I am a child of Summer- born beneath
the blazing sun of a July afternoon.
Forged in Fire, you know
my emotions are a raging monsoon.

I grow tired and weary as air turns chill;
my skin will crack and bleed.
I was always told Winter was no place
for a growing Summer seed.

But I am proud to call Winter home,
and it is entirely thanks to you.
Your Winters give me more warmth
than I ever thought I knew.

I’ve fallen for Winter, you know...
So yes, of course, I love the snow.

Most nights I exile myself
to the desert I call my room,
but at times I wander these halls
missing sounds that living exhume.
The distant murmur of a television,
water filling the kitchen sink.
Blasting air ricocheting off
lightless walls painted pink.
The front door closing behind me,
siblings footsteps getting faster.
The precious cries of the cast
lingering in the shadow of its master.

That is just a sampling of the racket
that I have been raised to love.
But truth is, we simply coexist in this house,
pushed together by some force up above.
Most nights I’m left with nothing-
not even the sound of snoring.
Not even raised voices, objects falling,
faces crashing, and anger roaring.
Not even the comfort of knowing they’re here
and being sure they aren’t missed.
Just that my family is out there in the world,
Just that somewhere, they exist.

So most nights I exile myself
to the room in which I sleep,
Running away from the silence
of which this house is a keep.

A garden kept away from sun,
these plants best grow in shade.
Primrose and violets, foxglove and iris
no morning sun has made.

Miles away from dusty trail,
enclosed by fence of stone.
This garden I create
I have always tended alone.

I built a new one by the river,
on whose banks the young deer graze.
One that is harder to maintain,
but is kissed by sunlight’s rays.

Now I see more flowers
than I ever thought to know.
And now I know the beauty
of loving while I grow.

Simplicity of a sunny day,
air that penetrates and cleans me.
Thoughts abound on a black couch;
it’s no wonder you like poetry.

My skin will bleed when faced
with knives and guns and needles,
but words will slowly **** me,
though they are not the greatest evil.

The greatest evil lies within;
it’s these thoughts, I am Creator.
The feelings that my eyes cry out,
the truth laid out on paper.

I tried to write in happiness,
but once I start to think
emotions overcome me,
and the tears I catch to drink.

A deer grazing by the side of the road
This brisk, September morning.
The watered glass sparkling in the sunlight
While I turn my head around.

Last night I hurt the only one
that comforts me in chilling dark.
Your eyes, they are the rattled gun
that murders me; you’ve laid your mark.

The target sits atop my face,
I seek your wounded core.
You shot me in a sacred space;
my lungs, they breathe no more.

But you pick me off the ****** ground
and cradle my shattered being
till my mind knows that I am found,
and my heart stops disagreeing.

Though knowing that I worry you...
it means I am a killer too.

After all these years,
Why won’t you stay?
You know, you’re way too good
At pushing me away.

You were there for me
During my darkest years,
But alone you lay now
Covered in scars and tears.

And despite my best efforts
To lend a shoulder...
The closer I get,
The more you grow colder.

I no longer understand
What goes on in your mind.
What would you say if
I told you I cry?

You know, you're way too good
At pushing me away.
I feel kind of alone,
And kind of betrayed.

We're hiding behind face,
Behind smiles and laughter.
There was a happy before,
But now there’s a horrible after.

What do you
Expect me to say,
When you're way too good
At pushing me away?