you cannot silence my voice,
erase who i am and stand to be.
i will not be pushed to nonexistence,
for my story is not written in pencil,
it is written in ink.

― and i will leave my mark on history
don't forget to register to vote and then actually go vote this novemeber
and so today i drew open the curtains of my ribcage and i brushed the dust off my heart and i forgave you.

— an excerpt from a letter to you
sorry for the lack of content, haven't been feeling particularly inspired. don't really like anything i can manage to write. here's a short and old piece in the mean time.
fists clenched with white knuckled force,
my nails pierce this skin and
blood trickles down fingers from these
perforated palms, and i can’t help
but to think how this pain
is nothing but a distraction.

— biting your tongue to stop the tears only goes so far
my wrists ache with desire and these lungs hitch
and heave with each sickening sob.
as my body begs to feel,
and my heart begs to not.

— to feel everything and nothing at once
don't worry; i didn't
be angry,
be furious.
a storm of torrential rain and hellfire.
but when you’re done
and your seas have calmed,
come home.

— i'll be waiting by the docks
sometimes i feel like a dog
loyal to its owner for all the wrong reasons
always returning with a wagging tail
after being hit
starved
beat
and abandoned.

— separation anxiety
this is an older piece, but it thought i'd still share it.
she was war,
a collection of cuts and old scars,
armored in the pain of her past,
bones of ash and thorn.
blood like spilled scarlet wine
splashed across the bathroom floor,
she cried alone—
unseen,
unknown.
but for all the tears, she rose to her feet
and sat upon her barbwire throne
for these bones still ache,
this body still bleeds,
these lungs still breathe,
and this heart still beats,
still beats,
still beats.

— my heart is not a home for cowards
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