I used to live on Cloud Nine,
Where the cold, black darkness fades into white,
A place where love should never hurt,
And all troubles rest far out of sight.
I used to live in Truth,
Where the sweet bliss of love can never lie,
A place where the bearer of your heart
Forbids relapse and a love that can die.
But here I stand, knocked down
From my perfectly paved clouded retreat,
Betrayed by the boy who promised no pain,
And my heart is breaking in desperate defeat.

No longer am I living in full, but a living fool was made out of me.

For a split second
I remembered what it was like
To feel at home.

And with a breath,
It was gone,
Vanished with the footsteps fading down the hall.

I am my own shelter.
I am a rock.

Spilling from wrists,
Staining on carpets,
Dripping from the knife left on the edge of the table
Is the blood poured out
Of the naïve, young heart,
Before beating strongly and slowly not able.

The immensity of love
She held in her heart
Caused her to harbor so much hate.
The world she’s come to
Know and live in
Is one that leaves no desire to wait.

Reaching through darkness
Was never success.
No one and nothing reached back for her.
So she took her own hand,
Hardened her soul,
Numbed her own pain, and they didn’t implore her.

Then she took her own knife
And stared at the reflection
Of the girl she’s come to hate and heed.
Reflections of them
Lie in her eyes,
The ones she called for, but her they don’t need.

It’s tragic when someone
Dies inside,
Screaming her loudest blood-curdling scream,
When outside they see
A pretty face,
The laugh of a life not what it seems.

And when someone shows care
And forces the help,
The last of her desires is to sit and listen
To anything and everything
She knows is true,
But her soul has blackened to a glassy glisten.

Do they regret it now?
Do they want to turn time?
Do they wish they could grab the hand that reached out?
Are they happy now
That she’s gone forever,
No longer a burden, stormy love turned drought?

She took her own hand,
And she took her own heart,
And she crushed her own soul till her dying eyes faded,
And she spilled her own blood,
And she took her own life,
First inside, now out, alone and unaided.

And she took their daughter,
And she took their friend,
And she took the girl not loved anymore,
And she took their student,
And she took their sister,
And she took the girl not feeling cared for.

She doesn’t blame any of them.
They just couldn’t save her from herself.
She’s broken herself for the last time.
She’s breathing her breath for the last time.
Feel all hints of life fade from her body...

Your eyes first locked with mine when I was blind.
Your eyes watched me drag along your brother’s torturous path.
Your eyes saw the pain in my own,
But those eyes became my protection,
Gazing into them, comfort,
Healing.
One night changed the world.

Your eyes saw to it that I rise.
Over,
And over,
And over again.
Your eyes strengthened me when I couldn’t do it alone.
And when I could… those eyes were still there.
Bright,
Smiling,
Happy eyes.
Because I succeeded.

Your eyes lit up when they looked into mine
As if three words were the greatest ever invented.
I got lost in those eyes.
They saw perfection in spite of countless flaws.
They grasped my soul, the very core of my being, and made my body shiver
In the best way possible.
I fell in love with those eyes.
Warm,
Caring,
Loving eyes,
Guarding my heart better than any.

But your eyes grew sad with sorrow, speaking the unexpected.
They cringed at my unbearable shock,
And they cried with mine.
Never will I be able to free myself of that image.
Sad,
Dark,
Depressing eyes.

Once rewarding, giving the finest promise I have ever been given, your eyes loved.
But they feared.
And I have been forced to learn of my greatest enemy.
Don’t make promises.
And don’t believe in them.
They will never be kept.

Your eyes have grown cold,
Leaving me speechless.
Dead,
Lonely,
Emotionless eyes.

Who are you?
I don’t recognize these eyes.

I don't care
how many times
you reassure,
I will still think
there's something
wrong
with me.

Words are trivial.

Gentle kneading upon my bare back.
The subtle weight shift I feel
As gravity slowly lets your lips press against my shoulder.
The steady beating of my heart.
The pounding in my ears.

Your warm breath chilling my skin
In the best way.
My face buries itself in my hands.
Don’t do this.

But it doesn’t feel wrong.

Head lifting to feel us cheek to cheek.
Whispers in my ear.
You turn me over,
Forehead pressed to mine.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Why are you letting me?”
A moment of clarity
That causes hours of confusion.

I give in.

Shadows dance across the walls.
Passion, affection, lust.
Love?
The smooth sensation of our skin colliding.
Heavy breathing.
My legs wrap around your waist as you lift me.
I missed these lips.
I missed these hands.
I missed these eyes.

