This isn’t what I asked for.

I asked for freedom and confidence to open my hands and catch promises,

But I feel crushed by a suffocating loneliness that bids me to go to bed.

My eyes close and I let the darkness fall in on all sides,

because I realize I am afraid of myself.

I am not content with sitting up at night, listening to music,

Writing in a bed made for one person.

There’s this empty space beside me, cold and unloving,

Reminding me of a time when it was filled.

Now I’m filled to the brim with emotions,

Holding my face in my hands,

Wishing he was here to listen.

But I am quick to forget how it felt when he listened.

He listened to speak,

So he could tell me the image he wanted my body to portray.

He pulled me into his world and eclipsed mine in a blanket of

Black and white devoid of any of the color I created.

So I trade a warm body for solitude,

And tell myself I am strong, and I can be strong alone.


A Word to the Wise

Your words are venom–

The kind of venom that gets beneath the skin and spreads like a bug bite.

A bee sting.

The kind of feeling you get from someone repeatedly pricking every inch of your skin with a fine needle–

You’re bearable, but miserable.

Your skin is corroding beneath the negativity lining subtle words,

Bringing death closer than it was before,

And deepening the creases you thought were signs of age–

And time,

But I realized you words were laced with experience.

Times when you had to fight beneath your skin while you listened

To adults tell you how to live and how to be.

I realized you didn’t have much of a chance to be yourself,

Because you had responsibilities and weights that brought you to your knees.

Your words aren’t venom,

They are burning because you didn’t allow yourself to cry

Over the loss.