Hello everyone,
I try to make a poem,
Out of something short and sweet.
But I want to thank all of you for
your kindness and generosity.

Everyone here, has emotions that
vary from big and small...
but all the same goes,
we are unique
and that's what brings
us together as a
wholesome community.

Our lives walk on different paths,
and each time the days go past,
we come on here to share our feels,
to help us spread emotions that cannot be felt.
So ever so kind, thoughtful and emotionally heard...
as I Thank You all
to take your time
to read ones poem,
show's the true hearts
of another poet...or simply
you are here to read...
so I thank you for your
greetings and salutations
as we continue to speak.

It all makes sense now — the foolish way I repeatedly gathered my broken heart and laid them at your feet like wild roses, the cold feel of beer bottles, the anguish at the heartbreak trying to escape my chest, the desperate need for your cruel hands, the way new Decembers kept on hurting — it all makes sense now, the miserably intense way that I loved you, and how it was never enough.

I needed to be hurt like that. I needed to live your cruelty in order to love myself more.

this lonely room is full of rosewoods rotting under the july rain, i have knocked on them way too many times, my knuckles can barely remember a period without the dull aching from the splinter — they can barely remember the stray bits of softness left here and there by the girl i used to be. still, knocking hasn't saved me from the insidious caving in of these humid walls. knocking remains an unanswered gesture and i have stopped asking questions. i can only sit, small and in bewilderment of my stagnation.

this lonely room is full of rosewoods rotting under the july rain and maybe my skin will soon be drenched enough to give in and fall, like a giant scab of a wound long healed. i am my own wound, breathing, quiet and careful in its self-inflicted state. this lonely room is full of rosewoods rotting and still, the veins in my wrists are mine to scar while waiting for the calm after the rain. i am the tree bark in a state of decay. i am a storm sewn shut like a bitter memory, like a piece of bloated flesh. god, all this cold is foreboding. this lonely room is full of rosewoods rotting under the july rain and i hope my skin weathers and erodes, like worn ***** soil, just in time for sunlight to look at me — just long enough for me to look back and feel its pity — its kindness — its warmth.

indeed there is a state of calm in an eroded consciousness. it's the closest thing to daybreak. it's the closest thing to peace.

my skin is made of dystopian days knitted together
until they resemble the dying seconds of my worst light

i am naked as a gaunt body under an indigo sunset — its weak light beams
feel like the browning stems of a *****
and my wrist is the soil, the aftermath of a war —
has it ended?
has the ground stopped rotting?
has my body?

i hope it doesn't get worse than this.

my skin is a piece of a brick wall
inside an abandoned church, it echoes
a kind of desperation, a kind of compulsion:
what am i doing?
what am i doing?
what am i doing?
i am a widow that prays to gods who are long gone,
in a church that no one visits anymore.

my skin is a map of prayers in a dead language
and there is no new word for the kind of mourning
the kind that silence can barely contain
without breaking into a scream.

it has always been loaded; i have always been loaded
in my fragile stillness, in my best and worst lights.
i hope i don't get worse than this.

I wish to flow, to pour,
to be seamless,
as the raven hair of a drowning woman;
it stays on the surface
but my head is beneath the water —
I am choking on my own cries.
I wish to be fluid and gentle as the sunlight
as it guts me open —
it looks immaculate with the knife
But I am the stones in a dead river,
the lump in my throat that doesn't quite fit
the size of my mouth;
I have swallowed too many suns
but the water floor still looks too dark,
I am a silhouette coughed up in the dawn,
the loch ness monster,
the still waters,
the body that goes nowhere but ashore.

I want to shed my skin,
pour it all and run dry —
be lighter than the sun.
I want to grab the god of time by his neck;
and out there,
Ophelia is still picking flowers,
humming to the fragments of sorrowful song,
her dress flows like a quiet brook;
it leaves only her sins in the water —
like a snakeskin in the Garden.
it leaves nothing but her sins —
they flow as she walks away.

Here,
in the middle of who I am

everything flows but me.

Choking is the last thing I remember.
The sun, the last thing I see.

I wear sadness a little too well,
it almost feels like second skin now –
uglier,
thicker,
more pronounced under the sun glare.
I wish I can undress myself.

Hera is sneering from afar.

I wish I can undress myself,
step out of this boundless skin
and its ironic inadequacy –
I am made of August’s tortured sighs;
I have worn them from my head down to my soles.
In vain, I have started scraping myself
against the softer sides of sunlight
but all I do is bruise and burn.

Hera looks down with pity –
somehow it's so much worse.


I wish I can undress myself.
I wish I can undress myself.

I wish I can undress myself
more than I already have.