tears glisten in the moonlight,
but it shines too bright.
blocking out reality,
and the sad fatality.
of my heart,
and it's broken parts.

Wicked green candle
light glows through her teeth gaps, as
she forces a smile.

my mouth is full of burning candles
and hot wax seeps from between my teeth.
my tongue knows nothing but rage and fire
and i don’t know whether to swallow this flame
and choke on the smoke until the heat burns holes in my throat,
or to spit it out
and watch everything around me burn down.

— impulse control

i do not speak like a poet.
my words are clumsy and callous
and i often trip over my own tongue.
there is no beauty to my words
or thought to my form,
and my voice does not fall soft and slow
like honey song, drizzled sweetly into willing ears.
rather it is raspy and quick-tongued,
laced with mispronounced words and oddly said accents.
my sentences race ragged and jumpy,
with capricious contours and half-finished phrases,
and i often lose my train of thought.
impulsive and unrefined,
i do not speak like a poet.

— but on paper i am a different person

she was war,
a collection of cuts and old scars,
armored in the pain of her past,
bones of ash and thorn.
blood like spilled scarlet wine
splashed across the bathroom floor,
she cried alone—
unseen,
unknown.
but for all the tears, she rose to her feet
and sat upon her barbwire throne
for these bones still ache,
this body still bleeds,
these lungs still breathe,
and this heart still beats,
still beats,
still beats.

— my heart is not a home for cowards

my wrists ache with desire and these lungs hitch
and heave with each sickening sob.
as my body begs to feel,
and my heart begs to not.

— to feel everything and nothing at once