In the greenest meadow,
With the clearest stream,
And the bluest sky,
There lived a lion.
His mane golden and his teeth white.
He had not yet tasted the flesh of deer.
On the other side of the meadow,
There lived a doe.
Her fur was a silken brown.
She knew not of lions.
The lion saw the doe, and was in awe.
She was clean, she was beautiful.
He wanted a taste.
He spoke to her in low, calming tones.
Speaking to her lovely lies.
He said he craved a taste of her flesh.
She fell for the lion.
The doe wanted to please the lion.
She offered him a taste.
So he tasted.
But the lion couldn't control his hunger.
He tore at her flesh.
Wounding the deer.
The green grass turned red.
The sky grew dark.
When he had enough, he got up.
He looked at her.
He growled, he hissed, he walked away.
He wanted no blame for his own doing.
The doe nursed her wounds.
And the water turned red.
She grew strong again.
Washed clean by the stream.
The grass green again.
The sky blue.
But her scars remained.
The silken fur turned ragged.
The doe had a friend.
One with much shinier fur.
One more beautiful than she had been.
One that was unable to stand on her own.
Her friend was weak.
Weary from running.
She also did not know of lions.
The doe told her of the lion.
Showed her the scars.
Her friend saw, and hated the lion.
Or so she said.
The sky grew dark again.
The lion came back.
His mane with deep red in it.
His teeth bloodstained.
The doe was wary.
The doe knew he was flesh-hungry.
Her scars ached.
And she knew.
Her friend was in danger.

It comes at night
as you lie in bed
Awake.
Every muscle is paralyzed
with fear
with terror
you can't move.

The darkness creeps across the ceiling
coming closer
hovering above you.
All you feel is fear
it encompasses every inch of you
takes your breath away.

You want to kick every muscle
scream out loud
thrash and fight.
But you cant
you cant move.

Awake
but dreaming.
You struggle to wake yourself up
to kick your legs until you can sit up
and stop the blackness from creeping over you.
But you cant
you cant move
cant cry out
cant wake up
cant make it stop.

It comes at night.
Sweet Dreams

Fresh red scars lay upon the right side of my stomach.
They weren't too large.
Weren't too deep.
12 lines that  weren't perfectly horizontal.
They let me feel.
Feel the feeling of something else than nothing.

Sore.

I cring as I place my purple tank top on.
Covering the crime that I commit more than once.
During the day I don't even remember them.
Until I place a binder against them.
They scream in pain, I wince just slightly.
Then soon welcoming the pain, yet its comfortable.

Relief.

Even though its not the right way to handle things.
Can you blame me for still wanting to feel?
My life has been a struggle for my entire life.
At first, I thought there was no other way to handle the pain.
Thought I just had to deal and let myself suffer.
But then an idea clicked in my messed up mind.

Razor.

The first time it met my skin, I was nervous.
Scared to see the blood rush down my arm and drip .
It hurt at first, my teeth clenched.
But soon the numb came.
And that's when I knew.
I had made a

Friend.

Writing poetry is a lonely thing
It looks you square in the eyes, smiling
It asks you to write alone
Even in company
When writing poetry
You are alone

And even lonelier still
It asks you
To go inside of yourself
There are things there you must find

There is a man inside my body
A boy
And they look just like me
They each hold letters
I do not know what they say
I must find them

Poetry is love you want
Is someone you want to be in love with
Poetry is a child tugging at the pant-leg of someone
You want to be in love with

Poetry is the coffee stain on long sleeve shirts
Right over the wrist
Your mother called them chocolate stains
Never blood

Poetry is my drunk fingertip stumble
My white-boy wasted
My way of loving less awkward

Poetry is someone telling you they love your poetry
Poetry is loving someone for loving your poetry
Poetry is also kissing that person

There is a man
In mirrors he might be me
We have a letter we want to give to you
But they read like a feeling

We spend hours in solitude
Finding ways to step into the daylight

Poetry is convincing you
You need a reason to step into the daylight

There are words etched into your teeth
All white
No bling
The letters change with the shape of your mouth

Smile more often
Even when you don’t want to

Poetry is trying to teach you to speak peace
with the words in your smile
To people you don’t want to speak peace to

Poetry is an angry father
Is neck bruises from belt loops
Is rug-burn from being dragged across the floor

Poetry does not love you
It simply asks you
To find space inside of yourself
And then it wants you to give it to someone else

There are people inside of you
With stories

Writing poetry is a lonely thing
Giving it away
Until no one can be a thief to your soul

That too
Is poetry