Maybe one day I will show my wrists to you, and you will find out that my soul is not as beautiful as you thought it was. you will discover that the flowers you attempted to plant in my mind have withered, because the soil ran out of nutrients long before you became a gardener.

because I cannot move mountains and I am not able to swim oceans because I’m already drowning.

maybe one day I will show you my hips, and you will realize all of the kisses that I have pressed against your lips weren't just a sign of lust or affection towards the way your mouth can form words, but a sign of protection

I thought you could protect me

protect me from the monsters that live inside my mind the demons that haunt me from time to time and that time is every day and every night for the past four years of my life. and however many more days that remain on my mental calendar.

I've tried to write poetry that hits you from the inside out with rhymes that flow into your ears like a melody you've been needing to hear to get your life together. but rhyming is a cliché way of thinking and poetry can breathe just fine without it.

but all we are as humans is just masks.

masks with emotion, why aren't we all the same we all have a brain with the same sections and we all have a heart that beats at a relatively steady pace between us and we have lungs that are littered with smoke that you inhale from either cigarettes or cars, and it makes me wonder why no one ever walks anywhere anymore.

what if the ringing in your ear isn't just annoying, but a message in a pitch that you just can’t quite grasp just yet.

and maybe you can’t fall asleep at night because someone is too busy hoping that you won’t die in your sleep and they unknowingly have the power to keep your eyes staring at the ceiling because you yourself aren't quite sure if you’ll wake up either.

and perhaps writers block is a blessing in disguise because the moon knows that the best things come to those who wait. and those who work their ***** off to achieve their dreams.