She was an artist
but not how
most people
think of artists.
She wasn’t a painter,
nor a sculptor.
Not technically

Her instrument was her paintbrush,
her breath the paint.
The rhythms were her design,
the notes her colors,
the world her canvas.

The paper was her pottery wheel,
the words her clay.
Stanzas were her shape,
punctuation her indentations
and publishing her kiln.

she painted with music,
and sculpted with poetry
she made sound come to life,
made poems sing

Most say she’s only a musician
and a writer.
Some will at least give her poet.
but I’d argue
She’s an artist

I need help
so I yell and I scream at them
until my lungs give up
and my heart gives out.
silently wishing, hoping
they’ll understand that
I’m not a terrible person.
I’m just hurting

I need help
so I etch the pain into my skin
pleading, begging, praying
for someone to notice the glaring welts

I need help
so I skip one meal
then three
make a chart for the weights
and the calories
waiting to reach the impossible goal

I need help
but I shake in my seat
suffocating in my own lungs
tumbling out of control
I grip my seat so tight my knuckles turn white
wait until
my breath hitches,
my breathing stops

I sit
in silence
but never
is it silent
when you live in
my head.

Thoughts will
always
flash by,
like a race car
in a thundering
arena.

They don’t
just leave
though.

My head is a
Venus fly trap
for ‘bad’ thoughts.

It latches
on.

Some people try
and say
to be grateful
for all of the
opportunities
the thoughts give me.

They say I’m
creative.

That’s not
the right word
though.

Creative is too bright,
too chipper.

Wild imagination,
another common one.

It’s better,
to an extent.

But what no one
can seem to think of
is struggling.

It’s not
that it’s hard
to think of.

They’re just
scared.

It’s okay,
I understand.

I’m scared too.