I draw on cigarettes,
Doodle with resin-
Blisters on my fingers,
They all think I'm playin'.
The colors brown & red
Are escaped when I shut my eyes,
And when I turn my face inside
I'm fine with what I see.
It's not dark, pretty light-
It's all clear skies,
Even with a chance of showers
There's always a sunrise.

i think i'm so used to feeling things in grand amounts — love, longing, grief, anger — that when it subdues my body recognizes it as numbness and everything turns pointless in seconds matter

480

“Why do I love” You, Sir?
Because—
The Wind does not require the Grass
To answer—Wherefore when He pass
She cannot keep Her place.

Because He knows—and
Do not You—
And We know not—
Enough for Us
The Wisdom it be so—

The Lightning—never asked an Eye
Wherefore it shut—when He was by—
Because He knows it cannot speak—
And reasons not contained—
—Of Talk—
There be—preferred by Daintier Folk—

The Sunrise—Sire—compelleth Me—
Because He’s Sunrise—and I see—
Therefore—Then—
I love Thee—

i wish i could see your grief,
lead them by my own two hands,
then give them a room big enough in
me to fit them and their lingering shadows.

i am a terrible shapeshifter
for no matter how much i shift my shape
i'll always be what i am within
cruel, wicked, broken
worthless

people don't label my pain
as real as others

but i promise, it's just as lethal

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

Miles upon miles,
Riddled with beds.
Tissues and soft hands,
To wipe my tears.
Piles upon piles,
Of blankets and food.
A nice, big bowl
Of serotonin.

i am so tired
but
everything that
exhausts me
keeps me
awake
at night

you cannot break me
more, or even at all
you have no power
to break what has
already been
broken