All the truths
That I hold within myself
Crowd my mind, 
So that when I open my mouth, 
Only meaningless words
Emerge.

6 more cigarettes, she counts,
rationing her existence.
Finding something to need other than sleep is refreshing.
She can hear his voice
through the walls
and she inhales deeply.
She needs the smoke to blacken her lungs
as a small pittance of retribution, reflecting the blackness she  holds in her heart.
And, as she exhales,
she lets the smoke burn
her eye
as she watches watches it coil
and curl away.
Someday
she will display her wounds
proudly
as battle scars.
Bur first she must survive, and heal. 
5 more to go.

But I can’t help it.
My words form stanzas
all on their own.

And
         jagged
                  broken
               lines.

Prose. Sharp neat line after sharp neat line that goes on and on forever forming endless boxes of words how do I stop when do I breath where am I can you find me?

Did you know.
His eyes
and your sky
turn into my words and
this is all I have.

Poetry is all I have.

Take it from me and all
you will have
will be cold
frigid
air.

That last breath
was so much sweeter.
I know I've come to this point
when my fingers
can no longer move
of their own volition,
and I snap, and nothing flies. 
Do you fly?
Sometimes I feel an ache
in the back of my
shoulders,
and my feet lift
slightly off the ground. 
I revel in the moment,
although my chest
always feels tighter
afterwards, and the bitterness
in my mouth
tastes like you.

I only find the scratches
on my fingers
after you leave, 
although
I am often electrocuted
in your presence.

I excel at
Making
--And then breaking--
Promises. 
If I lift my eyes heavenward
Searching for you,
My vision is obstructed 
By the stars
And so I know, 
I must close my eyes
And focus inwards, instead,
To find you.