poem
i speak in butterflies
a chrysalis wrapped around my tongue
caterpillars make their homes in
the caverns of my lungs.

poem
two snakes intertwined in my intestines
the hiss of hunger curls out of my ears
yellow eyes behind a yellow smile
i sleep beside the fire for the year.

poem
my blood runs thin through
burrowed veins, the ants crawl slowly,
my arteries cave, the ants crawl slowly,
i know their names.

i guess problem-solving becomes a skill when
you need it to survive. i wish i could learn
something i could use to thrive.

daisy daisy blue berry
when you touch my arm i feel
like i can carry
more than i would ever
allow myself. you're lovely and i'm
two steps too broken up
about a life i've never
broken into. used shoes and
worn shirts comfort me
more than my
choices do. asking for
peace and
happiness feels like
the opposite of what
i want it to.

hello love, hello
itchy feeling
i miss the way i feel
when i know
what i'm feeling
i get drunk on you
and don't know why
anyone needs a drink
to lose their inhibitions.
freedom is a thread away
and this needle shakes,
the person i enter when
i'm like this
feels like someone who
can't break

i scrape by with poems and songs and each of them says "there is purpose, there is love," and I hoard them as my senses ring and touch turns intangible and the music sings "you are something, God
i don't know what,
but you're something."

friendships are hard to form and easy to break.
who came up with that

i still care for you.
in a small, true way
this piece of me
is always you.

there is something
cowardly
and lonely
about becoming
brand new.

her eyes! sometimes they compare eyes to pools and oceans but her eyes were warm, calm, the serenity of a house cat sprawled in the sun and a sparkle so joyful i felt sure one minute in her life would rival the most powerful day in mine. she shone like selenite and left warmth behind where others left shadows.
spring and summer defined her equally well.

bat me across the room and act
surprised when i don't know
what to do when i get there.
girls like girls because
we tell each other the words
we wish no one had ever
told us, and each time we
internalize them they
taste sweeter. sugary soft
rejection colored blue
like her eyeshadow,
glossy lips and glitter eyelids
masking volcanic rage,
girls like girls because we all
see the cage,
we paint our bodies and its bars
with the same pomegranate
chapstick, we love glitter,
chafing bones and the sawdust
of two girls alone in a
cage, applying chapstick.

she asks the keyboard tenderly, each key
a little closer to the person
she wants to be
but farther every time she
asks for them.
how to be someone without
trying to become them first,
how to exist with someone
but not for them, how to know
when you have crossed the
line between being and
wannabeing
yeah i guess
that's
part of me
now.

roundy boundy two piercings in skin
blood's constipated and
metal tastes like it
already so
hey why can't i find where that went in?
i don't find where i am
i don't hide myself or anything but i think
myself hides when i need her. i stick knives into
tower walls to keep myself
in conversations
everyone tells me that i shouldn't have to
work so hard in conversations and
i don't i don't i
want to bleed
i like the way pain pierces itself over
and over and
over.
pain pills collect in dust and seasons
waver over the dried blood on my
ear lobes.

where do you go
when you know
you'll be blind forever?
how do you know
you are home?
is there a painting
with the confidence
to call beauty
its own?
when your eyes fog like glass,
when they become the mask;
is there a sunset that calls
the sun to rest at last?
when no color remains,
light and darkness conflate,
do your dreams become
shadows or drugs?
are they ever enough?

nikolai. oh, nikolai. have you ever looked at someone and had this strange feeling they were burning themselves to the ground? not literally, obviously, but there was just this look in his eyes, some mixture of deadness and passion so white hot I knew it was scalding him. a bad boy fantasy gone wrong--he had all the danger but none of the romantic tendencies or weaknesses. of course, he dallied in the occasional love affair, but only when he knew it would fuel his self-destruction. he was dangerous in that way--he intentionally and enthusiastically perpetuated his own disasters. more dangerous, though, was his tendency to allow his shrapnel to exceed the intended target.

