I refuse, my breath goes on and on,
My trauma's vanity lives on and on,
Self loathing poet, poor instant coffee,
Where is the hand that held the dagger?

Serrated stabs, fueled searing, a silent darkness,
A child taught to shut up never gets a voice,
As she threatened suicide, my voice vanquished,
You got away, I have your stabs on me still;

Nothing made sense after, once I wanted to fight fire,
Because my favorite color was red, still is;
I wanted to be a pilot then I wanted to be dead,
No wonder I loved the supposed color of oblivion;

An arrow that still flies towards a nothing,
Without a voice, the mold solidifies,
After all of it, I did try, never knew for what,
For a peace I can keep, a stillness that isn't deafening.