i'm sitting on windowsills like they did
and now i'm in the same trap
a small room of a universe/
purple fairy lights and the warm glow,
i'm ready to go home to the sky.
a soft death and bad habits to kick
from touching myself to recreate physical touch I don't receive to
crying over the friends in my head and
writing daisy petal eulogies on a deathless flowerbed.
sleeping on them like they're still living.
I'm alone and it's the same as death=
just let me die.

I woke up. it was Sunday morning and the air was cool. I wanted to move but the air seemed heavy and soft.
So I laid in bed for a while. I wanted to rest my spine.

the air feels warm as I move into the upstairs living room. I sit in the rocking chair and deep breathe.
I will go downstairs. But I wanted to rest my spine.

I made my way to the stairs when I heard arguing. The kids were in the car and my mom and papa were arguing about something.
I didn't go downstairs, so I sat down and continued to rest my spine.

The door slammed. I got a text from µˆ˚´ . I replied and looked out the window. My mom got out shortly after.
I wanted some coffee while I rested my spine.
my breathing is quiet and deep. my lungs are full of the strange haze and my stomach is aching.
I made some toast with my coffee and sat down at the dining room table,
so I could rest my spine.

The door burst open. I set down my coffee.
my father walked in and the air got slightly colder,
"the family is gone for five minutes and that's when she gets up."
I looked at him and said words. He slammed the door to his bedroom. I sipped my coffee again and held it to feel some semblance of warmth.
I continued to rest my spine.
He came out of his room and slammed his door again. He went through the others to leave and slammed those too.  
He got in his car and left. I watched through the big window and laid down in my chair so he couldn't see me exist.
I rested there with my spine.

on days where the sun sinks quietly into submission and allows the moon to conquer the sky, the trees revel in the dull yellow defeat as and the horizon waves a colorless flag or a nod to the sun and the lonely sunset. over the pond , life will cease until morning and spirits will dance among the trees, cold. ∆¨®ˆ˚∂ßπ until the battle returns and the sun takes over with it's dull brilliance. the tears from the oh so lonely ghosts will turn to dust until the strength returns. this is the cycle

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because the last time I opened up to someone artistically they told me it was pretty dark and I should keep it to myself.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because I was raised in a culture that was anti love and pro meaningless ***. I saw endless commercials about movies that glamorize a lifestyle in which your body is fulfilled but your heart is ignored and at that impressionable age I learned my heart came second but my allure came first and the less I cared that happier I would be and I carried that belief around with me the way I used to carry around a Bible as a child.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because of the time that I opened my father’s phone to reveal a family secret I would hold to this day against my own moral instincts unraveling miles of insecurities wondering if I’m not a good enough daughter or if he stopped loving my mother or if true love was never real and although I had been taught marriage was my purpose, it was what I believed would make me happy, maybe rings aren’t enough to stay in love and maybe people’s feelings change and maybe no one actually has a “one true love” and that this purpose I had been taught was really an endless wild goose chase that only lead to broken families and lost souls.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because sometimes I still wonder why I fell into an abyss of toxicity at such a young age. And when I say wonder I don’t mean a trivial ponder, I mean I contemplate every possible reason why the person who I once believed held the universe in her eyes would lie to my face, why she never kissed me in public and our love was always a secret, why she valued girls with blue hair but my blonde hair was not good enough, why I had to hide bruises from my family when I was still in high school or more importantly, why at the time, I thought I deserved them. These thoughts, this lingering paranoia that I am undeserving of healthy love, they muddy my interpretations of real life and distort reality and effect my relationships. My doctor would call these intrusive thoughts, my best friend would tell me they’re symptoms of PTSD, but I have come to realize that I’ve been burned and I am damaged and I hope to god I can recover.

But you,
Oh god, you
You can write this poem. You can be my safety net while I’m free falling in love. You can be the one to listen to my mental tilt-a-whirls, you can be the one that introduces my body and my heart, you can be the one that calms the storms in my mind when I’m questioning the love I’m deserving of. You are the one who makes sure I fall asleep in my bed after drunk nights, you are the one that still sees my value after acknowledging my flaws.
You can write this poem.

his face is so delicate
his cheeks are so ******* red