i am trying not to be
resentful of the body
you gave to me, to
live within the lines
as they have been
defined, but i am
still scratching

i was built for gentle
summer afternoons
where the trees
reflect in my eyes
and the sun can only
hope to be as bright
as your smile.

these grueling lonely
nights are foreign to
me like the faces you
see every day but dont
know the names of.
i wasnt made for this.

i do not like who i am when
winter calls; it chaps my
lips and rubs my cheeks
raw, subjects me to grey
days and long nights.

beautiful words do not
come easy to me and
i am drowning in the
smell of you, of your
skin on my skin, the
taste of your voice
on my lips.

ive never been afraid
like this before this
constant gnawing that
hollows out the space
between my ribs my
life has never felt so
precious

i do now know what the next years will bring and that is what scares me, that lack of constancy, rug pulled from beneath my feet

how do i know
that my wings
will not be clipped?
how can i love freely
with this specter
looming over me?

i do not know
how to love
myself. i am too
harsh, too unkind;
i speak to myself
like an unwanted
stranger. ive used
kinder words,
of late, soft praises,
appreciative glances.
i do not know
how to love myself,
but i am learning.

LIBRA:
its too dark to
sleep at night,
too quiet, and
you are alone.

LIBRA:
you walk into
a room of the
people who love
you most; it's
empty.

LIBRA:
you scoff at
symbolism but your
hands still shake
when you know
they'll leave you.