Isn’t there such a thrill
in knowing
I don’t have to listen to anyone
or do what they say
including myself?
“Stay in bed!” I say
“Lie down, sleep, and only sleep-“
and yet
here I am.

Sincerity is an abandoned relic
We are plagued by its scarcity,
today we cringe and shy away
from the bright light
of genuine authenticity

The shine of our own reflection
is too bright, we close our eyes
to the truth we see
in the eyes looking back
from the face in the mirror

We judge by our own standards
while judged by any but our own
We look past the tint in our own vision
unable to distinguish the vastness of colors
visible in unfurling new conversations:

We live for ourselves, selfishly
consumed by narcissistic perceptions
Perfecting our reputation, under other’s eyes
like a butterfly perfectly pinned under the glass

Yet why not live for ourselves,
but truly, as if
we were the only one left to judge in the world?
If we were freed from
this fear of sincerity-
wouldn’t you be happier, then?
Wouldn’t you
just become
you?

I’m suffocating
And I can feel the noose tight around my neck
Choking, gasping
I don’t recognize the hands
The skin is old, the nails *****
As if from digging out of their own grave
I reach up, and grasp
And feel the rope slipping from between my fingertips
The hands are my own
But I cannot feel
I can’t feel anything but
The bite of knife tips against my skin
Imagined, or not
I can feel it
Etching lines like
Fault lines across ceramic
I am untempered glass
On the verge, waiting to shatter
I am shattering
Shuddering, shaking
Shattered
And waiting in the silence
For when I can no longer hold my breath
The small breeze
Will blow the fragments and dust away

If left alone
when unhealed
when the wounds still ferment beneath the skin
it will boil in your blood,
flood your veins
and you will suffocate
in the aloneness

But if surrounded
once you’ve healed
once you’ve scraped out the infected tissue
And the scabs cover you, growing what is new
if you are surrounded
by infection, invasive vines and flowers
with thorns in their touch
sweet scents
tinged bitter in the air
the air you breathe
you will become poisoned
and drown also

But if you heal
And escape the grasp of uncaring hands
Oh, how you can bloom

I can hold my own hand
to pull myself out of this grave

The shovel could be yours, or mine
But I will climb out alone.