We fight over strawberry milk
Ripping waxed white paper
And now I’m drowning in that pastel cream
Always drowning
The sickness covering me
Covering everything, sticking to the walls, the floor, the ceiling, my hands
anxiety living in my blood, staining the sink, bathroom tile, caught in the shower drain, hiding in the ditch.  The world is swimming in those ocean eyes, watering because the body knows its demise. The world is drowning in acrid breath
Perfection soaked stomach acid, throw up black paint to match your state of mind.
I thought it was going to be pretty
Like the shade of cherry blossoms
the shade of strawberry milk
Not bright red blood

there is a girl who wanders. who finds the beauty in all and finds herself in it as well. in every upturned rock and flower picked, a bit of her own is discovered as well, a new color, a smell, another layer of an endless aura. she would pull apart the stems of plants to see the water pour out, and lick the sweet of honeysuckles until she was sick to her stomach. everyone knew her as the girl who wanders, the girl whose head was stuck in the clouds, so much so that she memorized them, counted the blades of grass and watched the dew appear every morning. she was one with nature as it was with her...
until the day she began to wonder.

the facts she once knew of the earth began to turn into questions; into 'how' and 'why's, and the beauty no longer appeared, it now existed. she was searching instead of finding, feeling lost as she reeled through the forest. she thought, "why do the baby birds fall from the trees and never return? who would let such a thing occur?". every turn and twist morphed into something unanswered, her mind became filled with thoughts. it became so full, there were no flowers to grow anymore and nothing new to flourish them. now, when she pulled apart the stem of the plant, she would complain of the stickiness of it, how it contaminated her fingers. she would glare at how the dew dampened her new shoes, how the rocks made scrapes on her feet and the smell of pollen would make her sneeze. she felt grown up, but at the same time, empty (although filled with questions). every day was a repeat of the last, something always new to ruminate over and nothing to give her peace of mind.
nothing was fun anymore.
it all grew a bit too tiring for her.

on some days, the earth would try to remind her, to bring her back to it, but it was always unsuccessful. it would whisper in her ear, "please come back, we miss you..." but the coldness of the wind startled her and she hissed at the way it ruffled up her hair. there was no point, she wasn't the same girl anymore. instead of being filled with wander and discovery, she was bitter and empty. she went through life as if she was on the outside of it, looking in, barely able to reminisce on her old ways, only jealousy and sadness accompanied those thoughts...
ghost thoughts...she would call them. transparent and far away, something she could hardly imagine were real.

she would grow apart from the things she loved, too distracted to look back and rethink her actions. instead she trudged forward, only ever feeling grounded in her sleep.
ever so slowly, her sleep began to feel a bit more permanent. she would sleep and sleep and sleep, hoping that maybe in her dreams, she would find her way back to the forest. she never did.

she would sleep until her eyes became heavy, heavy, heavy, and heavier until she could no longer hold them up. into a deep sleep she tumbled...

and still there the forest did not appear.

you are still have time
for eating what you want,
singing in the bathroom, and dreaming your dream

As I sit and watch the wildflowers
I think how humans have no roots
Nothing to hold us back, but nothing to save us
From life's trampling boots

As I sit and watch the wildflowers
I wonder why they are weeds
Their only crime in life
Is to spread their lovely seeds

As I sit and watch the wildflowers
I think of all their trouble
We think of ways to **** them
All that should be left is ruin and rubble

"I can see my door, my bed, my window, my chair, and my table.

"I can feel my spine against the wall, my feet against the floor, my jaw tightly shut, and my fingernails buried in my arms.

"I can hear the wind coming in from the open window, my heartbeat rapidly thumping, and that familiar voice in my head, shouting once again.

"I can smell the dampness of the ground outside as the breeze carries it to my room, and the sickly sweet odor from the soap used on my hands.

"I can ******* blood spilling from the bite in my lip; my last harsh reminder that
        I
        am      
        still
        alive.