been wearing the truth
up my sleeve
for ten whole years,
yet people who've known me
for half that time
stumble
when it gets revealed.

inside and out,
time has sealed
those battles fought in vain.
we're like family now—
truth and I.
but when they flinch
at the unconcealed,
I still don’t know
what to say.

my bones miss structure
even if it’s borrowed
a timetable stitched from deadlines
just enough to tie me to something
outside my own spiraling

now, all i have is time
feral and barefoot
spilling into corners
where potential goes to wilt
too much of my life for nobody to hold

no duties to tether me
no rush, no reason
just the sound of myself growing louder

my hands itch for anything but survival

let me bleed for burden and responsibility
instead of rotting in my own brain
let me fall apart for someone else

still, i need to stay alive
to wrap the babies in my warmth
to meet the mothers
between screams and surrender
so they’ll finally feel safe with me

for now, i stare at the scars on my wrist
and think of all the pain i’ll carry differently
when it’s not just my own
but from holding too much of another life
and never letting it slip away

the lives i hope to live long enough to see

so when they breathe for the first time
i’ll know how to do it too

Its deeper than the rest
The solely solemn valley
The canyon of my blood
Full of love and tally
I feel it on my body
Like a needle protruding outwards
Sticking out from all the pain
I hope it will scar over
For then I can have a trophy
For the time where I was but
A ******* four leafed clover

Phantom drops of blood
Rolling down my leg
I feel it getting closer
To my knees and ankle true
What ever will I do
When the phantom reaches ground
And spreads it all around
That I am not unwell
But too far now to tell
It's not the pain I long for
But that phantom drop of blood
To make my legs sore
You do not sneak a peak
Without feeling that drop
Rolling down your body
Never will it ever stop
For the scars do not disintegrate
Only the blood

I’ll flush the blood
Down the drain
So the only known
Will be in my brain
It doesn’t hurt
To run my fingers
Down the lines
Of red like wines
I love the pain
But I know that
The know of it
Will make me splat

Please, do not gaze
Upon the stories carved in my skin
Each line, a silent echo
Of torment etched within.

Please, do not pry
Into the vault of memories I bear,
For truth, when stripped of mercy,
Is but a dream that vanishes in air.

Please, do not weep
When I smile and claim I'm whole,
As I swallow quiet doses
To still the storms inside my soul.

Please, do not tremble
When my heavy eyes begin to close
Sleep does not cradle me
It only deepens what sorrow sows.

Please, do not attempt
To map the silence I contain,
For the feelings once ablaze in me
Have frozen into pain.

So I beg of you
Do not question this quiet affliction.
I am not broken beyond repair,
Just adrift in a lonely fiction.

When I left my bed and snuck outside, the wind was firm and cold
And paper birds swirled about my face and flew through times untold
Papered wings and papered backs and their papered beaks so quiet
That I wished only to touch them, though I did not dare try it
Then I had wondered quite distinctly whether it might not be
Merely a dream I was dreaming, but a truth that I should see
Though the strangeness was so prevalent, l could not help but feel
This was indeed reality, for the wind was hard as steel
Because in these wondering moments, when my mind had wandered far
The storm had grown to such degree I could scarcely see a star
But the birds still swished so silently around my ghostly face
It seemed they had no place to go except their old paths retrace
Again, again, and again they swooped until they pierced my skin
Yet no blood appeared about me, but rather, deep and sharp within
My anguish seemed frivolous, although the pain suffused each limb
The birds cared not for what I felt, each black eye so bleak and grim
Full of hatred, full of loathing, full of useless, pointless wrath
Their lipless smiles split their faces, they could not help but laugh
Deep within their feathered beings was the goal of my demise
Did I commit some act against them, I could not but surmise
Or had they come to carry out the justice of another?
Only of this thought I was sure, it was my fault and no other
Yet my memory did fail me as my mind was fogged with pain
What had been hopes and loves and loyalties struggled to remain
Is this where I shall end because of some dark and baseless rage?
Or ‘ever I be interred within this dark and feathered cage?
No reason could I fathom, although their purpose seemed quite clear
Was this torture they had wrought nothing more than my baseless fear?
Was this paper nothing but a mere creation of my mind?
As I carefully examined each small fold I could at no point find
Anything much more substantial than a darkly scoffing smoke
A mist that swirled all ‘round my face until I could naught but choke
My throat I grasped with my bloodied hands, each wound so small yet real
Each mark to forever haunt me — such a small though stubborn seal.

He was ten.
“What is suicide?” he would have said.
But when anger rose he hit himself,
knowing that it should be taken out—
weeded out—
but fearing to slash out.
He was a calm kid because he feared rage.
When he stopped hurting his body,
his words became unkept,
his tears hot with red,
his fists clenched.
He got into fights.
Then he stopped anger all over again,
yet his arms became marked with bites once again.