I can still sense it.
It won’t leave me.

Bring on the darkness.
Let the shadows dance once more.

But all I feel is a heart in my chest.
Ba-doom, ba-doom, ba-doom…

I don’t want a delicate metaphor
wrapped in porcelain echoes
of rhythm or rhyme
to describe the way I feel when
I lay myself in bed at night,
and the drummer in my chest
beats loudly with love,
but the ice in my veins
manages to melt from my eye
into the cotton fur of a cat
who wraps herself ‘round my head
night after night
‘til
(sometimes)
I can
f  i  n  a  l  l  y
escape consciousness.
A **** cat -
This is where I ask you how pathetic am I,
how unwise to unwind,
how sad is it that this is where I feel safe at night,
how can one person burst with such fulfillment each day
and still hear the “ting” of empty tin inside.
Dear God, why?
Why why,
why why why why why can’t I unscrew the bolt
that began the paradigm
that refused to subside,
that just lay itself down where my frontal lobe lies,
guarding happiness from uncontrolled growth in my mind,
and this,
this is where I unveil what’s beneath,
where I stop the poetry
and just tell you what I need.


I need a friend.

I need a friend who understands the struggle of waking up every single day to the choice between fulfillment and failure, the struggle of using every breath as a reminder to be free, to be happy, to be loved, to love, to feel. And most of all, I need a friend who understands the struggle of succeeding in doing so.

Success is lonely.

As I’m kneeling in church, eyes fixated on the crucifix above me, I realize I already have that friend. Then I realize I need more than that.

So, I have one last question, God.
What kind of Christian does that make me?

If I bleed out my truth
before I breathe out my life,
then I will have not one regret
to carry with me when I go.

Life is all about timing.
We are bombarded with epic adventures
and tales of romance
and gracious words
that are supposed to inspire,
but sometimes
all you need is to close your eyes
and listen to the white noise of life.

Soak it in.
Squeeze every muscle in your body
as though the daily knives that cut your soul
are resting their blades on your skin.
Feel the blood begin to boil
from the spark in your chest
that quickly catches fire.
Then listen to the world around you
and know that you are immensely irreplaceable.
Let go of each knife you hold,
release each joint,
and focus only on the wind
that dances through your fingers.
Feel it lift your chin to the sky
as it makes your arm into wings,
your fingers into feathers.

Open your eyes now, dear.
You are free.
Every breath you take
is either a drop in the ocean
or a splash in a puddle.
There's a difference
between living and being alive.

So imagine the possibilities,
and be them.

She smiles if you wave.
She hugs you if you lead.
She converses if you please.
She listens if you need.
Her grades don’t stray from perfect.
Her lips don’t mean to deceive.
Her hips leave them lusting.
Her morals make them grieve.
I hate her for the way she looks.
I hate all that she sees.
The perfect shape, the perfect mind,
The perfect she won’t be.
The perfect way she scrutinizes
Her every living inch,
The perfect way she battles with
Each poke and **** and pinch.
The perfect way she blocks it out,
The perfect way she bleeds,
The perfect way she chills the swollen heart,
Not which she heeds.
The perfect way she fakes it,
The carelessness and breeze,
The perfect way she keeps alone
In all her growing ease.
I hate the way she stares at me.
I hate those eyes of tin.
I hate the way they lose their sight
When ***** starts to spin.
I hate the way she knows I feel
But let her judgments be.
I hate that **** reflection
When its searing straight through me.

I lied when I said it.
A perfect façade of satisfaction.
The shelter: built.
A citadel, blocking it out,
Or, rather, a cage blocking it in.
It will not escape me,
Not yet, that is.
The truth.
Truth is I’m not.
Truth is nothing’s wrong,
But truth is nothing’s right.
Truth is no distraction survives long enough to make me forget.
(Though, that doesn’t halt my attempt.)
Truth is I’ve secluded a piece of me for no one to see,
Not even you.
Not yet, that is.
Truth is I can’t quite tell the truth,
For this requires me to tell myself.
Truth is I believe I still have strength to gain.
And truth is…
Maybe someday I’ll tell.
Not yet, that is.
Truth is I lied.
I lied when I told you
Everything’s okay.

I was there
When you first took in,
The very breath of life
But you didn’t know me.

I was there
As you grew,
But we never became friends.

I was there
When there was death,
But you stayed away.

I was there
When you had your heart shred,
But you didn’t know it.

I was there
When you fell in love
With the melody and its maker,
But you never saw me.

