I talk to my cats,
to the shadows on the wall,

I talk to myself,
or I don't talk at all.

I'm swirling in thoughts
that won't stay away.

I spend far too much time
wasted this way.

Stuck somewhere between
depressed and numb,

My only reprieve,
sitting in the sun.

Moments while the rays
illuminate my skin

I don't feel so trapped,
I dont feel shut in.

My knees always
get the brunt of it all.
Between bed corners,
light poles,
and the even sometimes
the gum-y underside of tables,
there’s a passport
of popped blood vessels
sitting on my skin.

And while the pre-chewed
peppermint smell and
sticky residue fade,
the bruises linger
like a supermarket peach.

Soft with warm skin,
darkened from
tumbles of truck beds
and clumsy stockers alike.

Still sweet, but
visibly damaged
from hands too unkind
to put me back on the shelf.

Maybe I’ll get chosen anyway.
Or maybe I’ll rot
in this ******* Georgia heat.
But I guess
I have to be patient.
After all,
the season
is just getting started.

Her body a canvas,
Of her own artwork.
Scars and scribbles,
Cover every inch,
Of this masterpiece.

But he took the tools,
And ripped her in half.
And streaked her with thick,
Heavy, paint.

Leaving her ruined.

If enough people yell
And scream and they shout
They get what they want
And acceptance does sprout.

If enough people
Tell a single lie
It will be believed
And the truth will die.

If enough people
Hate a good person
Everyone will
They don’t need a reason.