shes locked in her own solitude,
with no peace to be found .
devalued, and lost in her own burial ground.
darkness eats away at every inch of light inbound,
and shes struggling to keep surface of a simple flesh wound.
she speaks "simple",
as if, it isnt her own corruption.
in her own minds riddle,
its the human-norm.
the skin is brittle,
but she takes hold of a violent storm,
can she keep surface?
or will she sink deeper,
deeper then the norm.

what an ordinary day
i hear myself say

as usual
the sun hung high
as usual
there are people walking by

what an ordinary day
i hear someone else say

it's no secret
of this full-fronted desire
not this case for others
but for myself it was clear

the path to take and the direction to go
to be held up by only
and one and only
another human being
as they tower high over me

i long to be away
to be extraordinary yet i still cannot bear
this painful ordinance
am i detrimental to my own story?

i winced silently as the wind blew past
i winced slightly as i hear myself laugh
i winced slightly as i coughed within a conversation

what an ordinary day
i dare not say
for who i am to say

There is no such thing as “normal”;
When you try to create “normal”,
“Normal” chokes everyone involved.

With the sky’s blood stiffening
                  & plugging the holes in its felt fabric
I admitted what I’d known for a bit too long.

It was 19:24 when I told my best friend
                  how I’d had an anxiety attack in Poetry 310,
how I’d pulled back from the terrible ricocheting
                  bullet whizzing into each synapse, an attempt
to distract my analytical thought patterns seizing up &
                 found my limbs convulsing without command,
my breaths zipping past my lips, 100mph in a 30mph zone.

My father had emotionally abused me & I found out
                  about 14:00, staring at a wealth of information,
how emotional abuse affects kids and I was gazing

into my own scars with chewed up cheeks.
Do you know instant inabilities, froth the mouth,
lashed to ceiling, concaved roundabouts? Belligerent
                companions,  I thought didn’t exist, not like this.
Not like how I’ve been told. Hadrian, short for Josh, short
for Navan’s boyfriend, at least in most stories.
It was almost 22:00 when she snapchatted me, eyes broken:

I want to commit suicide. It was 23:02 when the police called,
& 8:47 when she thanked me. The blood,
my blood, braced for impact, was this going to be my first time?

Do you remember your first friend’s suicide? I haven’t yet.
But waiting is nostalgic, counting taps of my foot.
Bleating for help, cry wolf, cry & die. Stonewall had enough
death seamlessly woven into history textbooks. Say,
maybe I ought to up & lie about tension riddled bodies when
my parents materialize. Afraid’s a word I studied
until it memorized contours of misshapen, looming, dried out

pride. Baked in the imprint of my fingertips, bruised, bashed,
cantered to lissome ledges overseeing basket-sized lakes.
Now it’s 14:58 & the lights won’t turn on & tunnels don’t mind

loamy silences with crippled arteries.

different isn’t special.

in fact it’s quite very normal.

ironically it’s the same for everyone.