I cannot fully explain to you
How perplexing it is
To be a 22 year old adult
But to still have the fear
Usually reserved for a young child
The fear of the dark
And not in a way that one is afraid of death
Or lions or tigers or bears
Oh my, my fear is much more irrational
You see I find I have bravery in real things
I’ve rock climbed mountains
Ridden roller coaters
Held a poisonous snake by the tale
You get why that’s braver right?
But what makes the hair on the back of my neck stand
What makes my skin pucker into tiny little bumps
Are monsters born of my own imagination
You see my imagination is wicked
And I use that word both ways
In the slang sense that it is awesome and powerful
And in the literal sense that is it evil
That when I imagine a monster
I give it ten hands with 20 fingers each ending with teeth
And eyes so black they sink into the monsters head
Making them look like empty sockets
So deep, they touch his brain
I am forever afraid
I’ll be honest with you
I sleep with all the lights on
And my closet doors wide open
So I could see exactly what is going on in there
I years ago threw out my bed skirt
Convinced they cloaked crooked
Teeth crawling critters capable of decapitation
And were all considerable stronger than myself
As you can imagine I have a lot of nightlights
Mobile ones I use to walk to the bathroom with in the middle of the night
I have to buy so many batteries
The clerk at Walmart can only reasonably assume
I have deviant private life
Because grown *** adults shouldn’t be that scared of the dark
Because at some point during or after childhood
I won’t assume it happens at the same time for everybody
Your imagination takes a backseat to logic
And you understand that monsters aren’t real
But death is and maybe that’s a better fear to have
That didn’t happen with me though and I think most artists
If they were to be completely honest with you would tell you
It didn’t happen to them either they missed a step
In the development milestone department
Though I think they would tell you too like I’m about to tell you now
The fear is worth it there hasn’t been a single monster
I’ve imagined that hasn’t had an equal
Beautiful thought and I can see them better with all the lights on.

So sigh a T.
I've been waiting for the city  to rebuild itself.
So sigh a T.
Reaching out to those with no help.
So sigh a T.
How we dance the dance of an unhealthy conundrum.
So sigh a T.
Living for death with no regard to the sound of its hum.
So sigh a T.
I've seen you weak I've seen you tall I've seen you peak.
So sigh a T.
I've seen you great reaching out for everything.
So sight a T.
But where are your arms now?
So sigh a T.
Where did your warmth Go?
So sigh a T.
But where did your love go?
So sigh a T.
The world has given up on you because you were meant to be their martyr.

It’s their clothes
That’s the worst thing of theirs to get rid of
Each removable of a garment from their closet
A different  scent  hits you in a wave
That you have to push back just one more hanger more
But then after the scent passes
You remember Easter
Christmas
Thanksgiving
When they wore that blouse
Or button down shirt
When you go through their drawer
The one you couldn’t a few months ago
Because then it was still too private then
That watch that was probably a few links too small
You remember the sides of skin around it that were
Lightly suffocated highlighted the veins that flew through them
They seemed  so alive then
It’s their clothes
When you pack them into boxes when you
Donate them to charity because the sight of them on anyone you know
Would send you into a spiral of remembrance
That you’d rather not slip into
Those truly were the slippery slopes
Ones that tiptoed on a double take
Ones that made you think if only for a devastating moment after
The initial realization of those clothes on someone else
That they were no longer going to wear them.
Yes, their clothes are the hardest part
Not wanting to slip into everyone
Garment they owned when you were forced to pack them up
Jealous of that cloth that touched them last
Them after you did for the last time
Yes, their clothes are the hardest part.

my mind is a planetarium
where each memory is a meteorite
and every apology burns like a dying star.

enclosed in the vast celestial stretch of my skull,
planets tend to vanish without the courtesy of a goodbye,
but i'm just happy to have housed them for a little while.

my projector is faulty and sometimes,
the images i try to convey become obscured
("asteroids may be larger than they appear").

i can't help but speak in broken constellations,
and hope that you somehow understand
that i have nothing but the best intentions.

not to mention, i've seen a lot of visitors, though
none have ever stayed for long, after they've surveyed
that i'm nothing more than a bunch of chaotic galaxies.

i rubbed the collection of stardust and debris from my eyes
and to my surprise, found that you hadn't gone anywhere.
instead, you were there, floating through my solar systems.

you've got me orbiting around your finger
like the rings around the sixth planet from the sun.
i come undone a little more with every word you breathe.

my bones are made of moon rock, aching like cold craters,
waiting patiently for the radiant warmth of the sun,
or your breath, or your touch, whichever is closest.  

the most stellar display of stars i have ever seen
are not in the belt of orion, nor anywhere within the milky way -
instead they are lightyears beyond, resting comfortably behind your lips.

- m.f.