I was there
When you died completely
On the inside,
But you stayed cold.

I was there
When you tried to disappear,
But you hated me for not letting you.

I was there
When you loved
And when you came to life,
But you lost sight of me.

I was there
When you poisoned yourself,
But you didn’t care.

I was there
In the darkness,
But your eyes never caught my light.

I am here
Giving you every day,
Every moment.
But you’ve never seen me.

I’ve always been by your side,
And I will never leave it.
If I exist, that is.

I am here.
Where are you?

I sit often in my bed,
wishing for inspiration to melt its way from my heart
into my fingertips
which click against the keys on this machine
to form words that get jumbled in my brain,
that I may untangle their knots
and loosen their grip
just enough that the ache in my forehead subsides,
and the weight on my chest is lifted even a little.
Most of the time,
whatever reactions are supposed to happen in me,
whatever connections are supposed to form
don’t,
and I continue to ache until the numbness sets in.

I handle emotions alone.
I don’t seek attention.
I don’t want the weakness.
I don’t reach out,
because I got sick of the sting
of each slap that shouldn’t have surprised me.
I love being alone;
In fact, I crave it,
but I miss the social sense of belonging that used to balance me out.
I want to grasp a hand that is stretched out to me
for a change,
but the air is always empty.

Even as I type this
I am running out of words that explicate
the cause of the dyspnea that overwhelms me
at abrupt, random moments,
and my ability to form lucid, complete thoughts
is lost.

How do you wipe a wound that isn’t even bleeding?
How do you heal a bone that isn’t even broken?
How to you fix a muscle that isn’t even torn?

I am not fragmented.
I am not cracked.
I am not damaged,
yet something in me is still leaking,
seeking something more.

I am not standing in the darkness;
I am just waiting for this sun to shed light
on a soul that knows
when to reach out
and when to let me be.

What is this place
that I can't seem to breathe,
like all natural reflexes in my body
undo themselves,
leaving me shivering?
It is fearsomely familiar.
Is my heart still pumping?
How am I still standing?
Have I met you before?
Can you see me?

Dear Life,


For the longest time,
I’ve been complacent in this little nook I dug for myself,
a stagnant existence,
happy…
could be happier…
but happy,
and that’s what I wanted, right?
That’s what counts?
That’s what I worked towards for so long?

What’s that cliché?
If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it?
Yeah, don’t fix it.
Cover me in silence,
fill me up with good enough,
and settle if it’s so.
Who needs to strive for amazing?

You haven’t thrown me any curveballs in a while.
Maybe what I thought was healing
was just a piece of me that grew numb.
You’ve changed the plan mid-play.
Are you really trying to fail me?
Is it your goal to get into my every crevice
simply to pull out each emotion you can find
and witness what it does to me?
I’m not sure my bat is still strong enough;
it hasn’t been used in so long.
I could swing,
but I’d miss,
and I can’t handle missing any more.
I forgot what it felt like to have so much uncertainty
lodged under my fingertips,
to see one pitch after another too late
and not even realize it until a giant, blue welt
appears on my skin.
I’m terrified of your throws,
because something might shake up my world
and break me all over again.
I can’t,
I won’t
go back to that place.

Instincts scream to hide in the corner of the cage,
construct a shelter
in peace.

But,
dear Life,
my heart…
my heart tugs at my puppet strings
to grasp the bat in my hands,
walk up to the plate,
and find you face-to-face,
“because this time
maybe,
just maybe…
we’ll hear ourselves collide.”
In a barely-audible whisper,
it says,
“I think you’ve missed enough.”


Signed,
Scared & Confused

There’s a whisper in the wind tonight,
a placid serenity I don’t encounter often.
Do you hear it?
Tell me of the shadows that fill your sunsets
with ebony-hued desires,
and burn me a fire down in your soul
to fill their empty spaces.
I can’t fathom a life without the laughter
that makes my sides ache from convulsion
until I have to,
And I don’t remember what it feels like
to have this every day.
There’s a thirst in my gut that never quite quenches itself,
but, good Lord, that doesn’t keep me
from filling it with anything that might.
Listen to the words that lie chained behind my tongue,
and submerge me in the freedom I feel
when I watch our star fall asleep on the horizon,
its dreams dancing above in purple and red gowns.
Leave your lines behind your lips,
and lie with me in silence,
a silence filled with the echoes of the rustling leaves in the trees
that hold secrets of eternity.
Then watch my reaction as a faceless ghost
hums seven songs in my ear:
Don’t go. Please stay. I love you.

