She sits rather still, stitching her loom
shackled and bound to the whispering room
While the walls shutter speeches
she slouches then reaches,
her stitching resumed.

Threads of silk pool in spools
cast to the floor
Hushing the voices
as they pour

the voices repeat their crippling phrase
dancing the space
bound to their maze

Expose your soul to me,
every inch of sincerity,
every kiss of clarity,
without an apology.

Your star freckled hands
reach inside me-
Pleasure making me forget even momentarily
That this, is not a love story.

Your hands do nothing to soothe the empty hunger left behind.
When my bedsheets are no longer warmed with your body.

Like an echo I can feel my heart beat against my rib cage.
A violent rally of
Alone.
And it screams
Alone.
Thumps
Alone.
And my fingers trace it into your skin when you are making my body your temporary home
(Alone . Alone . Alone it sings )

And I must never forget that
your hands can make me moan your name
Shout praises to a god I don't even believe in-
But your heart could not bear
to love me for anything more than my body

-to the girls who confuse *** with love
And to the boys who think an ****** is a job well done

theres a trail out there
and shattered glass at the top of its hill
made it all the way up
just to be left broken and ***** at the finish line
im sorry
not because youre broken
(being broken isnt so bad)
but because all you can see is the dust that coats you
i promise
all your pieces make a window
and all the stars make a sky
and all this dust makes the adventure of a lifetime

The mind of that girl is a pain sanctuary
whose aching decreases due to a world that's imaginary.

From home she goes out to get away,
and all those nights in stranges she relies.

The soft morning breeze
tenderly dries the tears in her cheeks,
and childishly it peeks
through her bloodshot eyes looking for a trace of peace.

Nobody could really tell
if she, bones and flesh, is still alive
or if she's just a wanderer ghost.
Probably the only one of her kind.

The dark circles under her eyes
are a proof of the restless crying nights.

The tangled auburn messed up hair
tells she didn't sleep at home, but no one cares.

Picking up flowers on the way back home,
humming songs that once made her feel whole.
She rests for a few hours and once awake she grabs a pen,
she writes down a poem before she gets drunk again.

Somehow she finds calm
in the simple things of life,
and she tries not to think
about the coldness in her eyes.

Barely getting through, day by day,
trying not to be absorbed by all the grey.

Amassing countless heartbeats
to the final point where life she quits.