you scooped out my insides
scraped down the sides
carved out the edges
you were thorough

you gave me a face
one i did not want
you shaped my expression
and i had no say
i felt my face turn
as a frown formed

once you were done scooping and shaping
you put torches in me
you lit them on fire
and you left them to burn

i was messy parts and melting wax
but i was fine.

i could be fixed
there were more seasons left for me
to have different faces
and to feel less empty

but you also scooped out my power
my autonomy
and at the beginning of each new season

i still feel the messy parts
and melting wax
welling up inside

*******.

i was a chest of treasures
and you opened me up and unpacked all the drawers
you took out the stories
you admired the knick knacks with fervent curiosity
and unveiled long-forgotten images of times past.

you showed your friends
and you called your mother to tell her what you found inside
"marvelous things"
that's what you called them.
you told people on the street about your treasure chest.
some thought you were crazy, but you didn't care.

you kept that treasure chest close
you were fond of it and opened it often
and you believed with the strongest conviction that it would continue to surprise you.

you appreciated its exterior, with its warped wood and rusted metal,
and how even covered in scratches it functioned as a vessel for something good.

when others found treasure chests too,
you didn't bat an eye.
because your treasure chest was trusted, strong and always by your side.

sometimes I'm reminded that you live in the little broken parts of me,
and though your love will come and go, that's where you'll always be.

even when you lift your face and it appears you almost care,
to think that you'll stay -- oh I wouldn't dare.

when tempted to compose a text or contemplate a call,
I tell myself that you're a lie and I can't have it all.

still awake late at night and wondering if I'm on your mind,
again and again I repeat, 'love is blind'.

to tell you the truth three years prior is when I let you go,
but whether or not I truly detached is for only me to know.

the "adults" are talking.
they whisper.
do they whisper about me?

why do they feel they must talk in hushed tones,
like waves afraid to meet the shore.

don't they remember what it's like,
to be young,
to be fresh,
to be fun.

they act like another species,
but why are they afraid of their own?

we are not foreigners.

curiosity builds bridges.
fear burns them.

answer me:
it wasn't your words
that broke me.
it was
your lack of them.
sometimes the silence
is worse
than the screams.