Sometimes I Wish I Had Nothing But a Pen and Paper

I’m not myself when I’m not writing. I become the shadow of a soul that breathes for the expulsion of words. My fingertips cannot keep all the things I have to say stored away, and if I wait too long the words come spilling out of my mouth instead. It is dangerous to be a writer.

Who I Was (Am)

Sometimes my past

Flashes in fragments like glass,

And to see with such clarity

Cuts lines like sharp therapy-

Am I better for

The beast I used to be?

Or is she still lurking

Inside of me?

The Wolf

Peach pits-

All that’s left

After the wolf

Devours the sweet

Parts.

Walls

I asked you to take

Down your walls,

Never realizing

The walls

Were what

Kept me

Close to

You.

Mom’s Recipe for Kindness

Take every single difficult moment

And spin spin spin it like raw

Sugar and air, until

Like cotton candy

You can taste it’s

Sweetness.

Alone

Bruised breasts

The word “thick” stuck like

Nettles on my tongue

My brain playing the memory

Over and over and over

Until I start to

Burst

The Nightmare

I am looking at photos of my body; mutilated. A police officer is showing them to me, telling me what happened and I can’t believe the body in the pictures belongs to me. Patches of skin have been cut off my chest and my flesh is bloody and bruised. He is telling me I was hurt, all over, very badly, and that they haven’t caught him yet.

This, this is the real fear underlying all else: that I was not safe and I could not be. I rushed to all the doors and triple-locked them and I was so paranoid; checking and rechecking and looking out windows. But he was out there, and he was waiting for me and he had hurt me; he owned me now. No matter where I went, or what I did, I knew he would be there. And that feeling has lingered in my chest all day. Sick with fear and paranoia. He was so much more than just a figment of my imagination, he was a culmination of everything I’m most afraid of. And the way I felt him was like the blood in my veins; warm and constant. I did not have to see him to know what he looked like or be in his presence to know he was there.

Bella Sorella

Some Italian phrase

Sits on my tongue

And I am so stuck

On its beauty that I

Cannot remember

What it means.

Poems are Bloodbaths

It’s all about execution;

The words come out and the

Guillotine becomes less monstrous.

The Guilt of Premeditated Murder

At first I felt nothing, which

You know I never feel.

I seemed heartless, I was cold.

I know how I looked to you, I know how you felt.

I lived inside that nothing and felt blessed by that nothing and at first, I was safe.

But memories started invading like

Nasty little soldiers, pinning medals to their chests for

Every knife they put through me,

And dear,

They fought so valiantly.

My heart no longer feels nothing.

This is being exposed, shell upside down, soft pink flesh turned to the sun.

This is the real pain, the

Hurting you.