twenty-three she takes your wrist, presses the pad of her
do not tell me i am not brokeni need people to stop telling methat i am not brokenthat i am not cracked open and spillingout of the shell they created for methe shell that clings and suffocates mei need them to stop saying thatthey'll fix the splitsthat they'll fill them in with concreteand make it betterbecause i am drowning in peoplewho think that they are supportivethat think i am theirs to mold and shapei am not a vase, i am broken chinasmashing against the ground over and overin frustration because i cannot be the kindof beautiful that you want to beyou cannot paint over me and expectthe sharp tongue and the hard eyesto go awayi am brokeni am spilling outi am ripping my way through membraneand shell to find light so that i can breathein something other than liesand i am afraid, i am so afraidof a world where nothing holds me inwhere it is only mewhere i am free to move my arms and legsto dance, to sing, to speak outbut i need iti need to feel a wind that isn't yourharsh breath do
romanceweak lightand whatyou wantto hear.
...when death put its handon my shoulder,it shivered;i was alreadycold.
loveis the drinkandthe hangoverallat once.
StrandThe moon pullsstray denim threadsfrom the frayingshorelineI watch the tidego in and outremembering how I used totake a few of your hairsbetween my fingerswhen you weren't lookingand pinch as hard as I couldas if I were killing a spideror fastening a snapI would squeezewithout pullingyou nevereven knew
Nobody's desertthe sun singsfrom 93 million milesaway and my skinlistens.
MakeMadness saysnowthe way beautysaysyes
burdenedsome days I feel burdenedby the weight of the people around methe people who are fully capable ofshattering at the mentionof a word or a nameand sometimes I do not see thisweight as something I have a rightto carryI should not be the one to enter theirheart and take out all the burnt partsI should not be the one to carvemy name in them and tell themthat they are wantedtheir bark isn't thick enough formy knife and most days I just end uphurting them alland yet there are days when I longfor their knives,their signatures delicately nestled in meI long for the heat of a companionable touch,a soft, knowing smile tugging at their lipsand when they are goneI know I will grieve,I'll let the memories wash off me in waves of tearsI know that I will crave themagain along the months,call for themin songs that only we know,that only make sense to usbecause they will come back to me,with my name in their chests,theirs in minesinging and crying with laughter in our eye