a thousand restless fingers
pluck along my nerves
and crawl swarming bees
over my flesh
******* dry honey
and I as a comb am empty
waiting on the waxing moon
to bring in the tide
exposed and littered
on the cracked seabed
lighting beeswax candles
impromptu runway lights
for those aeroplanes
who always fail to land
and wasted afternoons
fade into wasted nights
tossing to and fro
I sleep
under the cupboards instead

"Monstrous men perceive monstrosities the monsters they seem to be."

Open this chest of mine
With this steel key of yours
Reveal my essence - it shines,
Look through my opened surface.
What you perceive as I am, is what defines
You.
The depths of mine
Which you think you have in your sight,
Is just a conjecture of your petty wit,
Representing your own shallow depths.

The secrets within me,
Are not understandable.
No matter how exposed
They become to the world.

It was in the magic of the forest, the colours of the deserted road
That I tasted the warmth of the Sun, and learnt to drink the bitter ocean whole

It was in the stirring of sugar and milk in aromatic tea
It was when each of my bones ached and desired, and I was brought down to my knees

It was when something like the river current blew a hurricane inside of me
That I hungered and lusted and craved to know what it was like being free

I felt the wind gently caress my face, it fondly teased and played with my hair
I felt the water enfold me, tenderly its bubbles and droplets delved into my skin, raw and bare

The earth cradled me like a child, the soft milky moonlight touched my skin, and feasted it's eyes upon me, not naked but exposed
They say the mountain is naked, how odd. They simply can't see her drapped under silken white snows

The girl was a novel awaiting to be read,
Sitting on a oak shelf with endless colors in her hair.
She wore her scars hidden behind her parchment clothes,
Dreaming about a chapter that had yet to be exposed.

She spent her days between the pages,
Falling behind in the world's story.
She had read herself so many times,
that she had forgotten to read the world once.

The girl was a novel awaiting to be read,
by someone rather than herself.
She had been consumed in her own pages,
lost in a sea unfathomably alone.

The girl never once turned to look beside her;
at the row of books left untouched on the same shelf.
They had always been there in their rainbow sea of colors;
their binders tattered and titles exposed.

She believed herself to be a book,
never a reader.

The oak shelf did nothing but
support her.

The girl was a novel awaiting to be read.
The girl was a novel awaiting to be favored.

I'm not sure if it's allergies,
Or maybe anxiety;
But burning tears come to my eyes,
And I deal with them quietly.

I always forget to take a breath—
Whether it's stolen away,
Or whether it catches in my throat,
Because there's nothing I can say.

A cold lump moved into my stomach—
It hasn't moved for weeks;
And the nausea that comes upon me
Drains the color from my cheeks.

Icicles of panic stab
My raw and tender conscience;
The voices inside my head keep screaming,
"No!" And I have to constantly fight this.

I can't sit still and just take this
I shudder, shiver and shake
I feel exposed and yet alone
How much more can I take?

What is wrong with this body?
And all the emotions inside?
If I could, I'd run to the mountains
To find a place to hide.

Surrounded by friends I think I know,
But who've never known me
I tell myself that that's a lie
I tell myself I'm not lonely.

If I once feel right again
If this throbbing in my head can cease
I'll take that as a sign from above
And soak in every second of peace.