Cross my tears, lose my eyes—
these feelings fall as sadness starts to rise.
I lose my space to lose my mind; I cross
my hopes and pray they survive the night.
My joy feels too old; these skins
want to die young—tired, stretched thin
from wearing sorrow too long. I feel like
a blade that’s forgotten how to shine.
Rust gathers under my lips;
I’ve spoken too much to the voices
in my head— and all of them,
all of them just want me dead.
Static feelings stuck in my sweater—
crying, even when it’s warm; cos I
don’t own a sweater, just a hoodie—
Something to cover my soul when I
feel like a ghost in daylight.
In my reflection, an invisible hand
gives me an invisible *******.
Even my mirror won’t look me in the eye.
These lips— they started off soft;
now they’re triggers, eager to flip
me off, shoot me down.
I am the despised poet— too hideous
even in my sweet dreams— this is
the real version of me: unwritten,
unwanted, unmoved.
My soul’s literature is tired—
not of bleeding, but of no one
noticing it still bleeds.
And truth be told... I know the
purest colour of feeling blue.
