I am a mess. I am a ticking bomb. I am an empty broken bottle of ***** on my kitchen floor, a collection of dying stars ready to explode. I am a wallflower, an insecure bundle of fear, a shy girl who rarely talks about her feelings. I am a grey induvidual with strands of orchid ribbons frayed at the tips. A moderately pale lanky teenager whose friends are few. I am my past. A quiet girl who refused to eat, who carried razors and trinkets in her pockets, who rarely spoke but broke down and weeped constantly, who was afraid to speak out, for fear no one would listen. I am my present. A young woman who is lost in every direction, who strives to be perfect but won't actually achieve anything, who is only somewhat antisocial, who is deeply afraid to love someone, for fear they'll break her heart. I am my future. A loveless woman who has a decent career in fine arts, who goes home to her empty, stuffy apartment and nostalgically looks back at her teenage years while sitting in front of a bright screen, who secretly wakes up early on weekends to drive to her support group but gets pulled over for the ***** in her hands. I am a potential alcoholic, a misunderstood whiny teenager, an overdosed blackout, a late night trigger. I am the queen of insecurity, who sits on a throne of judgement. I am an array of colors bursting at the seams ready to bleed on the ones they loved. I am a listener who wants to comfort others but can't quite grasp the idea. I am a pair of torn lungs clogged with dafodil petals, sticky black tar, and what ifs. I am a girl crying out for mercy but my throat has been surgically removed and is replaced with quiet bruises. I. Am. A. Mess.

Luminescent skin, spiralling layers pressed
From inside the curling dagger pollen;
Violin strings draw forth the butterflies
Towards their fate, cerberus lips clasp
Wings of dafodil— spotty mossy green
Outcrosses the budded red drooping dead;
Akashic run, like that of a waterfall
Whence rippling pendulums row,caught infinitely.

Glowing stem— seperating to laughing claws
and mandalas paused along fully harmonious crease;
All falls back to fungal soil underground
For which all life is magnetically supported:
Prestine exoskeleton, flaming bones
that weavith skyward with ancestral ghost
softly chasing, having foundated their creator.

Blonde hair binding split petals via waves
  Of furious vibrations, snapped calm and quiet.

Mature flesh and bone, whom let the pencil
Move over pale canvas—
'I picture a clock that's arms spin fire
Outward. '
Poor woman, legless two years
Prior to her deathday— wonderous harbinger
Who once, overwhelmed by the menial day to day,
let pencil fall,skim and form
   and reform

Beautifying the world -- lonely, bold and brave
Her mind image caught, fished through the haze

And etched for the rest of time to forget.