I see a solid object, in my mind,
Grasped by a phantom human hand,
Explored to distract, or pass the time,
Every day carry to a distant land.
Fidget, spin, or brass fitting held,
A soothing reminder, dense and cool.
Carried with me,
Compulsively,
In the pockets of a child,
Or maybe,
A fool.


It escapes,
Irretrievable,
                                   Time.

Twists and turns
Learning to check my speed along each curve
So much about myself I come to find is -
actually another thing.

The little neurons , moving about
so hyperactively
that it drives me into half a day of rest

or otherwise

What have I done those moments I have impacted them
whether by a blow from the fist or the nostrils

So much has changed
no longer do I indulge in the dangers of drugs
only the safe ones that help my physical pain

Slowly learning- but not before I'm ruined , to keep my hands off myself
As not to damage what sanity I have left .

Which fortunately, Is more than I could have based on the past decade
but unfortunately, some pieces of this puzzle of a young woman are missing-

That is okay, I guess the colors in between and I scribble underneath

I play a guessing game until my loved ones remind me of the truth
When they know it

Will I Always be searching for the corners to complete it?
I really don't care much for whole complete pictures anyways
Always folding photos to hide the faces of those who wronged me, crumbling unfinished pieces of art before wondering what I could add, only to replace it with another one .

Guess it doesn't matter- though when I dig through old memories, there are some things I find that surprise me.

How much we change year to year, throughout a lifetime as people? Is it more or less person to person based on our experience?

God did not mean to give me a mouth.
He meant to give me hands, eyes, a heart
but not a mouth.
When I speak something in me bleeds. When I-
I speak, and my eyes fog over like glass.  
I can't see you standing there, I'm so sorry. Show me again, where did you put the bread?  

I feel like a thing that needs to be forgiven.

I feel so fragile sometimes.
I am trying to understand the
weight of the evil inflicted upon me.
It is heavy. I never understood that 'till now.

I wasn't meant to carry this weight, but I do.
I wasn't meant to speak the way I
so often will, but I do.

What can I say anymore?
I can't write without bleeding. I can't speak without knowing it is a wound. How can I communicate without tearing something open? I'm afraid of shutting up and looking for my language. If I decide to leave behind every word that hurts me, would I have any words left? Will it **** the little bit of connection with people I have left?

Listen.
I hope you forgive me for the little sadness I'll inspire in you.
I am afraid, but don't pity me. I am blossoming and becoming something else.
This, apotheosis, this becoming closer and closer to my own light.
It is a process that requires allowing death.
What must die must die. Allow grief.

I'll leave you with this:
If you slept next to me, it would be
much like sleeping with a letter under your pillow.
Every night, every night...

*"Here I write to you a list of cruelties I am capable of.
May you never forget:
I have made the flower so that it may blossom, and I have made the lamb so that it may eat it.
Blessed be the one willing to become.
Here, the flower. Here, the lamb."

- God