questa vita

her fingers tremble  pulling the sheets over her head  telling herself  not to go to that place  tucked away in her mind  the curiosity is like a simmering pot on the stove  bubbling  rolling  eventually spilling over  and then there's no stopping it  water splashing everywhere  burning brown on the hot eye  shoving the top on the pot doesn't help  it just floats away and clamors to the floor  bang she removes the sheet  pulls herself to the edge of the bed  nails digging into the mattress  breaths coming in gasps  that barely resemble normalcy  bated she's offering herself  as bait  slowly, she hangs her head  over the edge she's over the ledge  blood rushing to the veins in her head a river it's too late  she's falling off the lip of the cliff  and there's no going back now  "I won't be afraid."  The deci...

it's picking nails until they're to the quick overthinking a violent ballet of hope kicks of dread all the different possibilities interweaving together constantly it's borrowed time the old adage that the rain comes before the storm but the darker side of that is that the storm always comes thunder, rain and lightning lighting up the pitch, starless sky for seconds at a time so you're fumbling around, tripping and scraping your knees the booming reverberating in your head your only solace. the only true thing. the only voice you hear. it's shaking and racked lungs it's becoming too tired to think about it anymore it's sleeping it away because that's your only option and it's the light peeking over the horizon lifting your eyelids feeling the dawn slowly coming the earth being warmed by the red, orange and then yellow sun it's the relief of peace that calms your labored breathing it's finally holding someone...

a glass figurine, shining and new, placed on a shelf shards of sun burst through a window, reaching clear to the center, refracting. giving it life. she places the cold glass into her palms, afraid she will drop it afraid of the loud shatter of a million pieces the blood under the surface of her skin warms it slowly as she marvels at what she has. so clean with no marks, scratches or fingerprints it's the purest thing she owns her excitement to share it with other people -the world- makes her shake with anticipation the grin on her face is proud and she's not sure where to begin as she steps out some of the people she meets marvel at the beauty of what she has they add more rays of light into the glass figurine and it remains so pristine  sparkling  but the sun has to go down. the people she meets become indifferent to the glass figure they just can't see what it does with the sunlight, she thinks hopeful tomorrow, they will see how bea...

Laying there languidly barely caressed by the sweet wind swirling around your ears and in and out of the baby hairs on your arm lifting a few long hairs from your head, dancing across your face the sun is gilding you with golden brown sugar dripping down from its rays slowly slowly you close your eyes and let go. it's that feeling some people try to force with anything they can pure bliss warm, gilded gold.  you hear the sweet wind fluttering each leaf sounding like maracas the birds just small creatures who know nothing else but those leaves one songbird calls calmly to his mate who echos him they let each other know where they are never too far from one another always close enough to echo it's not a song of desperation or a lost, hollow cry for help they're warmed in gilded, dripping gold from the sun. i will always echo you i'll always be close enough to hear you call out for me.

"Be careful with the downward spiral thing," she was told, after her cry for help became etched black on white paper. All for a grade. Words like a cat of nine tails ripping across her face. Welcome to the world, baby girl. That's life. Confessions reverberating off the walls are hidden behind these red veils from her tongue. Twisting words so they don't offend. So her pain doesn't create discomfort. They could mean anything, anything less than these drum rolls. Looking up to the sun, warming her face, but her veins are still frozen in time holding her breath until she gets a sign that she can exhale a sign that it's okay and not inconvenient. she's too loud. /It is better to take refuge in the Lord than to trust in man

what it feels like is that everything is normal  and cookie cutter  and white washed pavement black as tar just how it should be and everything was just how it was the day before then an 18 wheeler plows into you flips your car over out of nowhere and you're left stunned wondering how you got here upside down windshield shattered buckled in and suffocating the exhale is a struggle racked with all the things you can't fix ragged with all the hurt you want to absorb from other people  and all of your own wounds you want to cut out from yourself. you're told to choke it down but nobody understands what it feels like

promise me put your hand on my face, this phantom feeling. just a whisper, dancing on my skin. tingling. skipping rocks in the ocean, ripples and trickles. that's what this is... an almost memory of something to come. that's what this is. a promise. the muscle memory that feels your hand on my face. that's what it is. it's a promise.