The only thing keeping you a failure
is believing that you're a failure

Flywheels enamel
with heartblood,
aortal ticks hesitate

before the dull bang
of a fallen fist,
the fat knuckle

of the next hit.
Tick tick the
small ones,

the eaters of dust,
stone-eyed they
fall apart like lost time,

the weights that
regulate all
are unbalanced.

I am one
learning how to
carefully seal
myself shut;

still working on
the art of hiding
in less obvious spaces
that won't give me away,

folding myself
onto myself
like messy origami
forming no figure,

my pale skin
being tinted by sunlight,
my hollow cheeks
being surrounded by sunny faces

that have no idea
how much all I want
is for the rays to
melt these glaciers.

I tie my hair
with bright red ribbons
like I am a present
with no future, no past.

Might want to unwrap me
only to find a box
empty,
consumed.

I do not hold
anything

for you.

I cannot even hold
myself

for me.

Hello beautiful
The words everyone wants to hear
To validate their beauty and their worth
Or simply to feel loved
You are loved
Don't ever feel alone
Because I've never met you
And I can honestly say
I love you
And whenever I see you
Hello beautiful

Yes I feel the pain and yes I see the bruises.
Yes I've had the scars but really what the truth is
it's not those that've carved me but those that consumed my past.
Just hoping til the day I die the subduction of need will last.
Not that that was a need I just wanted a reminder,
that my pain was not in vain and that I'm still a fighter.
Though I used the edge against myself and I've been on the wrong the whole time,
I don't need self confirmation of confidence, what I need is a sign.
I know that times are getting dark and the world is getting colder,
and even still the world still feels right above your shoulders.
When I'm buried, put it deep,
Maybe then I'll get a better sleep.
Same thing goes for all the children,
Cause the Lord knows there's at least a billion
of them too awake of how the world truly is.
But then again, maybe then that's when they'll truly live.

I cannot find it here
It seems

I search ahead
Far and distant

Wishful things

I frame their shape
I shade them in

Ignoring where
I rest my wrist

Sand spills

dear elise,

in three months rosa's cheeks won't be so rosy anymore and you’ll be standing over an urn watering the ashes in the hopes that your sister will grow back without the thorns.
she’ll leave them buried behind in parts of your heart that you never even thought existed and it’ll sting so much you’ll be screaming at family or rather
the people you’re supposed to call family
to not bring flowers to a flower’s funeral

(i’m digging my fingernails into the dirt and wondering if
god wilted too.)

your sister thought she could hide it behind her petals but she couldn’t and that means you should have watered the roses more, that’s what mum will tell you for years to come, and she’s right because it was her ******* garden you walked right into and tainted with god knows what. because of you, she’s going to cut off her green thumb and bury it somewhere in the corner of the flower beds so it wilts with the rest of her. it still smells like rot these days, why?

why does it feel so different? the kids still drive down to brixton to set their own bodies on fire (**** the witch! **** the witch!) and she still tells you to chew your words twice, maybe three times but be careful not to let the thorns slit your throat on the way down, rosa is too fragile to be wasted on your mouth. you can still change; you’re only fourteen. i’m hoping you will start finding beauty in the spray painted graffiti, the red streaks burrowing roots in your daydreams and cultivating a new garden in the comfort of your head
it’s just much easier that way having a keepsake all to yourself--

please keep her safe in the urn under your bed