There is blood at your feet,
glass in your flesh,
and sand in your nails.

In an other time,
with another chance.
You don't truly believe things would be different if you could go back.

You are not someone that 'could have been better,'
you are just you, as you are.

You could never have been different.

The coffee's always going cold too fast,
the jeans around my waist are never loose enough.

I'm looking for warmth in blue eyes,
why are they the colour of ice?

Can you hear the buzzing?
Is it crickets in the summer?

Are we beautiful yet?
Are we loved?

Sometimes I step into the wrong hallway,
and a smell hits me.
Its far away, barley there,
and suddenly I can feel my mother's hands in my hair.
I can see the rays of summer's sun filtering beneath my cousin's eyes and colouring them hazel.
I stare in awe, and she paints my nails, as I lie with my cheek against the wooden floor.
I am watching my father, taller than he ever was, and the tea I've spilled is turning cold against the table.

everywhere is a hole,
waiting to **** me up.
every word from your lips,
a beautiful request to crush my heart.
step carefully,
with practiced skepticism,
or the ground will give out beneath you.

He was glass.
Not necessarily fragile, but the threat was always there.
You couldn't crush him in your hands if you tried,
whether with love or cruelty,
lest your hands be stained with blood.
But maybe all it would take is the smallest slip,
clumsy footing,
and he would shatter.

My kindness is simply my atonement for my shame.

My goodness only exists to hide my selfishness.

You aren’t your thoughts, I know,

But why do I feel them inside of me?

Why are they crawling,

Dragging through my veins and leaving jagged marks?

Why are they nestling into the cracks of my bones?

I am not good,

But my love is real.

It may not be pure,

It may not be beautiful,

But if you’d let me,

I would rip my own heart from its strings to let you see it.

They would stretch until they were snapped stiff,

ringing out like the threads of a harp.

I’d bare myself to you in all that I am, and all that I am not.

And if knowledge is power,

If ignorance is bliss,

I’ll sink my fingers into my skull,

I’ll dig out my brain and fall to the floor,

I’ll offer it to you, and watch with lulled eyes as you hold it gently to your lips.

Yet I am terrified.

I am terrified that a little girl is watching me,

Silent,

Bearing witness to the monster in her skin.