I Let you right click my heart
And i gave you all the  options
You could have saved me
But you hit the "send to" button
And sent me away in a flash

Today i can't read, i can't sleep
Everything feels so unbalanced
struggling to find my own inner works
And yet i choose to stay in the shadows
No ink in the pen can make you understand
You simply can't have eyes for my words
Its painful but not hurting just sad
Struggling with my weak spirit

You were quiet,
And I was loud,
You were amazing,
And I was proud.

You barely spoke once a day,
And I could talk forever,
But most days we didn't need to speak,
As long as we were together.

Because it was what you didn't say,
so worthwhile yet small,
Those are the whispers,
that made me love you at all.

Where are you my love?
Are you waiting for me to find you,
To grasp your hand when I know you’re the one,
Standing in front of your face that’s as bright as the sun?

Why do this my love?
Why can’t you reveal yourself,
Instead of being the one to be shunned?
You may leave forever but I’ll still run.

Why so perfect my love?
Why hold your heart low beneath you,
For no one to see, no one to hug?
Stop checking yourself just to be done.

What do you yearn for?
Do you roam the earth for someone to love or,
Wait patiently for your lover to open your door?
He will never be there if you’re looking at floors.

What colors are your eyes?
Blue, green, brown or something so fine?
They say so much about you and tell me why.
Guess I’ll never see them if I gaze at the sky.

I was 6 years old and my mother
said I had words in my mouth
that came from an old woman's tongue.
Words and letters came to me
before I knew how to
open my unripe jaw

I was 8 years old and my teacher
told me to speak more
that the words I had on paper
were too grand to be ignored.
- but I was too silent and too afraid
of all the mouths that would open
before I could whisper "Just wait."

I was 11 years old and my brain
spoke so loud it was screaming
at my tongue to move
but before I formed a syllable
but before my jaw opened
my raised hand was ignored.

I am 18 now and my heart
finds comfort in the secret familiarity
of bleeding what my brain cannot
release onto pages and pages
of blood
of sweat
of tears
of poems that mark the place of a girl
well beyond her years.