Crack my spine and
Lay me open
Am I in those words before you?
Or a footnote
An observation
Scrawled in the margins

Run your hands
Over me
With your eyes closed
Am I Braille
Beneath your fingertips
Can you feel me?

If you lose
Your Self
Come and find me
Hidden in sentences
A map of
Paragraphs

Somewhere in
The shifting corridors
I am a haunt
A shadow; memory
One of those
Lost girls

Shifting scenes
And new
Locations are
Disguises, I
Am buried in the pages
Of your story

Like Echo
I have faded, until
All that remains, is
My voice imprinted
On a recollection
In a loss

I wonder if the moon feels like we take it for granted.

Maybe we are the ones responsible for the waxing and the waning
of the moon.
We must learn of our responsibility.
                                                                It is the same for people

It is a constant cycle of convincing ourselves we are
something people want to see--
luminous like the
orb that lights the night.
And then convincing ourselves
we are only a crescent of a person--
not worth the space
allotted to us.
                               Just like the moon.

It is not nature that controls its cycle.

We are born from the moon. It is more human than we are comfortable admitting.

Waning is genetic and there is no cure.

Maybe I don't understand
the Laws of Physics or
Stellar evolution,
but I know that
your atoms are composed of stardust
Maybe this is why the life in your eyes
is illuminating everything like a carbon giant.

In astronomy they told us
that the darkest parts of space
often contain the most energy
And I thought you should know,
that just like the ancient galaxies inside of you,
your darkest parts still shine.

My hands have always been weak.
When I was seven years old, they decided
that I needed to go to physical therapy
because I couldn’t hold a pencil.
I couldn’t hold the reins tight enough.
I kept dropping things. I couldn’t do
anything right.

I have always been inherently sad.
When I was nine years old, they decided
that I needed to go to therapy
because I couldn’t control myself.
I couldn’t appreciate what I had.
I never slept. I couldn’t do
anything

I punched walls and kicked doors.
I ripped posters off of my
fourth-grade classroom walls.
Ten years old, I walked through the hallways,
All eyes on me because I was
Toilet Girl
I just couldn’t seem to
get it right.

When I am twelve, I’ll start
to write ****** poetry instead
of destroying things because
both are art forms but
my parents have to pay when I
destroy things.

When I am thirteen, I’ll realize
that it’s not just material objects
I have trouble holding on to.
I have trouble holding on to people, too.

I am fourteen, and I have just
been told that I’m not
doing anything right.
I haven’t hit a wall in years but
I guess old habits die hard because
I’m fifteen with
new scars on my knuckles

I am inherently sad and my hands are weak.
I write poems on my computer because
I still can’t hold a pencil.
But for someone with such
weak hands
I have a lot of scars on my knuckles.