eliza. truly the most harmless girl i’ve ever met, yet for some reason i’m scared of her. i think it’s her innocence. it isn’t crafted, like félise with her silk and flowers. it’s real, realer than any character or trait i’ve ever worn and somehow that gives her power. i’m afraid of her because i know that my most authentic self never emanated that power, i know i was hopeless and helpless until i put on feelings and faces that were foreign to me. i found my confidence in the dream i became, the illusion that replaced my name.

but eliza, she wore her own skin with a vibrancy i could never compete with, a subtlety i’ve never known. her words fall heavy on my ears, and when she speaks i'm transported to a church pew back home, shame crawling up the back of my neck as a red-faced pastor tells me i’m decrepit, derelict, and condemned. hers was a beauty that outshone all others. i felt insecure even in her presence.

“i am very, very alone,” she said. there was an air of desperation in the words--despair. when i looked in her eyes i saw hopelessness. “art is not a companion, or a friend. at best, it is a feeling. more often, it’s a drug.” she began to turn away.

i knew if she left now, with that, it would stay with her forever. “which part? making it, or feeling it?” she didn’t stop, and i started to walk after her.

“does it matter? you can be an addict or a dealer, but either way you’re a slave.” she let the door close behind her. I stopped walking. enslaved by art. it was romantic, really. in the fatalistic, melodramatic way all artists were.

maybe we are slaves to our art. but aren’t we all enslaved by something?

i am learning how to
make myself real
i put myself together
over and over and
each time the pieces
stay longer. is this
what it means to heal?

i draw flowers and spirals
up and down my arm and they
casually
ask if i want
tattoos.
as if permanence
isn't
terrifying.

my love is not my love
and i know somewhere in there
there's a fallacy and
the feelings i feel are in
my head, ricocheting every
which way and i'm
confused,
i'm a little leaf in
the wind
pretending
to fly.
you
are a leaf
too. are we
falling
together?
does the wind intertwine
do we fly?

im stupid and he is too!
we scale these banisters together.
together, we demoralize the
security guards
and convince them
they're cool. we are cool
like nonsensical rebellion
fueled
by curiosity.
the forbidden hallways
we make our own
beckon to
us. calling,
"we have waited years for you.
we have called,
and curiosity
has answered."

my heart is the plate untouched and the last kitten picked from the litter. the wilted wildflower and brown bird. you judge my painted feathers and detest my naked petals. leave me to find solace in the ditch when you spit me from your window as you drive.

time has melted into molasses and i
am lost in the meaninglessness
of artificial
pleasure.
every truth scrapes
my stomach like shards
of glass
in the mirror i broke
denying myself.
identity is what you
call it, what you see,
what you allow
yourself
to be.
someone told me if you
drink too much honey all
at once
you die, it clogs your throat
and you choke because air
can't get through
all the honey.
i wonder if the same is true
for molasses.
time has melted and i
hold the flame, this spoonful
of molasses
sits on my tongue
until
i forget
my name.

every place i turn i see
my own sadness staring
back at me, i know
you say you're there
behind the glass
but seeing past my reflection
feels like an impossible task.
the floor is so inviting,
i know they say
isolation is harming
but i crave it; if i could escape
the company of my own sadness
i think the mirrors
might finally break.
i know you think it's you
i'm running from but i'm just
trying to find a room where
i don't have to look up.
yes, i haven't looked you
in the eyes in a while.
sadness is a curtain
i don't know
how to
draw.

we tell
each other
"you belong to yourself"
like that is
something
to be proud of.

i am glad
to say i do not
belong
to me. i am flimsy,
ever-changing,
and insignificant.

i am proud
to say i do not
belong to you.
you are illusory,
holding a pretense
of stability
you could never defend.

i belong
to nothing
but Someone, and
i see you in flowers
and sunsets
and love.

