it is july
and the stars refuse to break the sky.
the clouds are thick and
heavy with rain
and there is a pain in my chest.
the kind you have to push through,
the kind you have to shatter
with a baseball bat.
i am tired of taking baseball bats to my chest.
tired of all this glass.
the shards at my feet glitter like gold.
these are the broken pieces of me
i have shed like
feathers from my angel wings.
this poem is just another shard.
another pin in the voodoo doll.
another cry for help,
if you can call this sniveling a cry.

it has been five years
and im still the same sapling
i was when i was thirteen.
when will i grow?
theres a dead tree in my journal.
it will never again take root.
i remember plucking it from the garden
like it was nothing more
than a rose.
can you plant a rose bush
in a garden of glass?
i want my body to be a green house.
i want to grow.
i want lilies in my fingertips,
four o'clocks in my eyes.
forget-me-nots and sunflowers,
tulips, petunias.
maybe a cactus or two.
just because im beautiful doesnt mean
i have to lose my bite.

it is july
and the fireflies are like stars
dancing on the earth.
theres a pain in my chest.
a dull ache,
a memory.
i am tired of taking baseball bats to my chest.
tired of writing this poem.