is it a lie
if when you said it,
you thought it was true?

sometimes
in the darkest moments
of the darkest nights,
i forget You can hear me.

sometimes
in the brightest moments
of the brightest days
i forget i need You.

i forget the feel of your voice
i forget how it slipped
into the ridged fingerprint
of my soul.
i forget the whisper of your love
i forget how it sounded
when You spoke the truth
and i ignored it.

i forget that
all the static
of my failures
should not overcome
the melody of Your Spirit.
i forget how to listen
and believe
because i am so used to lying to myself
that the truth seems impossible;
just out of my undeserving reach.

oh Lord, i am undeserving
my hands have dirt and filth and blood
caked under the fingernails
and painted in the creases of my palms.
my skin is tainted. i am not whole.
but i am also undeserving
of the things i have whispered
to myself
in the shadows of my depression.

You tell me things that i don't think
i need to hear.
for years, i've refused.
i've so foolishly claimed
my own wisdom.
i am not wise.
i am not deserving.

But i am Yours.

i haven't
felt like this
in a while.

carefree,
soft,
gentle-
letting my hair down,
feeling its softness.
doodling tiny feathered wings,
feeling the pen pull at
the skin of my forearm.
(three little hearts and a rose, too
when i think of you.)

i feel innocent again.
i forgot what it felt like.
i feel like the mistakes i've made
are in the past,
because you don't even know i've
made them.

my soul, the core of me,
is fluttering its wings
(the little wings
i drew on my arm)
and it feels-
small.
i do not know how else to describe it.
it doesn't feel small in the fact that
it could be easily trampled;
but small in that fact that
you could cup your warm, steady hands
around the bird that lives in my
ribcage
and remind me that everything's okay
because i trust you.

the lights of your eyes
brown-gold-copper, like an
oncoming sunset
i would know them anywhere.

i'm drawn to your eyes;
your eyes of kindness
of consideration
of the way they crinkle
when you smile;
you always think of others.
do you remember to think of yourself?

your eyes
they're soft.
i'm safe when i look at you.
i'm safe when your eyes meet mine.
i know your eyes;
i know you.

your eyes
are my favorite eyes
because
they are your soul.

sometimes
my life feels like
it is reduced to the sum
of the plates i'm spinning.

all those months ago,
you told me that
i don't get angry.
i don't have a temper.

you're right, you know.
i grew up
a target of anger.
anger was in my blood.
and that blood was a scarlet crosshairs
painted on my back,
a poison to my fragile skin.

my household was
the veritable entirety
of the world i knew.
it was ruled
with harsh words
not the words that make you angry
but the words that you say
and regret
and can't take back.

i was raised in
an intimate relationship
with the red-hot eyes of rage.

i know angry.
i know the rolling boil of your intestines.
i know the pressure in your chest
i know it well.

i know how to cool tempers
(a survival skill for my emotional state)
and i know how to rile them up.
i know how to play
the heartstrings of your fury.
if you asked me,
which emotion i knew best;
which state of mind i could best harness;
i would answer, simply
anger.

anger issues are
embedded deeply into my dna.
i've felt cloth pull
under my fingertips.
i've seen spots in my vision.
i've known the rise in your throat
the frustration squeezing
and refusing to let go.
i've felt anger.
i've received anger.
i've survived anger.
i've seen anger tear my family apart,
i've seen it linger and remain
even after apologies
like an unwanted curse,
determined to ruin me.
determined to ruin us.

i don't have a temper, by nature.
but every now and then,
it rises up in my chest.
but i've been oh so careful.
never would i want my anger
to hurt others.

i have the bruises on my wrist to prove it.

you once told me;
out of all the things in the universe
you could have told me;
you told me that
i'm not an angry person.

i've never felt so relieved
because the very last thing
i could ever want
was my fragile existence
painted with the curse of anger.

i refuse to let
the very thing
that ruined me all those years ago
cling to me like a parasite
and turn on those i love.

so thank you,
thank you because you
spoke it into existence.
by telling me those words
all those months ago,
you, while not breaking my curse,
confirmed it was broken.

