pillow den
plush pink
cancel plans
stay in to think
blood on the walls
trash on the floor
i don't care
close the door

angel-sweet
docile
like a puppy
in a pink collar
i don't bark any more
i don't even flinch
i let it happen
i must like it,
don't i?

i write sad poems
but the truth is,
sadness is nothing like poetry
and mental illness is nothing like the movies
there is no beauty to be found here
no elegance in self destruction
no metaphor in depression
no art in this love
and they all leave once they see that
they can't heal me, nothing can
and there is nothing pretty
about the things i do
so don't look back
go somewhere else
be happy.

i'm brave,
i say
i'm brave, i'm brave
but no amount of words
can hide the rotting wound inside me
no amount of aggression
can hide that they pulled out my teeth

on the school bus
the expansive blue sky
watching the leaves
flutter and fly

resting my head
on your shoulder
feeling the air
grow slightly colder

i pull a leaf
out from my sleeve
it's all so perfect
i can't believe

the day is over
i'm going home
at least for the weekend
i'll be alone

so i tried my hardest
to remember it all
that magical day
in the middle of fall

maybe that is why
i remember it still
whenever the air
picks up a little chill

i can smell apple juice
pumpkins and hay
i can still feel
pink boots caked in clay

under my bed
a collection of things
snippets of ribbon
and tangles of string

old scuffed buttons
teddy bear eyes
shriveled up flowers
left to die

a bird skull i cleaned
with my hands in the sink
old perfume bottles
so shiny and pink

a lost love letter
not addressed to me
shards of glass
spit up by the sea

a lock of my hair
from before it turned dark
a cicada shell
i found in the park

i can't bring myself
to throw them away
even though it's junk
like you always say

i know how it feels
being unwanted and worn
i want nothing to feel
so forgotten and forlorn.

i was little
only three
hiding behind
the cedar tree
she was trying
to beat me
a little child
of only three

that tree is gone
we cut it down
bugs ate it
from root to crown
playing under it
in a princess gown
the memories
can now be found

and every single
time it rains
mushrooms sprout
from its old veins
i wonder if she
still feels pain?
i wonder if
we feel the same?