i yearn for control,
take it into my own hands.
i control the lack of food,
let only my own metal draw red.
‘why would someone do that to themselves?’
i truly don’t understand their lack of understanding,
for it is oh so simple.
there’s no choice.
when the thoughts in your head grow too loud,
they break out,
morph into a multitude of monsters.
whether it be my blade - my oldest friend - or the scale, a newer addition.

surely i have developed Stockholm syndrome,
how else do you make sense of the
comfort, peace, and familiarity
found with my monsters?
thy blade only does showcases my deterioration, it in itself is of no real harm.
that, i must tell myself.

my monsters mean well, surely.

they only mean to help.
i’m begging for the next
“u good?”,
because maybe this time,
i’ll have the courage for honestly.
maybe this time,
my thought may finally
lose.

a long shot,
i’m aware.
but a shots better than a cut any day,
so much nicer,
quicker and simpler.
what a way to go out,
stain the floor forevermore.
really it’s a question of what hue
will coat it for eternity.
royal, majestic maroon,
or busy mush
from deep within my “brain”.
miss having one of those.

I will never
hide
my story.
perhaps
a warning,
or a precaution of what not
to do.
but frankly,
I wouldn’t change much.
It really did make me stronger.
allowed me more empathy,
let me see
into a little
bit of horror
others go through.

don’t you dare
judge scars,
be grateful
you’ve been
trusted
with their
story.

i want to leave not because
the world is too much,
but i am.
dancing in the sunshine,
singing in the rain,
smiling as if my life is brilliant.
my outside life if pretty perfect,
but the inside is rusty.
too many cracks and snags,
too many broken pipes, fractured beams
to be useful
anymore.
you wouldn’t use a vase that can’t hold water,
so why use a life that can’t hold joy?

what a blessing for a writer,
to suffer.

adds validity,
better to speak
from experience
than imagination.
see, fiction writers
write to escape.
us poets?
we write
to release.

ink allows us
to bleed
onto
perfect plain paper pages,
our true canvas.
a ‘healthier’
way
to bleed.

perhaps
it’s because
they don’t see
the wounds words leave.
never experienced
that punch to the
gut, i’m sure,
from
one
single
line.

does that make them lucky?
i’m unsure.
perhaps it suggests
they’ve never
been that
misunderstood,
neglected,
lonely,
as to where words
are their only friends.
on the other hand,
they’ve never known
the pure
bliss
that is
understanding.
sweet, sour
relief.

those of us
that have experienced
it,
we long to feel it
again.
so we write,
to understand ourselves,
and hopefully,
help others do the same.

eyes don’t lie,
but they’re shockingly
easy to miss.
glass irises got unnoticed,
bloodshot pupil silenced.
our eyes pretend
to be
omniscient,
so why
don’t
they
notice

I sit
in silence
but never
is it silent
when you live in
my head.

Thoughts will
always
flash by,
like a race car
in a thundering
arena.

They don’t
just leave
though.

My head is a
Venus fly trap
for ‘bad’ thoughts.

It latches
on.

Some people try
and say
to be grateful
for all of the
opportunities
the thoughts give me.

They say I’m
creative.

That’s not
the right word
though.

Creative is too bright,
too chipper.

Wild imagination,
another common one.

It’s better,
to an extent.

But what no one
can seem to think of
is struggling.

It’s not
that it’s hard
to think of.

They’re just
scared.

It’s okay,
I understand.

I’m scared too.

She was an artist
but not how
most people
think of artists.
She wasn’t a painter,
nor a sculptor.
Not technically

Her instrument was her paintbrush,
her breath the paint.
The rhythms were her design,
the notes her colors,
the world her canvas.

The paper was her pottery wheel,
the words her clay.
Stanzas were her shape,
punctuation her indentations
and publishing her kiln.

she painted with music,
and sculpted with poetry
she made sound come to life,
made poems sing

Most say she’s only a musician
and a writer.
Some will at least give her poet.
but I’d argue
She’s an artist