the sun is wine,
round in my stomach,
shrill in the beaks of birds.

clover muddles your fingers,
muddles your teeth and breath
and skin. you are only
a spot in the trees.
planted among trillium,
stalks thickening your limbs,
my limbs dappled.

i taste summer
all through you.

sometimes
i get so frustrated with my dad
i yell at him
accuse him
blame him
i refuse to eat
whatever he's spent
so much time
and effort cooking for me...
and all of the above
is the result of
hating that he has to do it
in the first place
and it's absolutely idiotic
and horrible of me
to do this to him
but i can't translate
the pain
in a healthy way
i can't articulate
that some minuscule
dead
part of me
misses mom
even
after everything
every time
she tries to talk to me
it's like she pushes
this reset button
and i am back
with my old friends
panic attack,
despair,
hatred
and the tears slip out of me
so easily
i no longer feel them
they have become
so natural
like the freckles
on my face
my life is freckled
with tears

feelings fade
like the dull horizon
diminished by the sun
shades of orange
slowly turn dark
and bare themselves
like starlight
to the evening skyline
and the constant clamour of the countryside
decrescendos
into the babbling brook
and soft chirps of frogs
until once again
sleep comes
and a new morning
brings different light

Dreams bereft
but
not left,
could cloud
an empty sky.

Tears bled
but
not shed,
could fill
a silent pool.

Letters penned
but
not sent,
could consume
a tranquil wood.

Doors blocked
but
not locked,
could allow, yet,
a drop of Sun

enter the
shut,
not sealed
tomb,
and breathe

life, into
what
got cleaved:
waltzing
intertwined vines.

Hit me hard. It hit me hard.
Hard and fast, swift to my soul.
Fast and slowly, as the red rushes.
And that’s just it. The red rushes.

Kick it,
Kick it,
Kick it,
KICK IT.

Trash is my forte, trash is my freedom.
Vice is the grip, you can call your own claim.
For, when the red rushes, it rushes fast.
But you know that, don’t you? You knew all along.

Kick me,
Kick me,
Kick me,
KICK ME.

I kinda like the red, oh how it rushes.
I like the way it taste, the tingling it brings.
Sorta knocks you off your feet, the red does.
Cause when the red rushes, you will start to notice.

Kick me,                                                When the red rushes, will you notice?
Kick me,                                                When the red rushes, will you notice?
Kick me,                                                When the red rushes, will you notice?
KICK ME.                                              When the red rushes, you will notice.

“Just end it.”

They scream, as if

their blast to my eardrums weren't enough

when whispered.

“Just end it.”