like a monster
under your bed,
grief knows
where you hide.

it knows
where to go
and how to
hit you
where it hurts.

it can take
the shape
of welcoming arms
and swallow you
in one gulp.

one moment,
you are high
on the top of the mountain
and the next,
you are at
the ocean bed,
not knowing how
to swim back
to shore.

you suffer in silence
because you're not sure
anyone would get it
or even listen.
you don't let yourself cry
because you don't want
to feel the sorrow
drip down your cheek.

it's a constant battle,
trying to come to terms
with how you feel
but also not drowning
in your own feelings.

i suppose the world
doesn't owe me
anything,
but i thought
it would be
a little more fair
to me.

grief doesn't care about
who you are.
it will find you,
when you least
expect it.

grief,
we've become good friends.
you know where i hide
my secrets,
my scars,
and the things that hurt.
i never wanted you to
take up such a big part
of my life,
but alas.

i haven't overcome
you yet,
one day i will.
i'm still waiting
to make peace
with my sadness.

To whom it may concern,

I am fragile. I will pretend I'm okay when really my shoulders are collapsing under the weight of the heavy universe I do not feel a part of.

To whom it may concern,

I am tired. I have been running from things I dare not face since monsters began appearing under my bed and now all I'm left with are mirrors. I would rather join the monsters under my bed.

To whom it may concern,

I guess you could say I'm running from myself. Maybe I am. All I know is that the reason I hear my heartbeat so clearly is because my chest is hollow and I push people away for fun, like they're the dinner table I'm sat at and now I'm full.

To whom it may concern,

My name is Victoria, the meaning of Victoria is victory but the only thing I've been victorious at is ripping my own soul until it bleeds black. I've been trying to dye it red from the blood of others but colour fades and I'm tired.

To whom it may concern,

I am made up of layers, some are impenetrable by choice and some are just hanging under my fingernails. I can't seem to get them clean.

To whom it may concern,

I am a riddle, to some, I am a muse. For me, I am trying.

Thunder rolling over head
Hunching over the deary man said
"Everything is a lie"

Delirious from a modern revelation
Effecting his push to move on
Among the many weary from thought
The thought of the millions of piles
He is allowed to stand upon

"Oh god what are their names, dear
    god please tell"
For the foundation is built, upon the
    blood we till

All while the cycle repeats

Hundreds of millions of individuals
    we pile high
Uttering senseless words in a unifying
    cry
"May I always be alone in this mass"
"Belonging to a useless lower class"
"Love me always for I endured"
"Every hardships to try to keep
    pure"

"My god how many are there" the
    dreary man asked
Anonymous characters looked at him
    from the past
Never tainted by the words of history