I tell my therapist to pull back the layers of my skin to see the residue of pain lingering within my tendons.
I used to feel as though I was obsolete, like no matter what I poured inside me- something was constantly pouring out of all the cracks.
I stand at the perimeter- on the edge of tomorrow’s, tortured by hope.
I’ve got vines of sorrow wrapped around my ribcage.
I take all 5 foot 7 inches of myself and try to make myself smaller in an effort to never be too much.
I am scared that my arms will unintentionally slam doors, I sit on my hands to stop them from shaking.
For once I’d like to know what it’s like to be the window pane, not the brick.
I’ve been painted black for so long, I’ve beginning to believe there’s no yellow left under all those layers- like if you chisel away at the surface there’ll be nothing good underneath.
I take the jar ,filled to the brim, with empty promises and hold it up to the light.
Shadows of yesterday’s plastered on the ceiling and I think of maybe and what if’s in their entirety.
Sometimes I stand in all the quiet and watch nicotine seep into the walls.
I write things hoping someone else would feel them so I don’t have to.
There are people I couldn’t touch without ruining them, so I didn’t touch them at all.
And as light as that may seem it’s all so heavy.
I taste the blood in my esophagus, suffocating in copper tinted tones—
Which is funny in a sense because my lungs are full of dead air.
Maybe people don’t see what I see because they’re colorblind
But when I look in the mirror I see a Monet like masterpiece— ugly from far away yet beautiful up close.
I’ve got so much potential stored up in these veins, bursting through my bloodstream just begging to be set free.
There’s unspoken words lodged in my windpipe but I’d rather choke on the ambiguity then bear my soul to all the ugly people who dig up skeletons that are better left buried deep in the earths core.
I’ve learned that when someone slams the door on your face, it’s better to leave that mother fucker closed. Locked and dead-bolted.
Put a chain around it for fucks sake just don’t beg.
Don’t beg for anyone who doesn’t see the pads of your fingers and the arch in your feet as the most beautiful and extraordinary thing.
I’m still shining even when dim.
Thanks for checking in.