i'm a yearner by profession
wanting, requiring, praying and pleading,
all in silence, while acting nonchalant,
'cause it's the new language in the book of expression.

and who wrote it, i wonder?
where did the raw vulnerability go?
why hide in the shadows
while all you wish to sow
is seeds of needing—
a presence, someone to listen?

"you cursed it, didn't you?"
but the irony is, i did not.
i have never.
and perhaps people do admit
what they mean when they're angrier,
but what of those who simply don't know any other means?
anger speaks, frustration cowers, feelings undeter,
and suddenly it's all in the plain sight.
but i don't mean when i say it—
and it's on accident if you hear me.

don't call me a curse.
i do not hex.
i bleed in violet
with every scratch
that blooms on my skin,
birthed accidentally or meant to exist within.
hollowed out a perfect doll,
tried my best—been twenty years and i'm yet to be put to rest.
nine, since it got harder.
was i made this way,
or did they carve me out the wrong mold?

called me cursed, she said so.
admitted saying, i thought so.
did i really? i wondered.
never meant to—was it in the moment,
or just mere anger?

i didn't, i promised.
but it hurt, if i'm being honest.

so once again, i went to what comforted.
picked up the roses, crushed them with purpose.
the thorns bleed—they pinched and pierced.
i bled in violet, with no regret or fears.

the thunder resembled, like a biography almost.
it spoke, said—i'm here. take me whole.
i copied, painted, let it take over—let it rake over.
it gathered, brought upon all that remained
from the very corners, every single ounce of wind.
and then it regained—some power, waited,
gathered up all the hatred, turned it into lightning,
and i bled—
against the skies, down the fields, through the streets,
over every single one—drenched poor souls,
unknown it was my thunder that they entertained.
blade-like sharp, violet like bruises,
the nights covered me in a blanket,
the mornings brought up more such poses.

silence sits
like a mannequin
in every corner.
voices arise, aiming to take the pedestal.
in the very center,
there's no one to guard
or stop them from becoming.
they play me symphonies—
the first says, congratulations on your undoing.

but what fault do i pay for?
is it being unforgivably myself?
perhaps i was meant to mask—
playing the same game like others.
bare-faced wasn't really the best disguise.

i cut out metaphors from my skin,
built them up, needed muscles—
so i raked within.
the best of them all—
my heart, put forward.
forgot the body won't function
without its dull weight.

it's been there, beating,
doing what it ought to do scientifically,
but in terms of being human,
it sits like it's been dead.
sometimes i hold my hand over my chest
just to feel—do i exist?
am i in the mind, do i continue to persist?

funny, the trick they say—
5 things you can see,
4 you can touch,
3 you can hear,
2 you can smell,
1 you can taste.
i've tried it all—
but that's my big mistake.

should have surrendered when i still had the time.
but it isn't anything new.
regrets are a constant part of life—
of most, actually. they all do.
perhaps they don't think
or look at life, having to wonder
what will come through.

when you ought to blame,
repeat what they did.
unfortunate as it is,
you'll have to face the same.

curse, i may not be,
but i've etched the words to my skin
with razor-sharp needles,
and they bleed in violet.
there's cuts made out of shards—
all the mirrors i've thrown,
broken through the walls.
i fill up a glass full of the bearings
for nothing but purpose:
to get close, to push far away,
gather the mess, save the day.

i bring it up,
have a taste.
it isn't sweet,
isn't bitter,
isn't even fake.

too real—
it smells like dark cocoa.
the right taste buds,
and suddenly i've got a violet tongue.

i shall close my eyes,
breathe in, as i hear it on loop:
call me anything you want.
what signifies is what comes true.

you're at fault.
i'm merely the one facing.
i bleed in velvet—but term it violet,
'cause that's the shade they slither
under my skin, all that i've heard,
crawling within—
like worms almost,
creepy, looking for the weakest spots.
and when they find, they reside, curl up
and take a bite—feels like a pinch,
like a syringe deep in my vein.
and they ****, they pull,
and no pressure can stop the punctured wounds,
so i bleed anyway.

it tastes like when pain meets with happy—
both fight for dominance.
comfort enters, so does wondering,
the second-thoughts, words and glances,
and suddenly it's a nocturnal nightmare.

electric, perhaps—
for i get seizures like shock.
the drink too heavy,
the feelings ****** all
the marrow of my life, made me fragile.
do not bother, the label reads.
cursed, i write over it.
and perhaps i've believed
and accepted.
if that is the case,
might as well make it look sacred.

so i offer you
the wine of the cursed—
violet shade, i could call it,
the violet suburban.
and this is me trying,
running out of fuel, of words to bleed.
so it's all been real, all this while—
and since i offered,
cursed as it might be,
i hope you like the drink.

Grief is a strange thing.
It can have many masks and be many faces.
It can be anger.
It can be hate.
It can be laughter
And it can be an overwhelming sadness.
Grief is a stranger.
It is the man in an alleyway dressed in black.
It can watch you.
It can grab you.
And it can even make you one of its own.
It is in times of Grief we must fight.
We must crawl and claw our way out.
Because Grief can make us a stranger,
Even to ourselves.

(ACT ONE: DRAFT)

STAGE DIRECTIONS
Basement.
Dim bulb swaying.

