Lost my way in a rainstorm.
No hope, of getting home.
None of which there is anymore
I am drained from the streets.

Like the flurries that dance on
Your eyelashes. Chills your breath
And shakes your abdomen.
Sun beats, and heats my frost away.

I am a silent voice in a quiet room.
Eager to hear the words form.
To delay the truth, I disappear
To find a way to keep them warm.

Fallen leaves, scattered on the
Pavement. Autumn mess,
Breezes flow through thin clothes.
Tough hands rake up my damp blades.

Seasons flee and blend,
Like watercolor.  Making shapes,
Making images, you've never seen before.

And beyond the disastrous beauty,
Lies a smudge of error, you've never
Seen. But from a wrong motion of
An amateur artist.
Lies the imagery of me.

With shaken hands,
she reaches up with a wand in defeat.
Performing magic on herself,
Artifically covering what she wants to hide.

The blemishes, the mistakes
The hurt, she has felt.
The tear stains, quite possibly.
The facade does not mirror the interior.

The mascaras flakes off her lashes,
When she places more than she should.
But her hands shake too much, to stop.
All of it, she wanted to cover.

She hears the voices,
Telling her to stop, telling her to go on.
She does not hear them,
The pounding pain in her heart silences them all.

She continues, then it gets quiet.
But she still carries on.
Shattered breath, love that had left.
The tears drag the culprit down her cheeks.

She drops the wand,
All is gone.
But pain shall always prosper,
It shall always live on.

Through the quiet, yet labored breaths
A voice has returned,
The same voice has returned.
Asking her why she hides what she is.

She says,
You are the reason to start.
And you are the reason to stop.
What shall I do then?

You tell me yes,
then it changes to no.
Acceptance, than denial.
Back and forth again,
Swaying like a swing.

Whether up or down,
I am always left.
With this pain,
So how must I cope?

Split response ring through her ears,
Telling what to do.
Telling her things she does not want to hear.
So she hides, with hatred pouring down her face.

I live in a world,
That hates me. But loves me.
I am who I am by this world.
You are my world.

you think they get it,
and they try to get it,
and all the pieces you allowed
to slice into your palms
for so long
shatter to the ground,
and they help you
sweep them out into the backyard.
but they begin to forget,
they forget to wipe their shoes off
at the backdoor
and they trail your pieces
back into the kitchen.
they continue to forget,
they forget that those were
once pieces of you
and not eggshells
that they must tiptoe on,
pieces that still shatter
under minimal pressure.
and then they forget altogether,
they forget the way
your body curved in on itself
and the way sobs wracked
up your spine and across your ribs,
like a fervent storm
slamming into the base of
a teetering tree.
they forget the way
you were unresponsive
for forty five minutes,
staring blankly out farther than
your weakened eyesight
could perceive.
they forget the way
you eye steak knifes
like exit ramps off of
long highways
and the way
your gnarled nails
press crescents
into your palms
until stars flash across your vision.
they forget these things,
and the soles of their shoes
splinter those blood soaked
pieces like fractured glass,
and they dig deeper
into your palms this time
when you have to pick them up alone.