the vacuum hums,
and i feel it in my chest—
a restless kind of anger,
like a match about to strike.

maybe it’s because the sound
reminds me of yelling,
of my mom’s voice tearing
through the air like it had teeth.
when i hear it now,
i want to scream back,
but there’s no one here to blame.

the only time i can stand it
is when my hands are on the handle,
when i’m in control of the noise.
maybe that’s the metaphor:
it’s not the sound,
but the power to make it stop.

Let's just say
I opened my heart
I would smell the anxiety
Fear
Love
Pain

But I wonder
If anyone else would
But I think not
Because when it was closed
No one cared
Or wondered what's really going on in there

So now what now?
It just gets hurt more easily?
I don't need any more of that

I stitch it back up
Now the air smells of nothing important
Fake smiles
"I'm okay"'s
Covered up opinions
Feelings
Screams

I guess it's better that way

23 is my favorite number
It doesn’t really have a significance
Except for that fact that it’s her birthday
And I’ll remember her forever

The sky looks like them---
Just waiting to burst out in tears
Scream
And collapse

I like sad things.
Sad things make me happy.
Sad things make me feel
Less alone

he’s not broken like me,
so i hide my cracks—
afraid he’ll see the light
slipping through.

sure,
but why did you care about me?
no one ever did before.
is this what it feels like
to feel okay?
because i don't recognize this feeling.
not at all.