Center stage:
A battered leather wooden chest,
straps and buckles cinched
like a ship at storm.

Upstairs: (Built out upper stage)
A woman, white hair in soft pins,
her chair angled toward a radio
hissing static and old jazz.

She eats quietly.
Spoon tracing circles in her bowl.

CHARACTER NOTES

THE WOMAN – seventy-eight
hands like river stones,
her face a map of soft summers
and lonely winters.

THE CHEST –

Unseen:
heavy with letters, photographs,
perfumed silk,
a man’s pressed shirts,
and the ache of two bodies
that once loved
without mercy.

Seen:
Its sides swell -
the subtle shape of a man’s hands
behind it's leather,
pressing out,
clasping the straps.
Fingers circle
the locked buckles.

THE PAST LOVER – Voice only.
He exists as vibration
inside surrounding wood,
breathing
in response to the Woman.

SCENE PROGRESSION

Lights fade up.
The chest breathes.

Pause.

Buckles flex.
A groan,
like an old stair.

She glances down
through the floorboards.
She does not rise.

(radio goes silent)

Eyes closed,
she whispers:
HUSH NOW.
I REMEMBER YOU.
I REMEMBER.

And then
nothing.

Her silence
is part of the score.

ACTION CUE

The chest swells.
Wood stretching.

A strap snaps.

A letter flutters
up the stairs,
as if seeking oxygen
and lands
at her feet.

She rises.
Fetches rope, duct tape,
an old belt.

Descends the stairs.

Ties the memory down again.

Her hands shake,
but she is precise,
as if dressing a wound.

She ascends.
Sits back in her chair.
Spoon in hand.
Mid‑air.

Radio on:
a soft trumpet solo,
weary with promise.

The chest downstairs
begins to thump
and inhale.

A low whisper
seeps through the floorboards:
her name.

Her hands tremble.
She does not answer.

The chest exhales once,
long, hollow,
full throated,

and the house answers.

FADE TO BLACK

Only the sound
of her spoon
falling
to the floor.

When someone you truly love dies you are overcome with all
these strong emotions like rage and guiltiness.But the one that always wins is
sadness.You try so hard not to cry during the day just to go home at night cry
uncontrollably a river of sad filled tears. You think of all the good times you two had
and then you sink in to an elaphant sized depression.Knowing you can never do those
things agin for as long as you live.Every days a struggleit feels as if your dragging
two billion pounds behind you.You struggle every day to keep you head held high
when it feel as if your sinking in to a black whole of undiscovered territory.You feel
so weak almost as if you were carved out of ice. The sadness varies between days.Some
days you feel fine others you feel like some one has reached in your chest and
yanked your heart out and stomped it to the ground.

I keep throwing up memories
no one asked me to keep -
bruises shaped like questions,
the sound of my mother’s scream
lodged behind my ribs.

No one tells you grief can rot
when you don’t spit it out.
That love, untouched,
ferments into something sour.
I carry it all in my throat ~
half apology, half war cry.

You say,
“I want more of you.”
And my body says,
“Are you sure?”
Because more of me
means bloodstains on carpet,
means fists instead of lullabies,
means learning how to disappear
before I ever learned to speak.

I was fed fear in childhood portions,
taught to flinch before I felt.
I watched my mother
burn down her mind,
and still tried to build homes
in her ashes.
I held her wrist
when she begged me not to.
Took the pills. Took the gun.
Took the fall.

I was not built for softness
but I do crave it.
Every tender thing feels foreign,
like wearing someone else’s skin.
But you touch me
like I’m not ruined.
And that’s the part
that makes me sick.

Because what if you mean it?

What if love doesn’t have to be
a wound I pick at just to feel alive?
What if you stay?
And worse - what if you don’t?

This is my mourning sickness:
grieving safety I never had,
while choking on the possibility
that I could finally
be held
without having to shatter first.

they never taste it
just name the temperature
call it healing when I rinse the wound
like I’m not just keeping it from festering long enough
to stay pretty

I let them near
not in
they cup their hands to the faucet
sip whatever slips through the cracks
and call it closeness
but they never stay long enough
to feel the sting

I swallow static
talk in softened sounds
bite down on my sharpened tongue
translate their language
before they can call mine foreign..
again

I bleed behind a smile
they call me safe
like I haven’t been carrying a fire in my throat
for years

sometimes I scream into a drain
just to hear what doesn’t echo back.
sometimes I open my mouth
and it’s all salt
and no water.

I’ve spent too long cleaning the mess
before they step inside
apologizing for the shape of me
before they even ask the question

now I gargle saltwater
until my voice is too raw to speak
until silence feels more honest
than telling the truth
to someone who won’t keep it

let them ask
let them knock
let them misname my ritual.
I’ll be in the quiet
spitting out blood
like it’s poetry
and still being called beautiful
for surviving.

I am cursed with the affliction of kindness.
And I will haunt this earth until I have seen the end of all things beautiful.
I prepare my epitaph, so that I may visit my own grave—
and mourn every piece of myself that I changed.

No matter what I do, it is not enough.
I was not enough.
I don't think I ever could be enough—
not for any of you.
But I still tried, didn't I?
I still try.

Perhaps this is all I was meant for—
to love until I disappear.

How cruel, to exist in a body that is hated.
Not smart enough, not pretty enough.
But forever kind enough.