as you bleed, remember that
another’s love
can never fill you
while you pick
holes in yourself

tell me you're done
but say it to me softly
don't wanna feel the rush
of being broken-hearted

if i ever stop
to think and reflect
i'll never catch up
back to where i should be

He asked her what it's like living with anxiety.

She smiled sadly, "It's a never-ending pulse-race. Like knowing you don't want to jump off a cliff but not being able to talk yourself down from it.

Your fears take on a nebulous, unidentifiable form that tightens around your throat and incapacitates you.

There is no calm. No peace. Only the edge of a very strained thread."

Alone, broken, confused
Reliving my greatest fear
Tormented day and night
How do I sleep at night

Shattered soul
Trying to pick up the pieces
The days never end

c.m.l.

I want to write a poem
But I’m not a poet anymore
I can’t breathe words and turn them into dioramas that people look at and admire
I can barely read without getting tired of seeing words
What is going on
I could only live in words before
But now I want to live in life
Now I want to breathe crisp air
And I’m greedy for the trees
I want to go and splash in puddles
Which I’ve done before
But in a different way
Not because it’s something nice to do
But because I want to enjoy the water before it goes back up
It’ll come down again
And my moods will fall too
But I’m here and I’m looking
For anything
Anywhere
Inside my own story
That I don’t have to rely on my own pen
To find.

Mothers crawl home on all fours
and fathers crack their hammers
into the temples of the moon.

The dogs are long gone.

The children of catastrophe
flick their knives at the sun,

shuffling from ruin to ruin
in their parents’ heavy boots,

stepping over the skeletons
of buildings and hummingbirds.

The children of catastrophe whet
their blades on the skulls of childhood.

They shave their heads
and argue about the history
of chandeliers and ballrooms.

The frogs at the water’s edge
expand into dumb balloons.

Hunted by an army of hollow men,
we race toward the sound of a dog
barking at the edge of the world.

We sleep in shifts,
cursing moonlight.

In our dreams,
the horizon binds us
with a blinding flash—

your hand in mine,
our cells married
and incandescent:

each to each,
ash to ash.