A tease.
Yellow bees.
Plumb.
Twinkling ***.

Eleven.
Where is heaven.
Who creates.
The gates.

The sky.
Through the eye.
Clouds.
Crowds.

Body and flesh with the age of seventeen,
without being loud or angry.
Never been,
the warm yellow light.

Spiraling out of control.
Calmness collapses.
Burning a hole,
in what is assumed to be poured.

Deep pigment,
showering over loved once.  
Yet no commitment.
Daffodils growing in the garden.

Dripping from the ankle,
deep red,
ropes to get strangled.
Melting and mixing orange.

They may not know how i’m feeling,
but if they stop reality,
they see me hanging from the sealing.
“How young was she?”

My yellow days,
don’t go well with the maze.
My heart isn’t massive,
I can’t seem to find the passage.

My world is burning.
I’m high on passion.
Just wrote a text that will never be sent.
Why do I keep on trying to pretend?

Baby put on all your colors.
Some days I feel everything,
Some days I lose myself.
Please don’t tell me I’ll be fine.

I’m clueless too.
It’s fun when no one knows who you are.
They won’t know you reached a star.
My sole is to adore.

Trust me I want to scream,
in my empty room.
The pain crawls,
wasted on everything I shouldn't.

(in memory of when)
the thick summer air pooled around my shoulders melting
me into the swing set,
where my feet dragged the ground whenever i swang
and a girl in a yellow dress sat
next to me her legs sprawled out across the ground,
allowing the grass to kiss her skin
like a mother saying goodbye to her child one last time
and like i would to her as the sun set that night.

(in memory of when)
i sat on my roof and mourned that night
as the stars sang a hymn only i could hear
because the girl in a yellow dress was a bird
and decided this town was just another cage,
one that she could no longer be trapped in.

(in memory of when)
i wanted to go after her
my very being pulling at the edges
to grasp her hand as though it was my very lifeline
but my feet stood cemented in the ground
and she soared high above.

(in memory of when the girl in the yellow dress flew away)

He tells me that cliche again about van gogh and his yellow paint. He says i’m an artist like that. i’ll find my yellow paint. my salvation. how i scoop out hope.
i want to tell him i already have. the ugly things i shove inside myself trying to find happiness even if it kills me. my yellow paint has been entire cakes, has been sixteen shots, has been strangers i kissed and forgot, has been eating too healthy, has been eating nothing at all, has been dark nights i swaddled myself in, has been speeding on black ice, has been everything i could think of that would make me feel anything at all for once in my life. i wonder if i die like this they’ll say it was beautiful. they’ll talk about the poet who used the sharpest things in her life to carve the joy out of herself - they’ll say, oh, she knew it was toxic but she wanted to put the happiness inside of her again. she ate only captain crunch because it reminded her of her childhood, isn’t that so cute? well obviously it’s sad she’s dead but how romantic is it that she loved birds and flowers and once debated eating poison. how will they paint my ending. she unbuckled herself on highways because she wanted to be one with the sky. she refused to look before crossing the road because she believed in fate. she was a wonderful girl and will be missed while we wear socks with her face on them. van gogh ate yellow paint. we say he was trying to put the good back into him. but i’ve slammed myself against the ground trying to get death to stick. i know what self harm is when i see it.