please understand.

it isn't that i don't trust you.

it's just, i've been hurt so much and i hold so many things inside my chest, things that i have no idea how to let out of my shut throat.

and i am so very, very afraid sometimes, so very, achingly lonely inside of myself.

please show me how to open up.

I'm ashamed; posting
these awkward poems; expecting
you'd read this and smile.

I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.

sometimes the navy hue
of 3 a.m. and the patter of
raindrops sinking  into
cracked concrete is enough
to console me into sleep. sometimes

it pains the bruises on
my heart slightly too
much that it aches to shut
my eyes; you always loved
the scent after rain, and i always
loved you.

i've been writing
all the happy poems lately
yet i'm still haunted
by the thought of writing
all the sad poems
again.