and sometimes it comes a point
where i am laying under a night sky,
staring into a blackness mounting
a million different twinkles of hope
upon a canvas above,
waiting for some kind of movement
to happen suddenly among
the million glimmering miracles,
to catch me by surprise
so that i might wish upon it
some other kind of miracle to happen
upon a canvas below.

when the emptiness pervades
when the fog does not clear
when the incessant doubts
pound like drums in my ear
when the heart is chained
when the shackles are too heavy
when the ground underneath
no longer feels steady
when none of me feels real
when all of me feels contrite
when the feelings i can’t bear…
these are the times i write.

i decided to change my hair,
in denial
that was the beginning
of my spiral.

stroking my long hair,
sitting in a leather chair,
pondering why i’m alive,
she asked me ‘why?’
‘it’s just too much’ was my reply.

and when it was over,
and the apron came off,
the girl cutting my hair
told me she felt
that i had a sweet spirit.

maybe
she doesn’t know
who she is
because
all of her childhood
she was handling
the weight
of being someone else
while neglecting
the weight
of becoming herself.

it is painful
when you sit high above
yourself, looking down,
and begin to see
the creases of your personality
unfolding before you.
like entire chapters
of a book in which
the pages had been stuck together;
a once incomplete storyline
coming together.
one crack of the spine
and suddenly
newfound pages
are pulled apart
to reveal once hidden,
yet the most intimate,
details of a story.