we were in love
and you broke that apart
how could you do that
to your own daughters heart
you're a terrible mother
i want you to know
you're the one thing
that's making me go
she did not do it
she wants me to stay
nothing you do
will make this okay
so next time i see you
don't be surprised
when i scream at you
and tell you to die

You cannot touch her,
Tread quietly,
As she overlooks you with her straightened jaw.

Her proud eyes,
Waiting for the moment when your strength gives in,
And opened up,
She plunges into your depths.

Yes - She has seen you before,
As she carries back out of your darkness,
The little light,
And the moisture that was your love.

She laughs,
Dropping them onto the floor, and
With her own,
More delicate hand,
Reframes herself on the wall.

Your voice is a pale yellow, said the boy who
Etched colors into sounds. What he didn't say was that her
Loneliness dyed it that color, and that mosaics
Like her are much more that that; but she can't see herself as art.
Only a broken heart sewn together by shaking fingers,
Whittling away on a train to somewhere.

Losing herself to the roar of a motorcycle with wings she questions;
Are you going to destroy the world?
Understandably all he did was laugh in response, but the
Girl learned to laugh as well. And she
Held on a little tighter.

A smile like the sun on a hot summer day
Cracks open the darkness and peeks out from
Corners of the dirtied bathroom stall;
Other days seemed so hollow that she could
Merely be flung into the air like thin sheets of
Paper with a gust of wind; but today she
Lost herself in a boy who simmered in the pool.
In an instant she learned to live. And, when given the
Choice, rather than take to the air once again, she
Enlisted in his army.

Faded tree figures loom near,
visible as a smear
on what used to be the Mona Lisa.

The great work of art
goes to waste
as its paint is fingered,
by each person,
like its some sort of photocopy,
covering the masterpiece
with old, dirt, and impurities
that are not naturally occurring on skin.

Leonardo da Vinci would be appalled
at our treatment of his gift,
made to be given to one person,
yet he loved it...
and gave it to us instead.
Now stare once again
at its poor condition.

I walk
With a wooden smile
Simple to the crowd
Almost believable.

I cut myself
Where people cannot see
What horrors
I have done to myself.

I scream
For a minute
Then I laugh
For a minute.

I do not know
how to stop
The need to jump
Out of a moving car.

I try to control myself
I surround myself with people
I take my medications
I try to dance it off.

I get mad
When people do not know
How to help me
When I do not myself.

When I dance
I begin to see the truth
Only then I realize
I am only human.