I have nothing to say.
At least nothing I want to say to the world.
Sometimes, I just write, hoping I find a phrase worth speaking.
This would be one of those times.
Take me away from this moment
To a place I understand or gives comfort.
I’m sick of this living purgatory
Where everything here –
Every feeling,
Every heartbeat,
Every word,
Every desire –
Contradicts itself with something else.
Just take me far away from this city,
Away from the confusion,
Away from the past,
Away from the pain I used to feel,
Away from my heart,
And let me start at a new beginning
Where the finish line isn’t flooded with blackness or blur.
Bring me beyond the horizon,
And I’ll set on this place
To rise in a new world light years away.

When your heart explodes,
and your vessels burst,
and your brain caves in,
and your muscles itch,
when your lips overflow,
and your words under-praise,
and your neurons exhaust,
and your tolerance stops,
and you catch your breath
from your latest sprint,
a failed endeavor between you
and your mind,
you realize arrogance
in every complaint
proves an embarrassing case
of losing yourself.

Things change.
People change.
Who you are today is not who you will be six months from now,
For better or for worse,
For love or for hate,
For growth or retreat,
For sin or for virtue.

But some things never change.

The glass is not empty,
Nor is it full,
Nor is it half one way or the other.

But what is this feeling?
And where is the source of what strength she has left?
She has no inhibitions
And feels liberated for the first time in months,
Yet turmoil chains her down.
Vanished, but unbroken.
Ignoring, but noticing.
Crumbled, but fully put together.
She gave you her heart.
So, be careful,
For, though it is strong,
It is also fragile.

Her glass is not empty,
Nor is it full.
It is leaking,
And she spends all her time filling it,
But the crack isn’t mending,
Isn’t patching,
Isn’t healing.
So all she can do now is fill the glass,
Stop pretending,
Stop lying with her smile,
And watch it empty at the end of the day,
Allowing her to fill it yet again when dawn awakens.

when I sleep, I
hear sounds of crashing
and war
to the steady, beating

d*** beneath my breast.
oh, the fear

you instill and the
outrage I feel
undo me.

whispers in
ash-covered bullets of sweat scream
nonsense.
thinking is death.

free me.
reach out.
our moments are painfully slow.
make up your

mind,
e**ntangling me.

Only darkness can show
silver collisions in the sky
that we like to think are specs.
Frosty foam greets the shore
with a smile and a hug.
I see nothing but the white,
but I know the waves
are soft enough to sustain me.
This thing called night can be eerie,
but I’m silently complacent.
Please don’t utter a word
so I can live in this.
Not even the sharp sand
beneath my feet
can distract the high
in which my mind
has taken refuge.
I close my eyes,
even though I don’t need to,
just to feel the wind dance
between my fingers,
under my arms,
and up my spine
until it pirouettes around my head
so many times
that the aroma of the ocean
takes me even higher.
There’s nothing I want more
than to have this more often than
once-in-a-blue-moon.
Earlier today
I carved my name in these grains,
through the damp, tired, diligent earth
that never ceases to trail behind.
I etched it ever-so-quickly,
ever-so-deeply,
with merit.
They washed me away.
They splashed my scars,
they showered my skin,
they dove into my vessels
until they could drag every piece of me
into the deep blue.
Yes,
they washed me away,
but they lifted my chains in doing so,
and here I stand in the darkness,
arms open wide,
face to the sky,
life in my chest.

This is what they call freedom.

And there's so much I want you to know that you don't believe in.
And there's so much I see that you need to see.
And I wish I could show you the brightness and talent that exudes from your being.
But I don't want to be written off with others who have said the same.
You are truly amazing and gifted.
Please believe in that;
Maybe I'm just scared to say it,
But that will never remove its truth.

I can’t build walls.
And I don’t have a switch.
So let this be.
Let this be.

Feel everything,
Yet I’m feeling nothing.
Just let this be.
Let this be.

Don’t look.
Don’t speak.
Don’t hear.
Don’t think.
Don’t yearn.
Don’t crave.
Don’t care.
Don’t cry.

Listen to the sweet, scathing sound of silence.
And don’t remember.

Just lock it up.
And let it be.
Time won’t alter anything.

I don’t believe in fate, that any soul is predestined for another.
I don’t believe in coincidence, that we subsist by some sort of chance.
I don’t believe in soul mates,
And I don’t believe in luck.
I believe in faith.

