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.

i am told that i will live to
see my thirtieth birthday
my thirty-second, if i'm
lucky. the statistics are
stacked against me, and
it's hard to build a future
when you will die in ten
years, a decade of waiting.
it's hard to dream when
you are a countdown.

cognitive dissonance is
shorn hair shaved legs
and a case of makeup,
never used

cognitive dissonance is
red lips and pink cheeks
and lowered eyes at every
such a beautiful daughter

cognitive dissonance is
flat chest and skirt hem
swishing about my knees
and the feeling of their eyes
on me

unreality wraps around me
like an old coat, weight
heavy and comforting
curled over my shoulders.

i hear whispers in my ear,
hands cupping my elbows,
breath on my skin that
makes the back of my neck
prickle with awareness.

what i'm trying to say is
i don't know what is there
and what isn't. the world
keeps its secrets from me
and leads me down
false paths.

my fear is a tangible thing.
it is the amorphous monster
under my bed or in my closet
(depending on the telling)
its the goodbyes never said
and the emptiness where
someone used to be.
my fear is that little voice in
the back of my head, whispers,
you know youre too much and
you know youre not enough.
my fear is the hope that i have
or have had or will have
and it is the way that hope will
eventually fail me.

i am tired of this
always waiting, of
this baited breath
and stilled fingers
soon soon soon

i am tired of waiting to live

rage red hot:
leaving me alone
again you promised
melts into resignation
deep blue like the
sea: knew this
would happen
not worth much
of anything
am i?

i still think about you,
sometimes, catching a
glimpse of the cards
on my wall with your
handwriting scrawled on
the insides, cheerful

i wonder what you
are doing, if you are
happy- i wonder if
the world is treating
you better than you
ever managed to
treat me.

i wish you the best
i really do i hope
someone out there
has made the effort
to love you like i did
to give you back
all of your smiles
that you gave 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.

why should i hide
my teeth and
dull my claws
for you?
what have you
done to earn that
sort of gentleness?

theres power in my fury
in the aching, weeping wounds
you tear into me
you dont have the right to tell me
to hide the monster you made of
me

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.

the fear buzzes
(like bees)
in my chest, in
my lungs:
what am i
when you dont
want me?

i do not need someone to
complete me i
am already complete and
i just need someone to
hold me close when the
darkness
gets to be too much.

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 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.

you think you have me
all figured out
like a map, or the path
you take home everyday

but i am incomprehensible,
unknowable
you do not understand
the words i whispered to
myself in the dark

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 used to think of myself
as one of those old
empty houses with
crumbling bricks and
ivy crawling up the sides
i used to be so empty
inside

then you came like a
whirlwind and dusted
off my rotting floors and
threw open the shutters
and lit me from the inside
out

i am twenty one years old
and i have forgotten what it
was like to not want to be
dead. the sun is bright and
the air is summer-warmed
and i wrap myself in the
quiet and try to remember
how to breathe.

i am something
fragile, something
to be wrapped in
newspaper and
stored in a box in
the attic for next
use. "handle with
care" is scrawled
along my ribs in
shaky sharpie
hand, over my
hollow bones and
translucent skin.