Here is what I am:
a survivor whose sun-soaked back tans
darker than her porcelain face;
trauma traps like wet concrete ‘round ankles,
dried shackles facing only shadows.

And a jackhammer would break the mold,
but not before shaking me up hard--
all crises stirred together, and my ribs
shrinking beneath sandbag weight,
breath heavy as blood’s penny-coin

odor; and I am suspended, head back
to face the rising light burning slurred
memories, blackened silhouettes, gone--
my face washed warm and
golden in the inevitable morning.

obviously masked
standing still in the middle of a crisis
my heart remaining the same as it is
but my expressions
oh, what they're giving away
cannot be taken back

"i'd do it all over again," he repeated.
"and that's what makes me a monster."

i wonder which hurt him more
the fear in my eyes that showed
or the pity
or maybe how i said
"no, but, you're just a boy."
because i was once told
it's not what you say but how you say it.

For a long time I was trying to be something I’m not.
Then again for a long time I didn’t even know who I was.
I kept trying on different skins to see what I liked best
but nothing fit quite right. Either too big or too small,
or itchy like wool, or so thin I felt too exposed for my own comfort.

It took me a long time to realize my own bare bones
suited me better than any stretched out,
over used idea of any person ever would.

Now I am raw and slightly confused, but at least I can claim this  skeleton as mine and no one else’s.

Melodies once created my identity,
an addiction-driven crisis mixed with anxiety and loneliness,
I longed for love yet my ears tuned into hardship.

Melodies once molded my identity,
a clean and pure existence mixed with clarity and acceptance,
I longed for love yet my ears tuned into freedom.

Melodies once saved my soul,
a newly-formed identity mixed with a fresh conscience and patched relations,
I live with love for now my ears are satisfied with my lover's melodies.

Is this The End?
Because if so,
I'm sorry.
That Paradise
Was Lost.





The End to all
Our Hopes
And Dreams.
The End
To all Our
Faith.
We've Lost
Heaven.
So I'm sorry.

The oil is gone, gone is the oil,

There is no oil for us to boil,

To power our cars,

To package our bars,

We need oil, oil, precious oil,

How we miss our material plastic,

We made everything out of it, it was fantastic!

Car batteries and glue,

Computers, shampoo,

All made out of precious oil,

Alas, it’s shuffled off its mortal coil,

Goodbye, goodbye to our fair oil,

Without our plastic,

Things are quite drastic,

All our cars are beyond repair,

There’s no more shampoo for our hair,

And on what do you think we do a poo,

Plastic toilet seats you cry,

it tell you, that’s not true!

You don’t even know how I’m typing this,

Computers are gone now – don’t dis!

Life really ***** without oil,

In 2011, it must have been royal,

A word of wisdom to those with oil about,

Look after it dearly, don’t let it run out!

****. It’s ironic how empty I am because

I swear 6 months ago I had the universe inside

of me but I cried the rivers in my bones dry.

The volcanoes in my chest erupted when you told

me you didn’t love me anymore and lava flooded

my body and hardened till I stopped sleeping.

I had stars in my lungs but I burned them

all out with the cigarettes I was smoking

to get you the **** out of my throat. The

flowers growing at the bottoms of my

stomach are dead. Apparently you  

can’t water flowers with *****.

I had the sky in my veins but it’s

been pretty ******* stormy since I

ripped them open. I had planets

on the tip of my tongue but

the debris from the shattered

remains of “us” have been

crashing into them. I was

everything. And then I met

you and we were everything.

Now you’re ******* some

blonde girl who gets

high all the time and

I’m a *******

mess.

I have two bruises on my shoulders
blue as the oceans and marbled white,
storm-foam spilling from my head
and eyes.
That’s not your responsibility--
but what else could it have been
when I knelt silent, scrubbing, palms
red as my sister’s sticky wrists, clorox
wipes balled and piled in the corner?
I am not
steel-skinned, some mechanical being
mistaken for a human with her eyelids
torn from her face, blindless to trauma
and the callouses it leaves behind.
And yet
the oceans on my shoulders blow salt
healing the wounds to smooth, pink scars,
reminders in every mirrored surface:
I am still standing.