my hands
ache
hoping
for something truly real.
i hate waiting
with doubt
and hopefulness
mixing in my head
making a deadly poison
i want
to feel something
soft like a feather
or course like sand
something
running
through the cracks in my hands.
i want
to feel
something real.

The outside of the China teacup,
Chipped and cracked but still standing up,
Straight
Vines wrap round the China glass like hands wrap round my throat
Bottom bears coffee stains and teabag remains, like a sad girl who bears her scars
Brim has a special need for a lips touch
like a middle schooler has for lunch

Today,
It holds a special type of poison
The type of poison that hurts before you drink it
The type of poison that isn’t really poison poison
But the type of poison that you pour inside me
and the sad thing is
is that I love your poison
And I’ll drink your poison everyday until you stop giving me poison to drink

How can something so sweet be so poisonous
a little petal full of toxins
a flower that feeds on death

How can so many lovely things be deadly
a plant creating scopolamine
a leaf that brews violence

Before,
This was a home.
Now,
It is poison.

I want to breathe but
The air is toxic and
Your words- they are harsh-
Cut deep
and they hurt.

I want to sleep but
The monsters keep me awake.
They haunt
Only me.

I want to rest my
Weary, aching feet but
The chair, the sofa, the bed-
This house
is made
of Fire.

Before,
This was a home.
Now,
It is only poison.

like hemlock tea, my presence hard to swallow.
breathing me in is wysteria, the air around me is poison.