You could look through church windows and never find what you'd see through the stained glass of her eyes. she didn't believe in God, but she swears heaven was always, 'just one more step' away.

She spent her days trying to discover herself, and her nights trying to destroy all that she learned; the bible doesn't have a chapter about figuring out where you truly belong.

She could never understand the act of willingly falling to ones knees -to them it was a moment of respect and hope; for her it was nothing more than defeat. Clasped hands and bowed head; others wishing for good fortune, she, questioning her life.

Surrounded by people who don't say anything but what they have learned; her mind the child who hasn't learned church etiquette; screaming, crying, lost, but also, pure, accepted, and unrestrained.

She was never religious, but God, she was the kind of girl everyone prayed they'd never lose. And fell, unwillingly, to their knees for when she walked away.

NJ2016

I am breaking my
own heart just to feel something—
anything at all.

I am in constant torment
Preaching self-love and self-joy
and not needing someone to validate me
But I will throw myself under buses
into gutters and rain
for people who don't appreciate my stars
and give me dirt in return
I will let myself burn under fires
of 'yes's instead of 'no's
and repeating I love you
when I've never felt more alone

My heart beats, its steady
and rhythmic drum
But it does not beat
for me.

Before I took up poetry,
I had no way to express myself
I didn't talk to other people,
They wouldn't care about how I felt
I've always found this difficult,
Uncomfortable to speak my mind
Ever scared to make a fool of myself
Of being judged and pushed aside
That I never spoke of my worries,
Not my doubts, or my fears
I kept them buried deep inside,
And ignored them all these years..

I don't remember when I started writing,
Only when I did, I wasn't scared
My thoughts no longer caged inside,
And my poetry I shared
Before I took up poetry
I was lonely, confused, and afraid
Poetry helped me find myself,
Brush aside old habits and forget mistakes
And slowly through my writing,
I'm healing every day
Poetry can save lives
Don't believe me but I'm proof of it all the same

these winding, blind itineraries
  and their purposeful turns;
  bends on the wry pavements,

  their naming of things
awaiting the return of memory
  with an auspice, or a head with bounty,

  i am but a bamboo in
    the wind — slender gymnast
supple ground's tenement,
   or daresay honestly, a creeping into
the world with roots close to
   heartland, this poem
now, without feet and my eyes
    with surgery-precision ruptures
the softness of all things held close
   and divine like a secret,

swimmingly
   light coming in
unabashed rooms
   here now is a poem,
a homecoming.