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Listlessly wandering
down empty hospital halls
with walls that are too white
and cold lights too bright,
but, still, in the sterile tiles,
Death's reflection lingers,
following behind,
attached to your shadow.

Until at last, a door looms on your horizon,
holding the promise of escape from
this endless maze.

Frantically running
to fall
into the soft embrace of night, to
walk the moonlit trails that twist
through the trees to the
tune of the owl's hoot and wolf pack howls,
curling down into dark, dampened earth,
seeking comfort in the knowledge
that there will
be life again.
This desperate need to grasp a pen and
turn the chaos of my thoughts into
conceivable sins is

All these stories burned into my flesh
demand reparation and
the echoes from my past still
etched into my bones ache
for retribution which
is not mine to give.

Yet, still they continue to beg
for the relief of confession, to
be freed from the suffocating confines
of the abyss masquerading as
my mind.

But, I can't.
Not this time.
Some secrets should be left
to die alone in the dark.
Let me disappear off these mortal maps
          and become a citizen of the void.

Let me revel in the peace of decay,
          as my bones lay in the comforting embrace
          of the silent earth.

Let the stars steal the light
          from my eyes
          so that, even in my absence,
          I can still guide you home.

Let me fall brokenly upon death's door
          and leave nothing but a disintegrating stone
          to claim my ashes.

I don't care how steep the price,
          please, just
                          let me leave
                                     and don't ask me to come back.
I'm sorry.
Cramped and small, there is no air
here in the dark.
We cannot breathe, but we will not leave.
We choke on our dreams in their decay,
desperately trying to make a home
of this coffin,
adorning these walls with rainbows turned gray
which we cannot see anyway.

We're suffocating in this silence,
drilling tiny holes in the walls
of our closet prison cell,
searching for oxygen
so we might make it just
a little bit longer.

But we've become addicted to the light they let it,
craving more and more as we long to be free,
staring at our homemade stars until,
it isn't enough anymore,
and we must decide for ourselves,
if it's worth it, to come out,
to break down the unlocked door
and reveal our hidden colors with pride,
knowing you'll knock the first real breath
from our throats.

And though, finally, we are able to breathe,
the decay still lingers in our lungs
from trying so desperately to
make a home of the coffin
you tried to bury us in.
But not all of us survive.

Fearing you will tear us asunder
if we dare step into the light,
we're seeking peace six feet under
because suicide seems easier than
being forced to choose between
living behind a facade of lies
and inviting the danger
of our honesty,
painting targets on our chests,
for this is the price of our identity
in this society.

We are not the abominations you think we are.
We are human too and
have just as much of a right
to be free, as you do.
So, together, we're learning how to thrive, but,
not all of us know
how to make it out alive.
You were not meant to try to save me,
you were meant to learn from my mistakes.
Battered and alone, pushed far to the back,
sat my grandmother's worn writing desk,
forgotten in the shadow of her passing,
buried in the depths of her cluttered garage.
The surface is scared with her stories,
never told,
and her secrets remain hidden in the stubborn locked drawers,
so like her.
There is a disconnect between my body and my mind.
At least, that's what I tell people.
Because I find it easier to admit
that I am broken
than to open myself to their ridicule
as I try to explain asexuality
one more time.

It's hard, to describe an absence
of something you've never felt
to those for whom it defines their existence.
I don't understand their resistence,
logic dictates that just because one thing is true,
that doesn't eliminate the validity
of it's reflection.
It has become this society's obession
to portray us only as a lie, a
sickness you are lucky not to be infected with.

Though I am still struggling to find my voice
and understand my own mind,
I am sure of one thing:
I am not BrOkEn.
And if you are like me, please,
don't let your pride be stolen,
because neither are you...
There is nothing wrong with being Asexual. You are beautiful and worthy of love and place in this world.
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