I am scared to let myself feel vulnerable for you:

See,
My heart’s been tortured by your kind before-
So I lay bricks of mistrust and hurt around it
Because even once-
Is one too many times for me
To feel so very deeply,
The unrequited touches on my frayed skin.

They say that drowning is the worst way to die,
But what if I willingly dive into the sea of blue
that is your eyes…

Would that still count as suicide?

Do you ever think of me,
Half as many times as I do you?
Because I often wonder:

Are we still friends in the dark,
Or do you also hear the loudness of my heartbeat
reverberating through my chest-
For you?

By: Lulwama K. Mulalu (.15)

My stomach is a lake of red wine and pills that are supposed to make me feel better about my life.

They didn't.

My hands vibrate and clench themselves into fists that are sometimes full of my own hair.

My eyes are heavy and decorated by deep purple half circles from lack of sleep.

But

Sometimes my stomach is filled with butterflies,
and I silently hope they don't drown.

Occasionally my hands are in another pair of hands.
They're held like a prize.

Some nights my eyelids are kissed lightly to sleep.
My pupils dilate from the drugs,
and from that boy's love.

The white circles I swallowed every morning are supposed to make me feel better about life,
but I don't think any scientist, pharmacist, doctor
ever once anticipated the thought of another human being like him.