In panic mode
A bottled up feeling
Is trying to get out
Through a hole
She’s ripping
Between my skin
And my spine.
She feels like
A wave of burning
A wave of scared
A need to keep
Busy hands moving.
My body is on fire
The smoke is choking me,
Hard.

I will not learn to cry less,
I do not cry much these days
I will learn to cry the same amount.
I will learn to love this body,
If not in this form then the next.
I am still but a fetus
I have not finished growing.
I am an anomaly, a shapeshifter.
Something so very human.

I don't know if I never want to see you again
Or if I definitely want to see you again.
I think a little bit of both.
Let's do this again sometime.
You're quite the adventure.
You are worth everything that you come with.
And you come with a lot, you know.
You are worth everything.

I want to change, as in,
I want to be better, as in,
I think something's wrong, as in,
I wish I could go back to before things mattered

There are some signs that I'm not a child anymore. I walked through my house tonight in the pitch black darkness for a glass of water, and for what I believe to be the first time in my life, it did not scare me that the shapes seemed to fade in and out. I grabbed a glass from the cupboard and walked around the island in my kitchen with a pattern of footsteps I have learned without realizing I was memorizing. I touched the water dispenser on the refrigerator before filling my glass with my finger hanging over the edge to feel when the glass was full. I drank it quickly but with patience and calm. I walked up the stairs and to my room and climbed into my bed without turning any lights on. I feel a yearning for the man in my life to be next to me.
I guess there are signs, I'm not a child anymore.

Until I look in a mirror, I forget that I have a physical form beyond these arms and feet and hands, outstretched into a world I do not like or understand.
I am a cherry cordial of mismatched matches that have all been doused in a liquid, I cannot tell if I am covered in gasoline or water.

I feel that the magic has left my fingertips
That my art in all forms
Has become greyed
And unenjoyed.
I feel that the childlike love I once poured
Into pots of paint
And graphite tips
Has gone away,
To be replaced by need
And money