so much of my
life has been
struggling
with what happiness
means to me.

so many of my
thoughts have been
struggling
with how i
could ever deserve it
could ever find it.

it's been living
under my skin
this whole time.
i just needed
to realize;
being happy isn't like
in the movies.

happiness isn't
a magical serendipitous revelation
that happens
and suddenly
nothing ever goes wrong again.

happiness is
those moments
where you are peaceful
where you are content
where you are in
close proximity to
something you love.

if we could make
the idea of happiness
that much simpler,
we could make
life
that much simpler.

it's one in the morning
and i have so many emotions
swelling in the space between
my lungs

the space where
i imagine my soul
resides

i don't know
why, but i feel
i know
that my soul is a tangible
expanding, moving
thing
trapped in my ribcage
my fragile bones are
a birdcage for
the paper bird that is my soul

it really does feel
like it can fly
sometimes,
like now
the darkest hour of the night
or when
i let certain songs
permeate my skin
and sink into my bones

my soul is an *****
visceral, necessary
for my very survival.
a comforting weight
in the space between my lungs
when i lose my grip
or my breath
i can feel it, always there
it grounds me.

someday
you and me
we'll sit together
and i'll draw
galaxies
in the constellations
of your freckles

someday
you and me
we'll sit together
exhanging whispered words
and hushed laughs and earbuds
and history notes

i hate history class
but i love you

i see you every morning.
you always sit in the same spot.
i always sit in the same spot -
next to you.

when you smile at me,
i don't feel something
sour with nervousness
grip my heart
like i did
before i had met you
and i loved others.

when you smile at me,
it's something familiar.
no one smiles like you do.
no one smiles at me like you do.

one time,
we were swapping songs,
sharing earbuds.
at the time,
i was in love with this one song;
i played it over three times
before you laughed,
and asked me if i knew
a certain song.
i said no, too focused
on my science homework
to see your face.
(i wish i had seen it,
just to know what you were thinking
and just because i love
the way you smile at me.)
you played me three songs-
three songs i hadn't heard before.
each one
was
a love song

and i couldn't help
but wonder
if that was
your love song for me.

i've walked around
with an open wound in my chest
for years.

i've been ever so careful
to wipe up the puddles
of blood i
leave in my wake.
i have to.

this wound,
this open wound,
has been festering
for years.

it was wrought first
by a wooden stake,
dripping with grass-green poison,
when i was still too young
to know that
this open wound
shouldn't have been there
at all.
i don't quite remember
the first time i looked
down at my own chest
and saw my own heart,
beating and dripping blood
peeking through an open wound.

it hurt.
it hurt IT HURT it hurt.
it hurt so, so badly.

as the years passed,
and this wound
was inflicted
again and
again and
again and
again and
again and
again and
again and
again and
again and
again.
it was torn open day after day
rotted and infected
it exposed my ribs
it exposed my lungs
it exposed my heart
it exposed my soul.

but. now.
today's the first day
that instead of letting it be torn deeper
i put on a band-aid.

this open wound,
i've never felt it heal.
and now that i am starting to,
it seems more painful
and sore
than ever.

in the stillest moments of the night,
when the only company i have
are broken pencils and broken thoughts
and the only light in my vision
is my laptop, the blankness
taunting me,
i have an indescribable urge
to prove myself.

my soul, that space in my chest,
tells me to fight.
fight what? where? i ask,
wisps of my hair twining
between my tired fingers.

