I don't hate you,
I could never hate you.
                                                 I envy you.

I envy the way you look so free,
the way you could be called confident,
in the clothes people would call me bold for.
The way your good at so many things,
that I lay in your shadow,
yearning for the spotlight.

I wish I could love you,
or even just like you,
but, I can't.
Because your beautiful,
your kind,
your loved,
                                                  your perfect.
While, I'm just....
well, me.

So, I'm sorry.
Just know,
I don't hate you,
I could never hate you.
But,
                                            I'll forever envy you.

are you still
there?
i noticed
your silence,
villain disguised
as victim
brought to your knees
brandishing
your bloodied hands
as a casualty,
like they aren't
the weapon
like you didn't
walk your greedy
little fingers up
inside my rib cage
and take it all.

The birth of our sun wrote megalithic,
two-word bursts of observable heat to life.

It pounded the density of a billion
squealing animals and thought itself
star—a pencil

being lifted by an oven-mitted hand
somehow deft, fortune-telling
witch.

sun—which will, in time,
bow out to a goodnight city
where every light is eaten

by dark-spelled window—no reflection
of flame,
no kiss of magnet—no

just cold death to
the bones—a molded meatball
dancing in a spiral once believed

to be beautiful.

get old

get sick


and die


it's normal