you, my dear, are absolutely insane
dreadfully bold and clicking your heels,
waltzing through struggle and skating on water.
your madness is alluring,
your strength terrifying.
you taste like wine and smell like thunder
i think you most certainly grew wings
last summer
         because
                you're
                      soaring.

*(a.m.c.)

i am my own worst critic
writing rave reviews that no one will read
about my imperfections
and my failures.
i am salt and gamma rays and cancer cells,
downgrading and shredding myself
like paper.
using my nails as sandpaper,
i scrape until i'm clean
until the filth i feel around my heart
has eroded.
yesterday i gave myself two out of five stars,
the day before that only one.
when will i grasp that i am five thousand golden stars
i am ocean and cloud and mist,
mountains to explore and skies to fly.
i am a created individual
a masterpiece in a beautiful museum.
i belong on the king's chair
and on the farthest side of the moon.

*(a.m.c.)

You move closer to me like we're two tectonic plates
But I am Antarctica; frozen and endlessly distancing myself from you
And the sun.
You are Africa; cracked and sweltering
We are so far apart and you think you can understand me;
You can't read me like the atlas on your bookshelf;
There are no roadmaps to understand my brain.

*(a.m.c.)

sometimes pain is easier than vulnerability;
than weakness.
it's easier to pour alcohol into your open wounds
than to allow someone to stitch you up,
anesthetized.

*(a.m.c.)

Do not stretch your fingers in my direction;
I am not your ******* or your heroine;
I am no drug to be addicted to.
My body is bruised and I am bent out of shape;
My ankles are all ninety degree angles;
And my knuckles are caked in golden hues.
The callouses on my heels are peeling;
And your spitfire attitude is exhausting.
"Simmer down, firecracker;
You lionhearted girl."
I'm flying at the speed of light;
I am going to crash, a beaten down piñata;
And nobody will pick up the pieces.

Simmer down, firecracker.
I'll simmer down when I'm dead.

*(a.m.c.)

do you think that astronauts get homesick and claustrophobic
or do they never miss their brick wall houses because home is always in sight
maybe they don't feel closed in because they are in the most open area
i am afraid to explore the galaxy
because i don't like to be put into a box
but isn't space travel breaking out of that box anyway

do you think that firefighters are afraid of fire
or do they breathe it in like oxygen
if they get so used to being warm
can they still survive the cold
maybe there's liquid fire in their veins
maybe they're unable to get burnt

do you think that the dreams we have as kids
are always ingrained in our spines
do we ever truly forget the things we wanted
when we were six years old
is there really any point
to our hopscotch romances
and fears of monsters under our beds
because even now
we still run to our sheets after the lights turn off

*(a.m.c.)

I see you every day but I never know how you're doing
in the fleeting moment when your eyes met mine,
I fail to see that they don't glimmer with happiness to see me anymore
just a mirage that has been fooling me all this while
so it's funny the way it tickles when I realise
you're slipping away through my fingers
a sandstorm I created with my own hands that I have no control of
and I hate that when I ball up my fist, I feel like I'm suffocating you
in the end I chose to let you go and leave the remaining grains of sand
to be a memoir of your existence.

Why do I feel like it's a joke when I reminisce us
why do I allow myself to be your puppet
why do I fall apart at the thought of you
when I once let you be the reason for my confidence
but I want to laugh so hard at where we are now-
you look at me in the eyes as if I don't know what the hell I'm doing
and it's stupid because I'm letting you go for the final time
after all that I've done for you
after all that you've done to me
because I'm tired of the same punch line.

I compare you to so many things you're not
like the sun peeking through my window when
I wake up on the right side of the bed
like the bliss of having 2 classes in a day
and all this is funny because now, you're more like
the scorching 1 p.m. heat when I'm walking back to my dorm from campus,
the surge of frustration and anger pumping through my veins after class
because I'm hot-tempered and short-circuited all in one
and I let you explore which of my buttons to push;
your fingertips left me with bruises.


Even though I loved you, it's not ******* funny how much I hate you now.

i’m sorry your love does not fit into my junk mail
and that i will not become a hoarder for you
you say you’re disgusting
but i think you’ve rubbed yourself raw against my skin
until your bones have become protruding branches from your body
the blood that used to circulate through me
has now turned into sand
you punctured my lungs and i started leaking beaches
there are no sandcastles, just chunks of broken seaglass
just pebbles and bugs and dirt
you can’t shield me from the sun, i’ve already been burnt
so now when people step on me
i burn back

*(a.m.c.)

I am as hard as a diamond,
my edges are cut sharp into cubical quartz.
I harden and I process; you can strike me against a rock
and I will not shatter.
I don't shine like a diamond, I'm as dull as an old razor blade;
the remnants of sharpness are there
but who wants to shave with an old razor blade.

My dandelion hair flows with the breeze,
and the salty sweat from my head
makes the fragrance drift
like tentacles into the air.

I sit in corners and sift my brain,
searching for gold that is not there,
but constantly thinking and thinking and thinking;
I go crazy and turn into liquid,
I am the ocean turning and the high tide crashing into the shore.
I drift until I'm calm,
until I'm a rainbow fish in the sea,
swimming under sail boats and sea gulls
and wrinkled fishermen upset with their love lives.

My hands are question marks,
punctuation that I cannot answer, I cannot understand.
My toes curl and I cringe as I remember who I am,
the person that cannot be saved
or brought in with a lasso around my neck.

I am a half-finished metaphor and your deja vu,
you must be a sorcerer if you can make me love
like the old-fashioned movie screen.
My voice is raspy from the attempts at screaming my own name
in order to hear something,
to feel something in this empty cavity of a body.

I will dye my hair aquamarine and magenta
and all the colors with the fancy names,
before I make up my mind to understand anyone else.
I will fold myself in like a thousand paper cranes,
and paper cranes do not fly.
I will write on the walls of my insides that I do not need anyone,
until my brain memorizes my own handwriting.

*(a.m.c.)