Shall I give you everything you long for in this life.
knowing you don't deserve it?

Shall I tear myself from limb to limb
Rip the nerves from my muscles.
Split my skin and my core apart.
count each and every bone;

For it is all yours.

To be loved by you,
is equal to being torn apart.
My love like flesh, ripped to shreds.
When you took the colors of my world with you
with every cut, every bite, every word-formed weapon against me

I laid there frigid, empty, and bare.

The last few beats of my heart
were dedicated to you.

My last breaths spoke your name.

Sorting through my limbs.
Analyzing my own skin.
Drowning in the blood from my own flesh.
Looking under every *****.
My demise is your doing.
How strange it isn't an ounce of your soul
left over in my own remains.

It's a never ending war oscillating between affliction and bliss.
Traversing the museum of all the things ever loved.
Nursing the intensity of the wretchedness.
Holding on to the misery like a secret unable to
be freed from your lips.
Woven into the fiber of your being.
While stretching and shaping the brains neuroplasticity
by taking 2 steps forward, 5 steps back
Only to find yourself unable to
find the apricity during the coldest days.
Worn out
Tired
and as you give up, just before you close your eyes
a light gives you every reason to accept the bliss
while leaving behind the affliction.

Courtesy to the star that was forged to make me all I am.
Kisses to the protein and salts used to make up all the parts of my brain.
Though I still lack the capability to figure out how it holds everything
and nothing at the same time.
Even in a yonderly state the words still know how to line themselves
on the page, as they transfer from my head and onto the white screen.
something else I can't explain.
Like how substances can tell me how life should feel
but I lack the capability to grasp it for myself.
How I hold the potential to achieve the impossible in my back pockets
but even the possible seems too incredible for me.
More things I can't physically grasp onto.
I'm mentally climbing a man-made rope called strength.
I'm strong for all the wrong reasons, wrong people.
I just have to be strong enough to survive, but what if I just don't
want to do that either.
What if I just want to clock out, and call off for the next 5 years
to grow inside of myself and not this astronomical object that harbors
my life and anything else with one.

I find myself lacking the ability to find elation
in the parts of my brain that give me satisfaction.
In the parts of the world that are supposed to bring me
whatever the opposite of misery is.
the same way you lack the ability to find brushing your teeth in the morning
anything but tedious.
Because my brain is too big.
Your world is too small, mine consumes all that lives.
As if I was born to vegetate my own existence
and pick the pieces of my brain that hold fascination.
I care less about what you think.
if only I could step out of myself to stop and jot on
my eccentric behavior
the way I express myself even when I eat.
my supernatural way of thinking
and how that coils its way into my connections
with people who are only self-aware when the situation is far from the person
who is mindful of.
Would my analyzation of my core and the outsiders of this world
make me neurodivergent?
Would I be accepted into society because I need therapy?
Would it make me less human if I declined help from another one?
Of course let the person who is qualified on reading others
like a book read me like I'm just page.
Grasp on to the things I can't just understand yet.
Help me understand myself even if you are not me.
It all sounds vague.
let the therapist teach me how to be self-aware and learn a new ability
to not panic as much
the same thing we all care about in the minds of the animals that we eat.
I am not a pig.
I doubt I'm even human at all except the parts of my existence.
I can't even tell you what the world is
but I can definitely tell you what comes from it
and how it rebirthed me.

I wave a flag of the color that represents farewell.
I send this soul off with love.
Though she was so full of it,
disheartened to know you turned your back on yours.
She was willing to work for you,
not in the ways that forced her to count down seconds
until her end break.
Not even in ways that would cause her feet to hurt.
In ways that would allow you to be the director
of the world that was once hers.
Two people, a million possibilities, only one path.
Couldn't you tell there wasn't anything that could delineate
how her outer body felt when your presence was around.
In return you shade her ability to love anyone else impossible.
In response the love that was once for you
Transformed into "philautia"
This you can never get back.
My farewells to this sweet soul.
He can never earn her back.

I don't think I'll ever get tired of love.

But is it true love always taste the same?

I've always tried love and its sour hints.

But you introduced me to so many new flavors and recipes.

I find myself reluctant when it comes to you, unable to be vulnerable.

Just because something feels good doesn't mean it is.

So, I tear myself down in my head for tasting something so sweet.

Disappointed for eating something so forbidden.

You have the ball in your court to ruin me, but you never took the shot.

But that doesn't mean you won't so I will never put it past me.

That was a risk I would take; it could go both ways.

Good and bad.

I admire how patient you are with me.

even though I can be stiff, when all you want for me is to soften.

for knowing who I am.

for knowing me.

For times I lose myself.

I'll that risk with you.

The experience.

Because that is truly what I'll never get bored of.

