Poetry sits like a cat on my chest
It purrs at me,
Licking the tips of my fingers
Pressing its soft beating belly to mine
I used to have to cajole it up here

But I'm so mean to it tonight  

I do not tap its ears or rub its back
Too tired now to plait its fur
And call its affection pretty
But I lie quite still and I try to forget
I'd rather shove it off and have a cigarette.

Thats the thing about poetry,
you think im talking about a
broken heart,
when really,
Im talking about a broken
world.

i'm clean, i tell them
they smile
they tell me they're proud
they tell me that i'm a fighter

but when i say i'm clean
it implies that the rest of me has always been
*****

that the girl with faded scars
and an empty heart
and a full head
was filthy

i admit
my life has become an
endless blur of days
and nights
conversation i never had
and poems i have yet the strength to write.

Blank piece of lined paper
Is who I am
Im just blank

Whenever I think of happiness, I think of sunflowers.
The funny thing is, I don’t even like sunflowers.
They’re obnoxious.
Loud.
Vain.
They are tall. Stretching to the sun, selfish.
They are bright. Blinding all who look at them.

But they are unapologetic.
They love. They are love.
They live their life.
They are confident.
They are everything I need to be.
They are happiness.