Daring divinity screams my name, and I cannot let myself escape.
Some unknown force guides my thoughts, my actions, my emotions, my desires
–My everything.

No, I don’t believe in fate.
I believe in us.

There is a plan,
And I cannot explain.
I just let it be.

I cannot flip the switch to off,
For I’m incapable of closing myself away,
Of dancing with death and absence,
Of walking with lonely and numb.

I cannot flip the switch to off,
Lest I lose myself once more.
Happiness isn’t achieved this way,
But the lying whispers of false satisfaction.

“Off” will never solve; It will only prolong.

Let me feel,
Let me bleed,
Let me fall,
Let me break,
Let me crumble,
Let me rise,
Let me fight,
And let the cycle run.
At least I know I’m living.

“Off” is the risk you take.
But I dare you to change your ways.

As you pull me close,
Carefully tighten your embrace,
Softly kiss my forehead,
And tell me I’m okay,
Tears fill my eyes,
For all I can think is
“Why is this the only place I feel safe?”

It isn’t mine.

I've come to learn
That when we gain strength,
We end up feeling weaker,
Because no longer are we leaning on the power of other people and things,
But we fight -
And we stand -
Completely alone.

The trick is whether this is good or bad.

Did you ever wonder
why you never saw me when the stars were lit,
or when black framed the crescent of an ivory echo,
and nocturnal critters sang to the sky?

Did you ever wonder
if the sparkle in my eye was actually the diamond
I secretly kept to fool those with light
that could reflect from their smile?

Did you ever wonder
why the laugh in my throat reverberated
with fallacy and fear and coercion and confusion
until my mind believed it true?

Did you ever notice
that I wasn’t really around until six months ago or so?
Do you know why?
Do you even notice it
here and there still?

Replace-ability and invisibility:
the top two qualities of an introvert.

Did you know
that I was dead,
and there’s piece I couldn’t revive,
and that piece can eat me alive,
but my power won’t let it?
Did you know
it crawls under my skin,
and the itch can be too much,
so I scratch until I bleed,
and I spill out all of me?

Sometimes,
we’re not “just tired.”
Sometimes,
socialization equals solitude.

So,
we drive home to the beat
of a soft, piano-covered ballad
on repeat
and repeat
and repeat
and repeat,
just to let the musing sink in,
until a single, meaningless, unprovoked tear
comforts our cheek
in a cozy, embracing blanket.
And when we reach home’s quiet hello,
the only solution
is to bathe in the silence,
let its aroma fill each crevice,
let it inject into our veins,
let us breathe its sweet clarity
until the world turns right-side-up.

Only then
have we filled again.
Only then
can you hear us.

I should be tired,
but all I feel
is every piano strike
as it reverberates through my ears
and dances its way into my chest
so all I can sense is the stillness in the night.
If I wasn’t driving,
my eyes would be closed
in an effort to soak in every drop of peace
before the austerity of daylight
squeezes me dry.
Tonight I wasn’t good enough for anyone.

I can’t remember a time in my life
that I have spent this night alone,
but it seems only fitting that I start the next chapter
among the best friends I’ve come to know:
music, memories, and myself.
If only there wasn’t a war
between my desire for solitude
and ache to feel loved,
I could have enjoyed the evening’s involuntary isolation a bit more.

All I ask now
is that in this moment,
one of these notes could take me on a ride
to the nearest slice of complacency
beyond this bed of uncertainty
and fill me up with a sound of belonging
that will sing me to sleep
when my head greets the pillow,
then wipe away the invisible tears
that never fell from my soon-weary eyes.

The sweet scent of his skin,
And the soft hum of his breath,
And the quick pounding I feel
With my ear upon his chest,
And the way those eyes
See far into mine,
Where I used to hide behind falsehoods.

Hold on to your hearts for dear life,
My friends,
When that life is a bumpy ride.

When gathered around a television
among close friends and random strangers,
dressed to the nines with champagne in hand,
the clock strikes midnight,
and the silver ball drops,
person after person locks lips with their love,
so I choose my victim wisely
and have not one regret.*

I left my lips on my champagne glass.

It's yet another day
for yet another year
to ban another tear
from the contours of my cheek,
And yet another fray
from yet another war
for the dagger through my core,
just wanting to be bleak.

And every day
I make myself happy.
And everyday
I swallow the weak.

Today is no different.
Here's to pressing on,
round three.

Hold my binding,
run fingers through my pages.
Title-less,
author-less,
I'm blank and ominous,
Empty
only because
my ink is invisible.

