i saw a stranger sing one night.
the memory still lingers
years after the high.
mute swimmer,
a wordsmith from berlin,
brought silence and fire.

he wrote a song
about self-worth and doubt —
the kind we all wrestle,
then bury in our minds.

he’d hear his voice
softly pulsing
with each heartbeat.
instead of leaning
into the dread —
you’ll never make it
you’re worthless —
he’d counter-attack,
asking us
to push them back.

why don’t you
shut
the ****
up.

we’d chant until
it wasn’t about him,
but about us.

why don’t you
shut
the ****
up.

why don’t you
shut
the ****
up.


why don’t you

shut

the ****

up.

I beg to you.
I cry to you.
I wait for you.
Do you even care?
Are you even listening?
I mean i've been getting closer to you more than ever.
I've been doing better for you. For me. For my family.
But hey,

Not ever your best is enough.

She stares at the ceiling
cracks whispering her name,
over and over.
hundreds of tiny breaks hid by glass skin

Wrists a scarred mess
carrying every
“I’m ok”
like a rock in her chest
a temple of happy lies
but when one brick falls,
the walls crack open

Dancing in the shards of glass and debris
sharp edges,
bleeding heels,
every cut,
a reminder she will never be herself again
each shard embedded,
an endless silent scream

but when she shatters,
it's not like the movies,
no slow-motion
or music
only the raw snap of a soul
pushed too far
bending
until it breaks,
shattered into a thousand pieces

glassgirl no more

You cherish me merely as a coin — always anticipating change,
you seek me out only when it’s time for heads, chasing after tail.
I’ve been tossed about by you countless times; my feet now bear
the weight of my head. Say you love to call me, “mine,” yet
you handle me like a mere dime tucked away in your pocket –
only reaching for me when your hands are empty of anything
else to own- and pass me around like a debt you owe.

Beloved, your touch is far chillier than all the jealousy that
exists in this world. I'm just a cold coin to you.

It's hard to see from so far away-
at least, from what I can tell,
you are happy.
Happier? Probably.
Lounging in the 9th stratosphere,
maybe even so far as
just past the moon.
And who wouldn't take that trip?
The most I could offer was a pig
and some ****.

Maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe you would have lived life on the ground
but I never believed it.
Never wanted to squish you down to earth
and keep you contained,
bursting at the seams beside me,

waiting for you to understand what I had always known:
The ground under your feet was as needed
as the wind through your fingers,
the sea in your lungs
and the stars in your eyes.
And that you were always going to leave.