Swallowed by the waves 
that birthed me,
I shout at the moon
as angels with broken wings
drag me by my bleeding feet

The scars that mark my skin
are all shades of blue,
they carry stories I whisper
into the night winds
that sweep them back to me

The sleeping world crumbles
under the weight of my tongue,
acid words pouring 
from my blazing chest,
my breath sets the skies on fire

Swollen tissue, aching bone,
kings and queens watch me
walk over the line
that goes along their spines
and leads nowhere
and everywhere.

She shaved her head,
the kind
that rebels do
in the past.
She lit a cigarette,
and blew off
tiny clouds of smoke
that she believed
could conceal
her thoughts
privately.

The thoughts
that deprives her of her sleep.

She drank
liquors of despair
of what she described
of her first taste of tequilla
-bittersweet.

Yet
she managed to look up
, raised her camera.
She pointed,
aimed and shoot
for that moon
hanging in the sky.
The moon that witnessed
most of her sorrowful nights,
the moon
who saw every tear drops
that seem to reflect
a little sparkle
with the stars light.

She picked up some debris
of the shattered mirror
under the lamp post,
and studied her face.

Her stare went blank,
it doesn't anymore show
thousands of stories
of resentments,
of remorse
and trepidation
but
fear and hopelessness.

She's gone numb and cold.

And with a sigh,
she let out the words
slowly,
"My heart has cried a story that a writer couldn't even tell"