you tell me
"i belong to you
and you to me"
like we are
something
to be proud of.

sugar
here, there
addiction is rare and
everywhere
holding your hand is
as much a need
as desire,
caffeine stings my
veins like
fire

cliche. here,
take two sips of
chamomile and be
at ease, sense the wariness
and illusion of pleasure
you force yourself to drink.
an un-addiction. is this
conviction?
someone told me beliefs are
things you hold and
convictions hold you. is
that true?

my anxiety holds me.
am i a convict
behind the bars
in my mind? i talk so
frequently
of the sentence i'm serving
i forgot jail was a place
inside me.
my reflection is my only visitor.
will you be visiting?

it's probably not okay to cry in the stairwell of a building you share with like a thousand other people. right?

someday i want to be with someone who doesn’t make me afraid to embarrass myself. i don’t really know how to get to that point in a relationship or why i need it so badly. i guess i’m afraid that no one will ever think i’m worth the work. i don’t know that i am.

no matter how hard i work i just build a bigger wall. in my effort to impress and attract i conceal everything i truly want validation for. i know validation is a bad word sometimes, i know i’m not supposed to need it--much less know i need it--but sometimes i choke on the sawdust of my own apathy and truth might be bitter but at least it has a taste.

i know your truth tastes better than mine, and maybe that makes you better than me. i’ve tried changing truths and i’ve tried pretending i don’t have any but even artificial flavoring has an aftertaste impossible to avoid.

maybe someday i won’t equate embarrassment with shame, and i won’t feel the need to change my name. shedding identities to avoid coming to terms with them is an impermanent lifestyle but it’s the only one that fits. i’m sorry sometimes i can’t see past what i need to fix.

i feel too angular for the round world we live in. i still can't figure out the difference between an inferiority and superiority complex, to me they look the same, and every step i take in my broken shoes feels like misspelling my own name. my fingers feel the wrong size but they're purple now so i guess that makes them better. i'm not better but i'm better at being worse. the words i write have lost their mystery. fitting myself between the lines on a page means paper-thin has become my identity. is this happiness? am i at ease, lying flat beneath a sheet of emptiness with pencil pressing into me?

every time i say it out loud it becomes less
real, less of a big
deal. i don't know if this is what coping feels like
or if i am trivializing myself. i think
some things aren't meant to be said, but i
desperately want to be heard.
when broken orchestras turn to whispers,
do you listen? do you see instruments
behind my words?

i guess my whole life runs on these feedback loops, constantly dependent on the words i receive from you. everything good you've ever said to me rings softly in my head like my grandmother's wind chimes. your insults are alarms beside my bed.

i wish i was deaf. deaf to your loves and dislikes, the way your eyes look before i change myself to fit your type. maybe this one i'll get right. another half second and we're there, i am everything you want me to be; nothing more and nothing deep, the words that spill from my teeth fall right off me. i claim my memory has always been this bad and it's not a lie, but the truth is i can't remember what's real because i'm lying all the time.

but you know this already, you see me, you recognize the flaws in other people so clearly that even the reflection of personified perfection gave you displeasure.

i'm sorry i made myself into someone you dislike.
i don't know how to unmake myself.

my mental health is a balance beam i keep forgetting i'm standing on.
sometimes it feels like it's standing on me.
i balance perfectly for a moment and suddenly i lose the discipline that got me there. i wish i could spend a few moments enjoying the peace i fight for. uphill battles are always difficult;
why does mine have to be invisible too?

depression is back like a prison sentence i forgot i was serving.
freedom felt like a vacation instead of a destination and
summer ended months ago.
there is so much more weight than there used to be but
there is also nothing there and i don't know
how to explain how much slower i'm walking.
i lie more, cry more, sit alone inside more and
i'm left wishing i could go home but
a little voice inside me says
you are.

and maybe i'm stupid or dumb but i never craved ******* love i just wanted someone to fall back on.

