He doesn't smile often,
and when he does it is flitting,
and even though I long to ask how he is doing,
I cannot seem to battle down
the commotion in my head and the terror in my chest
because I think he knows my secret
and I cannot put my fears to rest.
He never did anything wrong,
but I heard him say he might become a man of God,
and so often they decide that their beliefs are worthier than my rights,
so I still cannot stand near him without feeling drained
just to be filled up with dread and anxiety.
I hope that he has forgotten,
instead of just opting not to speak.

Meet me one day in the inky black shadow
when the ground is speckled with the sprinkling of the glaring flow
to bathe ourselves into warmth with the sacred, shining, golden ichor.

The sky burst its vein on the jagged peaks on the horizon,
so let us cherish its blood
and lay on our backs among the buds
until we wizen
in the flood.

You've tried everything in the book,
but nothing ever seems to work
you just can't achieve that long-desired look.
Let it all flow out in artwork,
if no one else will look at you like that.

Vibrant colors flood through the engravings in my skeleton,
the bright lights shining through my skin,
along every nerve as they illuminate themselves to make known their pain.
What a useless light show,
that nobody asked for,
telling everybody in vain
that it wants to be released.

On this morning there was nothing to wake for,
no eyes peeking around the corner,
no hand waving from the dented metal door,
no warm voice to greet me,
no friends to see.

It was not so different than any other day,
because every other day I wake the same.
The little one sleeps on,
since it is barely dawn.
And... her... aging hands are more troubled applying crap
to her to perfect her rap
than to waving or signaling a single care about us.
And his presence was once again lacking but I will wait until he is not busy
because he at least arrives and wants to see me.

Quite alone, sometimes it seems,
especially when I remember that most kids have friends and dates or sometimes a job or a fortune,
but I spend my time unsupervised, supervising, and trying to run my life,
when my mother cannot be bothered to care when it does not make her look better.

Some nights you wake up when it’s still dark
to bat at the breath in your ear.
You beckon into the shadows, so stark,
but you cannot hear
the sound that enticed you to hark.

You turn over onto your side,
making an attempt to hide
from the sounds and sights of the night,
but it is an already lost fight.

So close by is the turning of a bolt,
so dangerous and frightening is the jolt
that runs down your back with the slimy, dead hand,
you cover your eyes and wish it to end.

The window is latched,
but the bones pop and the paint now scratched,
so the breeze carries your blanket off of your back.
The glass is open just a crack,
but something crawls closer, really to hack.

Long and morphed are the fingerprints,
but are lost in the blitz
of stained and runny, ******, walls,
and away he crawls.

There are red makes etched imto my flesh,
and I am finding it harder to breathe afresh
underneath the layers of painful bandages.
Still my ribs ache and sting when they push through my skin, but can't push through that final layer hiding me.
I can't comcentrate on the lessons,
the words are a blur and the faces are obscured by tears,
but I will not stop because the pain of facing my body is even worse.

Everyone is shouting in my ears,
pulling them and stretching them to ensure I really hear,
but it goes in that ear and out the other.
If this means broken ribs and sickness,
then so be it,
because still the pain will be worth it.