my fingers are spindles of thread, unwoven from blankets of strong women who fought harder fights than I could withstand.
my neck is a porcelain clock. engraved with wisps of words, it's cogs churning to keep my brain functioning.
my torso is an storm. lightning leaves scars acrioss the lining of my stomach, spreading out like spiderwebs, covered in dew. thunderheads boom when I walk, rattling my ribs and awakening this hummingbird heart.
my spine is a garden, blooming. daisys and forget-me-nots bloom from the soil tilled into my veterbrae.
My hamstrings are tightrope across the twin towers, quivering.
My knees are doorknobs left unturned, the room contents dusty and cobwebs string the corners.

Young and dumb.
Drugged up with good intentions.
Support systems clogged up.
We circle the drain.
we're okay with it.

When I was younger, I painted the sky.
All the blues, wispy whites, blood reds, and yellow-oranges came out of my fingers.
and I believed it was true.
The sky's light now goes out with a sigh of relief.

When I was younger, I laughed.
I laughed so hard the panels of wood in my house caught on fire, glass broke.
Now my laugh is forced and the panels look at me, disappointed, give me a one out of 10.

When I was younger, finite didn't exist.
Nothing was. There was no past tense.
There was no regrets.

When I was younger, I didn't have to fight to speak.
Whenever I opened my mouth, my parents listened with childlike intent.
Now the words I say are only on paper or typed.

When I was younger, I wanted to save people.
To reah out my hand and have it firmly grapsed back.
Now it seems I'm not worth being saved by.

I grew up and regretted it.

My voice's fine motor skills are poor.
I've developed this fumbling tic over the buttons of the spaces between my words,
unable to fasten them to meaning and sincerity
when in front of a crowd.
My grandmother would be so disappointed in the drops in my blanket of words.

dropping the stitches and the lopsided lines I weave
Unable to make a pattern and fix the holes I've made.
The nimbleness of my syllables have dwindled down to self-concious pauses with filler words.

I think I could use some practice.

I've been trying to decipher my time here.
I feel as if it'll be too short or too long or not enough
But then I look at the word courage
and have an argument with myself.
"Who's braver, those who stay, wait it out until their body says, ' ding ding soup's up. I'm off the clock.'
or those who decide when the metaphorical soup is ready."
some devour it cold
some bodies hate soup and rather would sword fight with it's stomach.
Wanting to eat, but demanding, screaming to starve.
I ask myself, is living out a whole entire life gluttonous, even the wanting for it a sin?
would I really want a second helping?
More of those lonely nights, empty eyes and emptier bottles.
Or is it just enough to fill my head up at night.
sending me to sleep with stories to tell tomorrow.


Even the calendar gets hung.
who will get ripped down first, the pages on the wall or me?
So many people ask this everyday and many chose the ladder.


a rafter and a rope.
Leaving the calendar circled red with a part of them on the day it should be taken down.