Our love.

in my pockets are grains of hope, i keep my hands in my pockets when it gets cold. I think it's good to keep my hands warm, maybe I think it's bad to even let my pockets hold my cold hands. Disengage from the colorful writing, my hope sits upon my intellect and my actions are based upon it. In my flower accessorized tote bag holds my potential. Zipped up tightly and only taking the items out around it. I see how much volume it takes up in my bag, defiant when someone tells me to take it out and use it. Maybe naive to not understand how much of it is held in my bag. My bag is never far and always clutched to my side. Maybe i should empty my pockets and clean out my bag to witness the things i've kept inside for so long.

you've been sitting in my head for a month now
the least you could do is scrub our memories off the
sides of my brain.
i pick the hairs that stand up whenever someone says your name.
Its like a cold breeze on the back of my neck
not refreshing
the kind that puts fear in your heart
as i walk down the street your shadow follows me
up until i make it back home, you’ll rest in my head
and i’ll never get any sleep
when i wake up in the morning your already there
still engraving your name into my brain
where the physical parts of you are still in your room
doing whatever it is your doing without me
and i can’t help but wonder
do i have my own room in your house of thoughts
do you go down our halls of memories
and fix the pictures frames that are slightly crooked with a faint smile.
hopefully everything isn’t packed up in boxes
labeled with the word fragile in red ink.
you’ve always been sitting in my head
you don’t have to trim the nostalgia off the branches
of our tree in the back yard.
i’ll sit under it and look up to see the sun-rays peak through
and with a blink of an eye
i pull myself out of my head and yearn for the day you come back home.

It is 5 minutes until 1:00 am, and I know my head will keep me up to 3.
my mind overwhelms itself.
and hates me for doing nothing about it.

It is now 1 and the same thoughts I had 5 minutes ago.
are now shown falling from my eyes, down my cheeks.
I am truly my worst enemy.
everyone talks about the healing process but not the dread.
that clanks around your ankles after.

I was a broken vase, not filled with roses or tulips.
Not loaded with water.
The pieces of glass, pieces of me I placed together.
(you can still see my cracks)
I am now an empty vase, and no one will grant me the presence of flowers.

It is now 11 minutes into 1 and happiness only pervaded-
when I went out with friends.
Is happiness just laughter and creating memories?
I guess I'll never know.

It is now 1:15
and I'm still not ok with anything I write.
I am still not ok with myself, at least I don't hate who she is anymore.
I am still not ok with how I love, how I express affection.
I am still not okay with how my mother treated me.
I'm not fine with anything at all.
No matter how many times I splatter my mind on these pages.
I won't feel okay.

I waited 16 years to finally feel something new, and at least I got what I wanted.
but this state of feeling and containing nothing is still familiar.

It is 1:30 
My mind is now vacant but only because I have occupied myself with creating.
Still disappointed with each piece I make.
It is the only outlet I have to escape from my experiences unless there’s a blunt
in my hand.
I do not wish for peace anymore, just a hand to hold and maybe a new lighter.
It has been 50 minutes, and I am still writing.

Still wishing to ring myself out like a drenched rag.
and to watch my thoughts, attempts, things I did, said, could have, wouldn't-
circle into a big puddle that dries away.
I know it is not that easy.
but to believe my placing here was not a mistake is hard.

7 minutes until 2
I feel slightly better, but the kind of better that will allow me to rest.
It is now 2:00, and I'm 358 words in, this poem will never be let out, and I am still here-

disconnected from myself and ambivalence fills the space in-between.

I created a finger-painted world that revolves around you.

and after every 5th orbit the world, I built stopped.

I drew out possibilities of us that would never touch the present.

and after my mind could not be sharpened anymore, I could not draw out any more futures.

but instead, I wrote out what could have been.

I wrote poems, letters, books, journals...but while we ended my pieces did not.

My art still lives, and the patterns are dulling.

What is an artist to do with no muse, I drown in all of my pieces, each canvas, each blank space, each untouched page.

I tossed away paint brushes, pencils, unused ink, my creativity held nothing but dejection with each reminder.

I cannot write anymore.

I am not able to create, and writer's block is the least I can say.

and I snap my feet and I click my hands, and you're still not back again.

I put one in the air and paint myself every shade of blue and outline myself despondent.

and I remember the oceans of fluctuations I used to dip myself in and the compliments you left on my head by your lips, but we never kissed.

And the ocean is empty now, there's nothing to dip myself in, I am an artist who is blue with no muse.

and I'm left in a room of with every piece I ever created spiraling around me.

I sit and feel every color of emotion I ever painted out, I let the hues consume me.

I let the tones take me as I am.

As I put so much life into my creations and I watch my own emotions dance on the page

I think of the muse who inspired me to do so, my muse who is not here to drop inspiration.

My muse who changes the color of my soul.

My muse who I grieve, who's not dead, but isn't here anymore.

What is an artist to do without her muse.