Curtains half closed
Maybe half open
Dependent on the look
Of the environment

It never happened quiet
Just as a thunderstorm
Trying to be a breeze
You made me feel

A bulb flashing light
Powering with full might
Why is it always a maybe
Or a could've or should've

But never a genuine "would've"
Torn within the darkness of the light
The last breath before a time
Tainted red-

You wished, you prayed
But really never fixed the light
That wasn't at a regular volt
Just a overworked circuit

When all I wanted was peace.

Sometimes I wonder
If it’s all just in my head
And I should just stop

Poverty, all around.
The poor squeezed dry
by every system,
every suit,
every layer of government.

I’ve decided to leave,
to live light,
to give away what I no longer carry.
Not to make a point,
just to move.

No one told me how.
No school wrote back.
No agency replied.
No office opened the door.
I asked. I waited. I knocked.
Silence.

So now,
I give away for free
what they would charge rent to store,
tax to sell,
or fine me for leaving behind.

Not out of wealth,
but because generosity
feels like defiance
in a world this rigid.

They won’t tell me where to go
just how to stay in place.
I only heard rules as a reply
No humanity in their solutions

But I’m not waiting anymore

i walk into the clinic
like it’s a gas station off Route 66,
neon buzzing, hearts tired.
my body full of roadmaps & warning signs —
but no one reads the signs,
no one hears the engine knock.
they call it stress, call it nerves, call it nothing,
but I’ve been breaking down in slow motion since the Eisenhower years.

I cradle hurricanes in my ribcage
while words swirl around my head.
I try to catch the good ones-
but mostly, I wish I was dead.

I do everything too much-
the joy, the sorrow, the dread.
Yet somehow, I’m never enough-
what a curious truth to be force fed.

If I laugh, it’s always too loud;
my mouth too sharp to make anyone proud.
Crying is a dangerous game,
I could sob away a city, drown in the blame.

My rage leaves no survivors,
as if I line people up on personal pyres.
When I vent, they hear preaching-
a sermon no one wants, a fear of my leeching.

I don’t love, I dissect-
obsessively search for the trap I expect.
I can’t just leave; I burn it all down-
the bubbly, funny girl wears a permanent frown.

I do too much and my inner child feels seen,
She's acting out, we aren't this mean
I just get scared when the vibe is off, and ruining the mood makes the blow more soft.

Despite the chaos I still crave love, an equal partner, wearing fireproof gloves.

"Be flexible, the flexible ones are those who survive."

No.
We are the ones who get taken advantage of.
They see us bend once--
Heart stretching, limbs folding backwards--
We don't break.
Instead we always fix ourselves
A smile stretched across our faces.

And so they pull
Push
Twist
Yank
All because we're flexible
All because we can handle it

I never used to need to plan or plot before I wrote-

imagination shriv’ling on the vine around my throat.

The words come out more slowly now, viscous as with blood-

I have to **** and ***** and wait and pray for one more flood.