She wished her tears could fall as gently as the rain.
Her eyes are almost always sunny, sometimes partly cloudy
But they never rain.
They may sprinkle for a moment but nothing more
Her emotions take over like a category five hurricane
They come in gently in then all at once.
There's a moment in the middle the eye
Where everything is safe and calm for a moment
And that's when she's in therapy.
She feels safe and calm in between four walls,
They're not just any four walls,
They're non judging walls,
they're be herself walls,
They're it's okay to be vulnerable walls,
And most importantly stable walls.
No matter what she brings in between then
They're not going to fall or fail
They'll support and her help shelter her from the storm that's raging outside.
They won't fall fall and crumble and create more chaos
But instead they help her heal and strengthen.
This calm eye of the storm comes once a week in between mostly storms and a few times of sunshine
This oasis is her salvation
For without it she would be lost
Or eve dead.

Good Cheese
It is hard to find
But I know which to get
It is the kind that is Gouda
The best of them all

She’s the type to eat a bowl of ice cream,
shoot a gun, and be fine. I’ve never seen so many pieces
under someone’s rug before, but she keeps
herself in cookie jars, in ink cartridges, in book binds,
anything she can find. I’m surprised she even looks
in the mirror anymore. It’s not possible that she’s herself whole.
But she braids her hair back when she rides her horse,
she channels old Miranda Lambert
and pumps that kerosene melody through her veins
like it wont’ catch fire. I’ve seen her
poke her head through old sweaters like she thinks
it’ll be something new this time. I’ve seen her paint
her skin in expensive body washes, the washcloth
like sandpaper as she tries and tries to smooth
all of the uneven edges she’s collected.

I bet you could watch her memories in a wishing pool,
like in a mini mall, with all the pennies heads down.
They would spin themselves around the surface,
suffocating one another so that only the good ones would shine,
but she dare not pour herself into something that reflective.
It would only reveal what she ties into the waistband
of her old American Eagle jeans every morning,
and that would just be too **** hard. It’s easier
to venture ******* with a crummy perspective
and a realistic approach than it would be to even consider
that maybe this time it wasn’t her fault
for expecting to much, and that maybe people just ***** up.
That maybe, for once she wouldn't blame it on it getting her hopes up
that made her fall, but that no one was there to catch her.
I’d rather watch her cry herself to sleep for months

than to pretend I admire the harsh falsetto she bites back
in all of her lullabies. But she’s the type
to burn old pictures for fun, to delete contact names,
to swallow all her sadness and paint her bedroom a new color
than watch herself come undone.