i am an empty vessel of life,
that was once filled
with the brisk wind,
that echoed between the stems of
fragrant flowers; the inhabitants of my lungs.

& now i am the remains of
the fluids of old flames -
filled to the brim.

     • (1) my mother fills me to the peak of the mountain that i am,
      with fiery volcanic ash.
      she shakes me to the point of no return -
      paints my silhouette in monochromatic shades of despair,
      carves the edges of my bones with the idea that i am the ghoul that
      haunts the walls of this house.
      she injects me with fury, until i am the artist who painted me across
      the canvas that is this life.
      the man with anger etched eyes, and a frigid heart.

     • (2) my father fills my glass anatomy with potent gin
     i never feel like he sees me.
     he's focused on the romantic burn in his throat.
     tangled in his bitter laughter,
     i wonder if he can sense the anger buried beneath my melancholy
     eyes.
     always straining to see beyond the crooked frame of my
     cheekbones,
     he probably couldn't paint the sky with the hue of my eyes,
     he'd paint it in vivid cerulean,
     lost in the blur of my coffee stained irises.

    • (3) my sister fills my atmosphere with acid rain,
     because every time her presence enchants my focus,
     my eyes become thick clouds,
     because i can't fade into her,
     she pushes me away like the tide,
     & she's an ocean with scarlet waves
     arising from the gold mines carved in straight lines
     across her arms.
     she's an artist who can't create anything beyond
     sculpting her demise,
     painting her misery in violet eyes and decaying flesh.

& i am an empty body
with decaying curves and edges,
i can't consume these potions.

not if they won't make the flowers grow back