I could blame my fear on the fact that my heart
is made of glass, and that my skin feels so
constricting I forget how to move forwards
so now I only fall back. I cry when I should be laughing
and I'm not spiritual but sometimes I think
it might help me swallow
when all I can do is choke on things I didn't say, should've said,
might say
in public, in whispers between tangled
sheets, in emotion. I am carving a hole in my heart
and sealing it with special things, like the words dream and promise
and tomorrow and alright, so that if I shed my skin too many times
a part of me will still survive. When I can't sleep
at night it's because I know even stars die, and when
I sleep too much it's because I don't know how to live.
And in spite of the mirages that sunsets cast on
highways leading to
new leafs
there's chaos in my head that breathing deeply won't solve.