Disfigured
Trapped in her mind
Prisoner of shackles twice as big as her wrists
Not
quite
free.

I am crippled
and cursed
with the inability
to feel anything
less
than
this.

I want to believe that I am not nothing. That I am a conflagration struggling against the crushing darkness. That I am a flare of light, ephemeral and inconsequential but brilliant and visible, nonetheless. I want to believe that I am not the monster I have always feared. That I have weaving fingers and unwavering hands that hold and cradle and carry. That my shoulders have known tears and my tears have known shoulders. I want to believe that I am not a desecrated ruin that can only weather the storm by staying dead and broken. That my glass innards are fractured and unwhole but form colored spider webs from shades of my blood. That my parched skin is merely paper begging for the taste of ink. That there is a story waiting to be written. That there is someone willing to write it. I want to believe that I am a survivor. That I can break and topple and crumble into shambles and rise five minutes later and keep walking without looking back. That I am not hollow inside. That I am not a completely horrible creature. That I float on hurricanes.

I want to believe that I am capable of these things.

I want someone to believe that I am capable of these things.

I want someone to know that I want to believe in these things.

I want to tell someone a story. A story about fire and monsters and hands and hugs and buildings and glass and writers and towers and hurricanes. A story about believing.

But there is one thing I want more than anything—

I want to be a story.

See my smile
snap like a twig
hear the sound
of cackling splinters
mirth as if in mockery
of the way
my laughter breaks
every time I remember
litanies repeated
beneath closed wrists
closed eyes
closed
Knock on the frown
of my mask
I wish you would
just
knock
See my fingertips
trace the lightning
that separates
my irises
Dry as the cracked
ground of my lips
Let me bleed
on my own
water the pit
of my stomach
See me bleed
See
me
Let me
just bleed
on
you.

Philo—
not enough
too much
of jaded edges
too much
of glass shards
too much
light
not enough
to heal
Statues are worn
by the scorn
of heavens
Philo—
The look in his eyes
Philo—
Every time he laughs
Philo—
The sunlight blinds
my broken eyes
Philo—
There is no right side
in a war
Philo—
Only pain
and peace
and fear
Philo—
The deadliest wars
aren't fought
in battlefields
Philo—
Everyone
Everything
hurts
Philo—
His absence.
His silence.
His.
His.
His—
Phobia.

Delight
cowers from the monolith of
Fear

Joy
shrinks from the vise of
Fear

Hope
Dissipates from the jaws of
Fear

Heart
reshapes into
Fear

Courage
is just ignored
Fear

Everything
I am
is made of
Fear.

I wonder
about the silence between
your words
I want
to hear your laughter
even then
I think
it's the closest thing to heaven
I can have

I wonder
about the empty spaces
inside me
I want
to fill them with cosmos
with you
I think
it's the closest thing to happiness
I can have

I wonder
about the distance between
each star
I want
to walk every line in every constellation
with you
I think
it's the closest thing to eternity
we can have.