(my fingers are tired; of writing, of
those moments when
you can't envision your future
so you assume it's dead.)

that space in my chest replies,
quiet and determined:
fight the voices
in your ear,
telling you each and every way
you'll amount to nothing.
fight them, and win
simply because
you can.
fight expectations
prove those who
told you each and every way
you'll amount to nothing
wrong.
come out on top.
laugh in their faces.
prove you can fight. prove you can last.

prove you can win.

we both like hugs and cats
we're pretty much the same person!
she makes my mornings so much easier,
this friend of mine.

last year,
i didn't know her very well.
(i didn't know anyone very well;
a new school district, if you will.)
but she's the loud to my quiet
the pretty to my clumsy
and the fight to my meekness,
this friend of mine.

this year,
we hold hands,
and hug,
and laugh,
and i'm very glad to have her,
this friend of mine.

my fingertips are always cold.
when I press them
to my face
or tuck them
under my chin
they are chips of ice.
the warmth feels good,
and i can breathe again.

it squeezes
the meaty flesh
between my lungs.

that *****
that tissue
those cells
electric with these
waves of nervousness
wrapping their tendrils
and gripping, too tightly.

is it nervousness?
when i am nervous,
i know what to do with it.
i know how to use it.
this is not nervousness.

anxiety took root in my heart
years ago
and it still clutches
at the space where i
imagine my soul to be.

gentle
is a word that could
describe me.
maybe if you knew me.

but do not take
my quiet voice
my soft eyes
my drifting hair
my light fingertips

for weakness.

everyone's soul
has that one space,
that one territory
where it unquestionably
undeniably
belongs.

mine is simply the stage.
nothing can stir my heart
quite like the way
the warmth of the stage lights
the scent of paint and sawdust
the rustle of velvet curtains
the rolling murmur of the audience
the firmness of the stage, tacky with masking tape
can.

i was made for the stage.
only there am i certain.
missteps? mistakes? you ask
i laugh, a private laugh.
no, i reply. improv. adaptability.
no matter if my tongue, if my foot, if my face slips
i am standing on a stage.
this is my territory.

you would do best
to not challenge
underestimate
my power
when
i
stand
on my stage.

you have no idea.
it's funny to me
how you have no idea.

i've spent exactly five hundred and ninety-nine days
denying any semblance of romantic notions.
i've spent exactly one year, seven months, three weeks, and a day
with a fragment of my soul
in love with you.

five hundred and ninety-nine days ago,
i had no idea.
(much like how you have no idea, even now)
i didn't even think
i just knew-
i wanted to know you.
i wanted to be your friend.
i wanted to be near you.
a crush never occurred to me!
but that fragment of my soul;
something tells me it knew this whole time.
it knew and it wanted to reach out to you.
so i've followed you
i've sought you out from crowds
(not really knowing that i was searching
for you, specifically)
this whole time.

maybe i should clarify but
when i speak of denial
i speak of mine.
i spent these eighty-one weeks and a day
telling myself i only wanted to be your friend.
there was simply no way, in my mind
that i wanted to hold you
kiss you
love you.

i still don't want to kiss you.
not right now.
but i would love to lean into your side,
and curl an arm around your waist
and hide my face in your neck.

it's 6:45 in the morning
     and you wish you could remember his name.

we're driving home.
it's raining and
car lights shine through rain-splattered windshields
like angry neon brushstrokes.

sometimes i think i can see
every single color of the rainbow
when i stare at white streetlights.
sometimes those chromatic hallucinations
make me think
of all the beauty trapped
under our skins.

water splashes under the car's tires.
the sound lulls me to drowsiness.
how long has it been, i wonder,
since i last fell asleep in a car seat
unaware and unworried.

the sky is dark.
it darkened hours ago.
i can still feel its warmth on my skin,
if i close my eyes, and think of noon.

if i breathe in,
moisture fills my throat and my lungs
and everything becomes just a little clearer.

i live for rainy days.

Your promises
keep me alive.
Your commandments
saved me - literally, i might add.
if it weren't for You, i would
be dead.

i still do.
want to be dead, that is.
the urge never quite goes away.
i live with it like
a life sentence,
except i never actually committed
the ******.

does not killing myself
make me a coward or a hero?
does not killing myself
make me selfless or selfish?

sleep tugs at heavy limbs.
sleep tugs at heavy eyes.
sleep tugs at heavy minds.
sleep tugs at heavy hearts.
sleep calls, and you answer.

when i bare my neck at you
i'm not trusting you to not hurt me
i'm trusting you to protect me
from those who might

Marker stains like bloodied knuckles
Red ink blooming on purple skin
False pain, seen but not felt
Beautiful, twisted
I wanted to feel it.

