How do you live with pain that’s not your own?
the tears I cry are not for me,
with an aching in my chest that wakes me up at night,
to remind me not everyone will see tomorrow’s light,

How do you live with pain that’s not your own?
but consumes your whole body, mind and soul,
till you don’t see your life as it’s own,
because your heart beats to someone else's tragedy.

I can’t handle confrontation.
I’d rather let anger seep through my veins,
till my blood boils to the rim of my skin,
and bursts from deep within.

I’d rather keep it all inside,
stitched through my body,
a story of the untold,
hidden behind crevices of my disheartened soul.

You see anger swims through my body like fish in the sea,
but why should I confront a feeling that’s a part of me?
why should I tell you; I’m upset, I’m angry?
don’t you see we all handle pain differently?

My mother's’ an angel,
God sent her to give light,
to fuel a fire in our hearts,
and shine down like stars on gloomy nights.

In her soul flowers bloom,
red roses intertwine in her curls,
while beauty grows in her healing soul,
faster than I’ve ever seen before.

One day I hope to glow like her,
and open the doors she’s been pulling at for years,
clear up the sky,
so the sun paves her way,
no warrior deserves rain during her glory days.

And like the devil you appeared again,
scratching at my back;
till my aura turned into a bloodbath
of all the memories I had with you,
and my soul became a graveyard
of all the thoughts I’ve had of you.

If I added up all my scars,
across my arms and over my hips,
I could stitch them up,
into untold stories and engrave them on my skin,
so everyone could see,
the vulnerability within.

If I spread my wounds across a canvas,
purple, blue, red, and other hues,
creeping on rippled fabric like stars in the night sky,
I’d create galaxies,
with craters, suns and moons,
constellations of healing wounds.

Humanity fears itself,
differences are seen as failures,
and scars are seen as damage,
but I’m no broken house,
I’m just under construction.

My windows may be broken,
the walls scratched and peeling,
but sometimes love can be an adhesive,
that holds each dangling piece, just in the right place.

My house is built of scarred wrists,
and old insecurities clinging to my grip,
attached to weak crippling hands,
with nails beat to the bone.

My house is made of skin so thick,
it was cut with sharp objects till it bled dry like weak prey,
but love turned my gashes into scars,
and I still stand here today.

My house is a jungle of wounds,
wounds that fought back and told me to heal,
scars that cut deep,
but have finally sealed.

Humanity taught me about love,
how not enough of it exists,
and how its the only thing we can truly give,
so it’s become the glue,
that made my crumbling house into home.

I am a shapeshifter in these unfamiliar lands,
fitting myself into crooks and edges of photos I’ll never belong to,
forming myself into images of what the people want.

I am an outsider to the only world I know,
scrambling at pieces to create the perfect picture,
stitching memories to build the perfect home.

I’m a foreigner in my own skin,
searching for a way to express myself,
craving for a place to find myself and call it home.