My scars show some type of
Calculated insanity,
An organized sadness
That has the potential to eat
At the flesh of my thoughts.

My scars show some type of
Undefined insecurity,
Repetition proves this
Like science- is that all we are?

My scars do not own me
though, they speak of adolescence,
and the unbearable
hollowness that aches, a dull knife:
“The human condition”

Are we not so hopeless?
My bones cry out in objection
I should think not, they say
No, my scars do not own me, they

exist as a part of
a whole, made of bones and tissue
and something else- striving
to be heard among the clamor
of waking each morning

Something that rumbles deep
and is heard and listens when the
rain kisses my forearm-
each glorious drop is a bell
ringing deliverance

after hours my thoughts trudge through loneliness
get deeper into the abyss
dig your own grave
push yourself into that corner
cry your silent tears while people stare from behind their technology
dare to ask me if I'm okay
if you even remember to
same old sad story: sequel, spin-off, and adaptation
feelings aren't real
they are only in your head

where else would they be?

Someone once told me
to mend a broken person
breaks the mender them self

I tried to rearrange their broken heart
But as I reassembled it
The shards of glass sunk into my skin
As if it was heavily pored.

My emotions fell down like hail
on a harsh winter's day. However
I felt the rain wash over me
Sending chills through my heart
Soaking me for all eternity

No one gave me a towel
To dab away the imbibed feelings
of everything, from love to hate
to lust and lies

Someone once told me
To mend a broken person
Breaks the mender them self

I've written and rewritten
my suicide note dozens of times
and I am still not satisfied
because I can not figure out how to
politely tell you that I want to die
but that it is in no way
anyone's fault
-

a girl
       wakes up
                 eyes upon
staring at the ceiling
     finding the little spiders
              have grown and multiplied
she smiles
     such small things, such little lives

she rolls out of bed
    shuffles around to find clothes
                    in semi darkness
shoves her hair up
         out of her eyes
and into a loose pony-tail
                                   walks out the door

a girl
       wakes up
                 eyes upon
staring at the ceiling
    not noticing the little spiders
                eyes turned inwards instead
she smiles
        believing today's gonna good

she hops out of bed
    hurries around to find clothes
                    exited about the day
pulls her hair up
         looks at it, considers it
and re-does it to make it perfect
                                   skips out the door

a girl
       lays in bed
                 eyes closed
not responding to the world
     the little spiders have moved away
              grown up, gone to a better place
she's still
     quiet and cold

she's still in bed
    her mother bangs on the door
                    wondering why she's not up
opens it to tell her to hurry
         looks at her, says it again
begins to cry, runs to the form
                               sobs because she never knew