she waits until the door closes,
and pauses,
and listens,
while her hands grip the bathroom counter,
white like the first blizzard of a snowy December,
and hawklike she listens,
for the slightest creak of the floorboards,
for a stifled hum or a muffled footstep,
and when she hears no one,
her face begins to break,
like a piece of china crashing to the ground in slow motion,
and with one shuddering breath,
she allows herself to fall to pieces.

at night
when everyone is sound asleep
i have to remind myself
that i am breathing
and i am alive

i loved him because he made me feel small and fragile,
a feeling i never got quite used to.

and it's hard sometimes,
when you perform the part,
but no longer know who the actor is.

My words became
knives.
A paragraph,
a sword.
And when I
made
my first speech,
the room
                was
                        hit
                             with
                                            a
                                                    grenade.

it's the type of secret that isn't yours to tell.
you know?
but oh how i wish to feel less alone.
it's just me and this secret i stumbled upon,
and it's trapped me in this perpetual state of processing.
it's not mine to tell,
but it lingers on the tip of my tongue,
waiting for me to betray it...
and betray you.

there are some beautiful things,
that the eye of a camera will never see.