Those stray marks were so inconsequential,
But they captivated me
For the rest of the day.
They were so beautiful, and they looked real.
I wanted them to be real.

The tip of the pen dragged
Across a pale canvas
And constellations of angry red scratches.
My fingers dug into soft flesh
Nails sharp, skin dry.
That pain I felt.
That pain I controlled.

(I never made myself bleed
Part of me was proud
But a small part of me,
The part fascinated by the beauty of a broken body
Wanted to see blood,
My blood,
Beading on a pale canvas.)

A mess of bruises
Sprawling the territory of my right wrist,
Born of the moments
I hated myself most.
Flashes of anger birthed
A pain I felt.
A pain I controlled.

I still remember the days
When the scars on my skin
Could be erased.
When I painted my body with false wounds
Haphazard and messily beautiful
Like a classroom art project began at three AM.

Like pastels smeared beyond recognition,
I did not see myself
In the curves of my wrists
In the folds of my skin
In the ***** of my neck
Or in the line of my back.

I did not see myself
In the kid who cried easily
Who broke easily
Who crumbled at a raised voice
Who felt the very things they hated.

I did not see myself
In the anger
Or the hatred
Or the lies.

So I took the false pain,
The classroom art project of my body
The watercolor bruises
And the marker-ink scrapes
And I made them real.

I did not see myself
So I took my beautiful art project
My creativity, my life's work
And I blinded myself with pain
So I could not see at all.

i have so many words
bubbling under my skin
pulling at my soul
begging, pleading to be released
"i'm trying," i cry
"please be patient with me," i am but small
but they do not care.
they eat away at me,
and my soul is heavy with the words
i do not yet know
how to set free.

the problem is
we decided beautiful is good.
beautiful is pure.
beautiful is normal.
we chose not to see
the beauty in a man's last breath
after he's been shot three times.
we chose not to see the beauty
in the death of a garden.
we chose not to see the beauty
in manipulative phrases.
we chose not to see the beauty
in the things that harm us,
when in fact beauty
can be as deadly and objective
as a knife, loosely grasped in someone's hand.

do you ever
mourn the stories you deleted
or the words you cast away?
do you ever
long for the worlds you created
and threw aside foolishly?
do you ever
miss the way you strung together sentences
before your world tilted?
do you want again
to read the paragraphs you once crafted?
do you regret emptying your recycle bin
until you had nothing left except
all the words you would write in the future?

freckles are sweet constellations
dying chocolate stars
on a universe of cream

i wish i could
touch the dying stars
and lose myself
in the universe of your face.

i wish i could describe
the feeling of standing in a large, open building
while a storm rages outside

the roof is a million miles away
something in your soul /feels/ the open space around you
the emptiness, not a bad emptiness
simply /there/, simply powerful
if you had wings, they would fill the space
it's the feeling of potential
at once the potential for the space to be filled
and the electricity that fills it

the storm is above your head
and around your body
and deep in your chest
all that open space between you and the storm
it's surreal.
you're both acutely aware of your fragility
and aware that this torm
won't even touch you.
you feel small
and also like this moment,
the present,
is just an old memory, locked away
from years ago, that you stumbled upon
in the manner one does, when time is simply not a concept.

standing in a large building with a storm raging outside
is humanity.

I used to wonder.
About nothing, really.
My head was full of mud and wild strawberries,
Eaten young because children are impatient
And worries are small.

From the sunrise to the sunset,
We would play.
We would climb weak, young trees
And cling uncomfortably, because we
Were not as small
As we used to be.

We would swing and
Swing and
Swing and
Swing
Until we outgrew that, also.
Until the yellow plastic that once allowed us to fly
Couldn't hold lanky limbs
And tangled hair.

One by one,
The things that defined our childhood
Faded away, left behind in old houses
Or forgotten to a stream of consciousness
That made minutes to days
And weeks to seconds.

So many absent, mundane moments
I remember.
So many
I have forgotten.