There is a strange
Tingly sensation
In my stomach
When you are near
And when you speak to me
Or touch me
A sensation often described as butterflies
But they are not pure enough
To be butterflies
Because I know you don't feel them as I do
So they are moths
Moths
Because they are crowding your light
Moths in my stomach
Flying up
And up
And up
Through my windpipe
Choking me
And trying to reach you
And your blinding
Fluorescent light

Everyday I say the right words,
the words they want to hear.
And everyday I act the right way,
the way they always want me to be.
And they say I'm a good person.

But every night before I sleep,
I ask myself "What am I?"

I'm not okay... But it's okay

Because when I put that blunt to my lips I'm okay

And when I put that blade to my wrist I'm okay

because when she was young,

people would ask her

"what superpower,

do you wish for?"

so without any hesitation

she replied "invisibility."

and then,

and then she grew up realising

it came true.

I SLAMMED THE DOOR SO HARD, THAT IT COULD HAVE FALLEN OFF IT'S HINGES,
THE SAME WAY I COLLAPSE TO MY KNEES SOMETIMES.
I SLAMMED IT WITH THE KIND OF FORCE THAT IT  TAKES ME TO LOVE, AND GOD KNOWS I LOVE WITH THE POWER OF EARTHQUAKES AND TORNADOS COMBINED.

Sometimes
Things build up and get knocked down
Sometimes
I can't hold on to the cliff
My hands slip off
and I look at the water below
Sometimes the world looks too tough
The dirt is frozen
And the shovel won't go through
I try to hang on when it
gets too difficult
But sometimes I
go over the edge
My fingertips are slathered
in the butter that fills me with self-hatred
And fear
Fear is a lion
threatens to swallow me whole
bares its teeth and looks me in the eye
I run in every direction
but he's always there
And I can't get free

Sometimes
The world is too much
But I stand strong
And bury my feet-
just my feet-
in the ground and
stand
up
tall

Soft-littered is the new-year’s lambing fold,
And in the hollowed haystack at its side
The shepherd lies o’ night now, wakeful-eyed
At the ewes’ travailing call through the dark cold.
The young rooks cheep ’mid the thick caw o’ the old:
And near unpeopled stream-sides, on the ground,
By her Spring cry the moorhen’s nest is found,
Where the drained flood-lands flaunt their marigold.

Chill are the gusts to which the pastures cower,
And chill the current where the young reeds stand
As green and close as the young wheat on land
Yet here the cuckoo and cuckoo-flower
Plight to the heart Spring’s perfect imminent hour
Whose breath shall soothe you like your dear one’s hand.

It began one dim Saturday morning:
I was the lost pilgrim around,
He was the most dignified luminary.

He turned out to be my stockholm syndrome
The closest thing I had to a light

We used to look around
Back then
We wanted to see the whole world
We wanted it all.

One morning
One sirenic morning I will always despise
We decided to look around too much
Down the street there was some goddess
She was gracious
It was nothing- yet not so pointless

From that moment on
Our string twisted
The edges grew distant

And then it happened

Oh no!

He stumbled upon the *****
Alas, that goddess who wasn't anything.
The air
It was sharp, so excruciating

The next day
I thought my system had broken
I thought my chest had burst into flames
(But I was actually overreacting a little.)

But still he is in my thoughts
I think
About how it all changed that a.m.

I am letting hope blaze

My eyes... Ouch!
When I think of that far-flung dream
The luminary and myself.