I open my mouth
But no words come out,
I lift my pen
And no longer know how,

To express myself,
And how I feel.
As if the world itself,
Stopped being real.

Then I hear a song
And tears roll down
Sensations awaken
As I start to drown.

There isn't a soul,
that can save me now.
Or maybe there is...
I just can't see how.

My eyes glazed over,
Words fly like bullets,
But I don't feel them.

The artillery raining down around me,
But all I see is...nothing and...all of it,
It's hard to explain.

My minds jumbled,
I know something isn't right,
But I can't break this.
My 1000 yard stare.

you tell me
No One loves you
but i bet that isn’t true
what you really mean to say
is that you don’t love any of the
people that do, which is quite alright
i mean i support all the crap about waiting for the one
but don’t you dare say no one loves you. because.   i.    am.     not.    No One.

I spend too much time
pressing my worries
against the roof of my mouth-

I am surprised there is anything left of me.

My tongue acts too quickly
seems I cannot keep up
or shut up.

I am spilling these secrets
from between my lips
as if they are my savior.

please remind me
what unchapped lips taste like.

remember me in the heat of it all.

I lie to myself
because it feels
the way you did.

reminds me who to come back to.

why am I holding on to a lost soul?
why am I stuck inside this echo chamber
of apologies as if I wrote them myself.

the backs of my teeth
have gaps in between
and I realize I am more broken than whole.

I don't remember what you taste like anymore-
so I lie to myself as a reminder.

But it's never quite the same.

and I never will be either.

As a child
I put my finger in the fire  
to become
a saint.

As a teenager
every day I would knock my head against the wall.

As a young girl
I went out through a window of a garret  
to the roof
in order to jump.

As a woman
I had lice all over my body.
They cracked when I was ironing my sweater.

I waited sixty minutes  
to be executed.
I was hungry for six years.

Then I bore a child,  
they were carving me  
without putting me to sleep.

Then a thunderbolt killed me
three times and I had to rise from the dead three times  
without anyone’s help.

Now I am resting
after three resurrections.

THE HORSE'S name was Remorse.
There were people said, "Gee, what a nag!"
And they were Edgar Allan Poe bugs and so
They called him Remorse.
  
  When he was a gelding
He flashed his heels to other ponies
And threw dust in the noses of other ponies
And won his first race and his second
And another and another and hardly ever
Came under the wire behind the other runners.
  
And so, Remorse, who is gone, was the hero of a play
By Henry Blossom, who is now gone.
  
What is there to a monicker? Call me anything.
A nut, a cheese, something that the cat brought in.
  Nick me with any old name.
Class me up for a fish, a gorilla, a slant head, an egg, a ham.
Only ... slam me across the ears sometimes ... and hunt for a white star
In my forehead and twist the bang of my forelock around it.
Make a wish for me. Maybe I will light out like a streak of wind.