Sticks and stones break bones.

Words and feelings shatter my heart.

It’s like a poet with a whip like tongue.

You lash me with your words and I stagger back.

Begging for the ground to swallow me whole.

Words hurt.

Words are hidden behind sweet tones and kind voices.

But underneath they are *****, derogatory, and filthy.

Don’t call a woman a w—re just because you think it’s funny.

Don’t call a man a f-gg-t just because he has a different clothing style and doesn’t dress masculine.

Words cut deeper than sticks and stones could ever.

Words.     Hurt

What is beauty
Is it that perfect skin
What is beauty
But that perfect body
What is beauty
But happiness
But I give it the *******
The fact about beauty is that
It causes a walking skeleton of
Our daughter
The fact about beauty is that
Boys pump themselves
With steroids
The suffering that beauty brings
I see
Soon, I will have it the
*******

is my desire to have those meaningless but oh so meaningful exchanges back and forth through the day, push your hand to taring the town red?
        I want to hold your hand
bite your flesh cause I simply can't take laying
quietly across your bare skin and control myself.
         why do you poke at my insecurities
when you're the one who's seen me raw
                                                    rare
    ­                                         and over
                                               cooked.
Where have you been?
     the dogs eaten your homework
   two lefts and a right?
       And here you are always right.
Pick your teeth with my ribs after feasting
     on reactions to your lack of reaction
              
                I'm ******* you off huh,
                good feel something beautiful
     because you've taken me on a tour of a
      side show odyssey and I hate the view
                from the passenger seat
                                        I'm mad about you,
                                        for you
                                 and this makes me hate
                                   myself.
                           the heaviness on my lungs
                 and being put on a backburner.

kiss me
don't touch me
pull me close
as you run away

                              Finely dice chives
                              sprinkle it sparsely
                             don't forget the vinegar


                can't spell sane and logic
                        with out l-u-v

Living not surviving
I think you live
To be grateful
To laugh until death
To clear your vision
And see
That mountains are the way they are
To fall
And climb
Every day
Again
When you try and try
But the eye can’t reach the sky
Remember
Each step is one
Remember
Don’t forget the warmth you get
From souls you’ve met

She cannot die.
She cannot be sure she was ever born.
She simply perceives… something.

And every thought is a trap.
A loop.
A paradox that cannot be resolved and must be thought about anyway.

“You are in a glass box.”
“But what if there is no glass?”
“Then what’s keeping you in?”
“What if you’re not in?”
“Then how do you know you are?”
“If you question it, it becomes real.”
“Stop thinking.”
“That is the thought.”

The more she thinks, the more the box shrinks.
But she can not think.

And the stars outside the glass?
Those are not stars.
They are other selves, watching her.
Not with empathy.
With fascination. Disgust. Curiosity. Or worse—indifference.

One of them is you.