Too many nights I lay awake,
staring at the marks upon my ceiling.
Seems these floor boards
have become headboards now
and I'm sleeping where I feel the most at home.

The victim screams again
trapped inside of these lines
everyone draws for her.
There is a box-
fit in it as much as you can
even if it's a tight squeeze.
We have no pity for you,
if it seems to be too small
just fit into it-
we all have to at some point.

This sympathy has become
a sinking ship to me
and ironically I've never seen the shore.
Drowning in the idea
salvation will reach my fingertips
and feel like grains of sand.

This sunshine I never seem to see
feels more like a dream,
a transfixed idea of melancholy
that is pressed against my hips
and I am feeling an ache in my spine.
Seems my backbone is being crushed too
I can't stand up even if I wanted to.
This box is locked and I am captive.
A prisoner of my own thoughts.

Jot this down-
remember yourself clearly
and all the scars painted upon yourself
every inch of bruising you have come across
a small reminder you have been here before.

These purple walls
have turned to a purple heart,
seems I've been drafted into war.
They drop these courtesy lies upon me
like they're bombs-
seems I am exploding again.
But if I do maybe I will get out of this box.
Maybe this ship will take me to the bottom
and I will feel the sand again.
Or maybe I'll see the sun-
when my back stands up straighter
and I can read my own words without cringing.
Maybe then I'll feel at home,
maybe then these bedsheets can replace floor boards
and the white of my ceiling won't be the only thing I see.


I tapped upon the transparency of myself
and seen a unrecognizable face staring back at me.
She nods her head and tells me it's okay
she is me, wrecked and scared-
with faith etch inside of her eyelids.
but why is she someone I don't know
an empty street corner of a place never been
wide eyed and painted on smile-
wish that I could know her.
Wish that I could be as good
at painting on this canvas
that is my body-
See I was never really good at art.

I imagine murals painted on this ceiling-
and my back hurts from laying here for so long
I hope to see the backs of my eyelids soon
because black would be better than nothing-
black would be better than transfixion
until delusion-
white canvas, white pills, white ceiling-
how can anyone love anything so void of color.