I’ve never met
Someone like you
You’re just so…

“In control of my emotions”

No
Scared of them

I was sitting by a pond
gazing into the water
when I heard uncertain footsteps
Fear tentatively sat down beside me
" what are you doing in college?
it's so far away.
you need to be at home with your parents.
it's familiar and comfortable."
he says to me
"sometimes being comfortable means you
stop growing and experiencing things."
I replied
"but aren't you scared?
you should be."
"of course I'm scared.
but fear is part of life and you get to choose
whether you're going to let it
limit you."
Fear nods his head
finally understanding
he gets up and walks away
I bask in the cool breeze
and soak in the sun
breathing in the crisp air
as my heart rate slows
and peace settles over me

He plunges the knife

deep into her, Stop, I shout --


against my own dream.

I’m sorry to everyone I’ve hurt before. Sorry for not becoming the person you could be proud of, for leaving work unfinished while the expectations around me only grow higher. How can one man be too much and yet never enough at the same time? How do I stop the hurt, not only in my own heart, but in the scars I leave behind on others? It’s overwhelming, this fear of losing it all. I imagine the castle I’ve built crumbling once again, the story of my life replaying with the same unhappy ending. No matter how hard I try, it never seems to be enough. I climb toward dry land only to be pulled back into the current. Sometimes I feel I’ve wasted the most important years of my life, sitting still, watching time slip through my fingers. Seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into years, all fading into distant memories. My indecisiveness isn’t from fear of choosing wrong, but from never really having a choice at all, just making do with whatever I’m handed. I’m exhausted. I push myself past my limits for reasons I don’t even understand anymore. I want perfection, even if it’s impossible. I want to be the best version of myself for the one who needs me. But how can I be who you need when I can’t even be who I want? I don’t even write anymore. It’s like the pen has finally run out of ink.

“Spoon feeding in the long run teaches us nothing but the shape of the spoon.”
E. M. Forster

There was no spoon feeding life to me,
gentle nibbles from a mind set on
sugar coating there would be more
days of blackberry thorned hours than sweet pudding.

How does one speak of horror
to a child who trusts fairytales
grow reality from glittered imaginations?

I learned so very young monsters
don’t leave when a storybook presses
them between its pages…They stalk you
at dinner tables, in empty rooms,
within the sound of voices oblivious
to screams trapped in the cage of your throat.

In the oddity of breathing terror circumstances turned
me comedian, precocious child full of questions,
a crybaby at scratches while silent in the clutches
of a demon.

In the etiquette of spoons never judge
the one who doesn’t hold it correctly.
She may be a survivor who’d rather
eat the soup than explain why she
doesn’t have an affinity for shallow silver.

Her

Don’t look up,
Don’t look there,
Keep your eyes closed,

...what was that sound?
that flicker–
that light–
Did I shut the door?

I can’t breathe,
I can’t see,
Is she–
Is she near?

Over there,
Over here,
Right here,
Too close,

Close your eyes,
Tighter,
Tighter,

Don’t open,
Don’t open,

Don’t
Look
Up