders
with fingers that are far too fat and fast;
every click of a button is
ten times too loud, twenty times too disturbing,
and the only thing
that's keeping my senses overloading
from my own **** noise
are my headphones, which die
far too quickly, as if it has also
given up on me.

Instead of a friend, I feel like
a nuisance -- a ratty old thing
that's clinging to whatever affection
is thrown to my general direction;
like a *****, old ragdoll that's just
collecting dust on the shelf,
but no one really wants to throw it out.
Not out of sentimental purposes;
more like they don't want to even touch it,
don't want to have anything to do with it.

Instead of an accomplishment, I feel like
a failure; because all I ever do is start a race
but give up halfway; all I ever say are
affirmatives, never following-through.
I feel like I always just
create more problems the longer I stay,
and even an act of love
rings hollow in my chest,
like the bells of an ancient, empty cathedral
in an abandoned rural town
that has preached of safety and refuge,
but bars the doors closed at the end of every service.

My mother once called me
as beautiful as the moon,
and as radiant as the stars.
But when I look up into the night,
all I can see myself in
is in the black expanse of the empty sky,
and all I want to do is disappear
into that vast nothingness.

Nowhere is better than anywhere I've been.