You make my insides tumble within me.
You make that lump lodge into my throat
so I can barely speak or breathe.
You make my brain turn to
a puddle of melted ice,
waiting to be vaporized into thin air.
You make my eyes go cloudy
so that I am nearly blind.
You make this cool interior implode.
You make my sanity run a marathon
so fast I'll never catch up.
You make me crazy.
And I can't decide if this is good or bad.

There's a reason I've built my walls so high.
Are you trying to break them down,
Or are you trying to break me down?

Some days
I lose myself
so deeply in my thoughts
that I find the person
I was meant to be,
instead of the person
I wanted to be,
and in those moments
I realize
I don’t have to try anymore,
that I already am,
that everything I ever wanted
is everything that would have killed me,
and a new world
suddenly fell into my lap,
even though it had been there all along,
and in that world,
I am already my best,
I am enough,
I am free,
I am appreciated,
and every piece of life
I have ever lived
has brought me to this moment,
a moment where I can just be

and continue to be.

I understand nothing
But ask nothing.
With so many words behind these lips,
I never allow them to part.
I remain silent.
But for how long can I keep this up?
And for how long can you?
Or is this just an imagination crossed with paranoia
At its best?
...or, rather, worst?
Tell me, provoke me, show me, push me, press me, look at me.
Speak.
Because words get lost in my throat,
And I don't find them until it's too late.

I can’t promise you it will get better soon.
I can’t promise you happiness.
I can’t promise it will all go away.
I can’t promise it will end.
I can’t promise you no pain.
And I can’t promise I’ll always understand.
But I can promise you that
No matter what kind of solid ***** of an exterior you carry,
I see multitudes of greatness beyond that.
I can promise you that you are worth so much more
Than the way you treat yourself.
And I can promise you that you are never,
Ever,
Alone.

You create your own happiness.
I can’t do it for you.

As I walk, I tread the sand beneath my feet,
I search the ground for shells of beauty,
And the soft sunset guides my soul
Like a single light in the darkness,
A dove spreading its wings
To the music of the water.
In this moment I feel alive,
And I’m getting ready to jump,
To dive in, to reach beyond my body
And fly the depths of the earth,
Independently.
And in this moment, I know I can,
But I realize I don’t want to.
If I need to soar above the ocean,
I’m quite capable,
But it doesn’t matter to me ultimately.
What good are these wings?
What good is total freedom
When you’re flying from your deepest cares?

The sick, sweet pit
at the bottom of my stomach -
that makes me nauseous
when my throat drops down
so I can barely speak,
no audible whisper,
the one that nudges
every desire within
to call you and spill
everything I'm made of,
every word withheld,
every story untold,
because I miss the sound
of your presence in my life -
always comes
when I'm too tired to feel.

I tried to find
the perfect words,
most poetic line,
or graceful prose
to encompass
the passion that builds me,
but in this moment
every lyric
makes the world
a solitary
cliché.

There were days
when the ice in her pupils
would burn their victim
to a mess of frostbitten limbs
among flurries of captivity
and twirling, black masks
of hatred and woe.
There were days
when her throat seemed forever blocked
by the boulder heart that arose
to choke the breath that she wished,
when she woke each morning,
would shallow itself
until frozen in time.
There were days
when the humdrum drone
of life surrounding her,
dialogues of laughter
and dances of camaraderie,
only tipped her sideways
until emptiness set itself
deep within the chaos she harbored beneath
camouflaged skin
that was cold to touch.

Take us on a journey
through the rocky rivers that will lead us
to the mind that awakened one day,
melting those eyes
into tributaries of courage.
The aroma of rain is on the horizon.
Let it wash us away into the ocean
that splashes against the beach
where her feet tread sand,
where a breeze greets
the palm trees in the distance
and finds its way through each strand of her hair
while her eyes close in remembrance of the moment.
Freedom is just past the vantage point.
Watch as she delicately forms fists in preparation
for its fight,
and hope unburies its sanctuary inside her lungs.
The bitter taste on her twisted tongue
will soon be swallowed
in sovereignty.

Bag my head,
and cut only a slit for my lungs to breathe.
Maybe purposely blinding myself
will ****** the sights that remind me.

I’m sick of “I’m sorry.”
I’m sick of “I care about you.”
I’m sick of “I love you.”
Because you’re not,
And you don’t.

And if you truly are,
Then stop being sorry,
Start growing some *****,
And make it right instead.

And if you truly do,
I don’t want to hear it.
If you do,
Then be here
When I need you the most.