romance is lovely but butterflies are overrated.
i just want to laugh and feel at home.

maybe the key was not something i had to look for,
but something that found me.

i’m realizing freedom is in reach and it always has been. i don’t have to change the things around me or inside me. nurturing gratefulness and peace and love has never been easier or more rewarding. i'm remembering the reasons i gave myself away in the first place and they seem silly now. the loneliness i associated with myself was always a lie—my independence and strength lack nothing but the things i never needed in the first place.

a sort of desperation rises from the pit in my stomach and my hand darts out to catch her as she turns. “liza, i--”

“no!” she yanks away. “you can’t just come back here like this.” she looks to the side, looking at anything but me. “i can’t handle this, nick,” she whispers. “i can’t handle you.” her eyes are shining when they finally meet mine. “you and i, we’re too much. i can’t think about anything when i’m with you, and you,” she trails off and takes another step towards the door. “you never think at all.”

you say it is a "noble thing" to "be the same person to everyone" as if that is a choice i know how to make. you criticize my defense mechanisms unaware you activate them in doing so. don't you understand your wise and less than well-intentioned words perpetuate the behavior you claim to hate? i don't know how to stop changing without changing to do so.

i guess i am doomed to displease you. my mistake.

i am not the victim of my circumstance i am its
creator.
you feel that i hide myself but if i do
i forget where.
at this point any word that comes
from my mouth feels half-formed.
i don't think
i can be the glue
to fix this one.
you prefer me broken.

friendships are gardens and i make bouquets

he said i make people feel special.
i said i'd heard that before.

vulnerability isn't openness,
it's generosity.
you aren't showing yourself to others
you're giving parts away to them.

i asked you to share yourself and
you told me there wasn't
time
or trust
and i said if we don't make it,
there never will be

i am going to student counseling and so far it is a dream! by that i mean i haven't signed up yet.

i’m looking around and realizing slowly that i am boring. for all my pride and perfectionistic tendencies, my life became everything except the things i truly wanted. i have the safety, the reputation, the social circle—but where is my art? i've spent so long becoming someone, i forgot everything i wanted to create. after all, it's only the things outside of ourselves that outlive us.

“she sees the world in shades of red,” he muses. i’m not sure what he means, but i see the fascination in his eyes when he looks at her. or was it desire?

i open my mouth impulsively. “do you love her?”

he laughs softly and turns to look at me. “do you always ask questions to which you already know the answer?” there is a curiosity in his eyes when he looks at me, not in a she’s mysterious and lovely type of way, but rather in a she is nothing if not strange and unpredictable. i could wish it were the former, but i am more than content to simply keep him on his toes.

i look back at audessa, in all her bewildering beauty and rose tones, and for the first time feel no envy. “i wonder how intimate one must be with pain,” i murmur, “to wear it so beautifully.”

his smile falters ever so slightly as he glances back at audessa. “very intimate indeed.”

someone once told you that your bitterness was like dark chocolate,
a delicacy, something unusual and rich and exquisite.
i'm here to tell you that even the bitterest of chocolate is sweet
compared to you.

my perpetual discontent has eaten me alive for the last time. the hours i spend alone and wondering leave a burning sensation in my eyes and my throat and i wish there was another way to feel desirable and stop feeling the need to compete.  i wish i felt complete.

it is one thing to be seen and wanted and entirely another to be known and loved.

“people used to describe me as innocent,” she said, gazing unaffectedly at her reflection. “i always thought that was bad. i tried to convince them otherwise.” she paused, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. “these days i’d do anything for people to look at me like that.”

“truthfully, i'm not sure I ever loved him,” she says. i can see the glint of tears in her eyes, but it isn’t sadness as much as it is shame. she looks away. “but god, i loved the way he looked at me.”

apology... accepted.
how is it i am meant to return fire with
a smile
i take every blow with the grace
i could never find in you.
do you rip kindness out of me
for the hell of it
or because you can't find
your own?