some have skins like the bark of a tree, with names of each lover that has passed engraved in them.
some have hands like the branches of a tree, with veins showing on every little scrawny finger.
some have shoulders like the leaves of a tree, with emerald canopies that shelter souls from a thunderstorm.
some have feet like the roots of a tree, chained to the ground with their heads in the cloud.

Spring lasted especially long this week.
I
danced alongside the tall grass,
wondered about butterflies breathing the same air as me,
competed with the rays of sunshine.

But even in spring, there were storms.
I knew it would end.

So, who's next in line?
Autumn? Winter? Summer?

Winter.
It was pitchblack.
The night came too soon.
                   So I threw my ashes into the fireplace
                   and it lit up the room for a little while.

Autumn.
I saw red
eyes like autumn leaves.
Last night
                  I couldn't fall asleep,
                  so I held a candle to the devil.

Summer.
I heard myself breathe.
My palms shouldn't slip out of what I was holding on to.
                  and sweat shouldn't taste like metal.
                  I.....

I tasted metal and I SAW
RED
It watched me rearrange everything in my room
but nothing was put in place.
                   Clothes weren't the only thing that were folded
                   and these creases I wear on my skin couldn't be ironed out.

The blizzard took everything away.
It was pitchblack
I swear I saw myself in the mirror,
but I wasn't there.
                   And I swear you were there,
                   but I wasn't.

I breathed.
Tried to do so quietly.
Not wishing to leave any footprints in the sand,
                  I ended up bringing a shoe full of sand home.
                  That night,
I watched the sandcastle I build crumble into thin air.

IT WAS PITCHBLACK. Where am I?
I HEARD MYSELF BREATHE. Stop breathing.
I SAW RED. There's a hole in the wall shaped like a fist.
I HEARD MYSELF BREATHE. I can't look into your eyes.
IT WAS PITCHBLACK. Where is everyone?
I HEARD MYSELF BREATHE. I'm sorry.
I SAW RED. I saw blue too
                       I watched the tides wash the bones I used to carry
                       and the skin I used to wear
                       away every night.

Red. Pitchblack. Breathe. Pitchblack. Pitchblack. Red. Breathe. I'm sorry. It's not my fault. I'm sorry.  BREATHE. BREATHE. BREATHE.

I watched the seasons change against the sun's will.
I waited
               for the calm after a storm.

I wished for them to stop.

I do not want spring, summer,  autumn, or winter
                         Just give my skin and my bones

**back to me.

Poets seem sad to me
Because we feel more
And we hold on tight
And when we hurt, we write

Our tears fall on paper
In the form of words
Thoughts in scribbled ink
As our hearts begin to sink

Other people's pain fades
And drifts away with time
But a poet's hurt will stay
There on the tear stained page

when i was 13,
"if your friends jumped
off a cliff would you?"
was an effortless,
"no"
because when i was 13
the cliff was a tall,
intimidating
piece of land
with a neon sign that said
"impending doom"
lit up at the edge,
but now im 20
and the cliff
comes in glass bottles
and the cliff
comes in thick syringes
and the cliff
is drawn beneath
my skin
in india ink
and down below it,
i can see my home town
and i can hear the patient voices
of the kids i grew up with
that never got out,
shakily shouting
"come down here;
it's easier at the bottom"
and if im being honest
im stumbling toward it
with an alarming
lack of fear

These road signs point to where you’d be
if you weren’t kneeled over in constant apology
you tell me sometimes you can hear
Aidan’s laughter at night,
as if someone’s strung them around
street lamps like fairy lights
your lungs collapse at the mention of his name
and your chest heaves with trembling shame
but you never told anyone else about the way
guilt straddles your shoulders every morning
as it leans towards his mother’s ears screaming
ears now turned deaf with grief

You tell me about the nights so dark
you can’t tell it apart from the hollow in your chest
most days you find it too hard to breathe
because the guilt hugs you so tight
it forces itself in your lungs
where these organs can’t contain
your feeling of sin
so you keel over and ***** by the road
where you last held Aidan

There are footprints in the mud
where he was last standing
but the imprints have hardened and Aidan has grown since
there was a much colder instance
when his sister flung a picture frame at you
so it shattered and you picked up a shard
to scratch out unforgivings in the mud by the road
where you watched your best friend die

You were born with thunder rumbling from between your lips.
Your words were learned to be feared.
the promise of being trapped in the rain was too frightening for anyone to listen.

You were a flower that had begun to wilt,
covered by the shade of those towering above you,
and when they stole the last ray of light,
you learned to become your own sun.

Lightning shown in your golden-brown eyes.
Fierceness and a refusal to take any odds into consideration.
You struck hearts into beating again,
you struck minds into thinking again.

Your soul is a flood raging over hills. You are washing down every crevice of the world;
drowning and sweeping away things that will never measure to your strength.

You are a Californian wildfire.
Beautifully destructive and distinctively fearless.
You are crackling heat in valleys where thirst will never be quenched.
Don't be offended when they turn away,
some people just can't take the heat.

You have grown into a refusal to let the natural disasters inside of you sit still.
You have taken every ounce of nothingness that you felt and turned it into a brewing storm.
We will hear that thunder rolling from your lips this time.

Sonnets were written about your icy smile years before you were born.
Poets know the beauty of a powerful earthquake that could send cities crumbling,

Everyone knows the beauty of a powerful woman that can send worlds crumbling.