inner child

its different on the inside
without the rocky exterior
without the bravado
beneath exoskeleton still intact
hidden amongst reflective surfaces
like fun house mirrors
dripping moments hanging like crystals
from cavernous walls
hinting unspoken words like sighs
its different on the inside
within sky high walls
where she frames her wishes like family
to hang in endless hallways
declarations of desires
where sarcasm softens
welcome mats leave footprints of vulnerability
leading onto a pathway
hardly remembered but cherished
treasure maps leads through
hundreds of locked doors, up and into
her childhood hiding place
its different on the inside
far away from the scars left
from piercing words
glimpsed only when her eyes become
crescent moons of sea water
days like this
when the outside world offers little sentiment
when understanding is skewed to illegible graffiti
spraypainted onto the back of her eye lids
its different on the inside
where love is kept safe from harm
and warmth washes over
like a low tide
lapping around ankles
without any deterrent to dreaming

Untitled 1.

blurred vision
eyes dry
smudged black day old eye liner
redness makes the blue even bluer
lips parched
with a head ache splitting in two
stopped at a red light
car idling
found myself with the help of a super spy kit
uncovering a fingerprint left
disappearing moment
reappearing later on this small wrist
left haphazardly
with aggression
with wiped away tears
small reminders of a breath stolen
a secret whispered back to her
in 8mm film
choppy
details are limited
things chosen to be remembered
interlaced with
some adolescent embarassment
what it felt like
to hear the word, beautiful
allowing it to sink in
beyond skin deep
drawing pictures
on the window from the insides
watching them fog over again

panic attacks

there is no prescription
for this deep and painful throbbing in the center
where my insides quake
eyes shifting all around me,
hear the silent tick tock ticking
makes the panic set in
my heart becomes a vortex trying to swallow me whole
shaky sort of knowing that perhaps theres something growing
and its crawling up the sides of me and
curling in the eyes of me
its waiting and its watching for a window to devour me
looming just above me in the darkness
still it watches me
hiding in the shadows and it never takes its eyes off me
biting snapping - never leaving
I can always hear it breathing
but when i turn the lights on
all thats left is empty nothing
spashed on white walls - mocking

compromised thoughts

compromising the fabrication of reality
I take what I have
bend it to be what I think I want
pretending it is what I need
giving it a shiny paint job
sweeping unmentionables under the rug
to forego the conclusion
that my hypothesis has always been incorrect
sought out supplementary understanding
shared moments elsewhere
emotional embraces from another
late night conversations
left me feeling a little dirty like having secrets
little white lies when I feel I cannot tell my truths
not ever to you
leaving me with a metallic taste
like bad medicine
force feeding yes’s
crushed and added to food to avoid the bitter taste
disappointed in my inability to look beyond the immediate
holding onto nostalgia
fiercely protective and lashing out
with clenched fists when asked to explain myself
with understanding sought out
where things aren’t so hard
makes me examine the details
more closely
wondering how things could be different
if the hands that held me
belonged there

reorganzing

there a was a drawer in my heart i left empty for you
for your belongings
space for your baggage
room for you to put your things when you came to stay
even briefly
for the night
for the weekend
but you would haphazardly throw a bag of clothes on the floor
to be scooped up upon every exit
perhaps a renegade sock left to hide beneath the bookshelf
i opened it the other day to wipe the cobwebs away
it remained empty
lifeless, except for a spider that scurried out
only to disappear into the floorboards
ready to make cobwebs in somebody elses misplaced wishes
looking around at the clutter
thinking i can use that space
neatly organized
labelled for efficiency
hopes
dreams
desires
alphabetized laundry list of longings
mark a check beside each given in completion
blinds opened
letting some light in

for me this time

no shackles round these wrists
untied
unfettered
unwilling to allow ownership
to brand its burning iron into fleshy parts
counting and counting the days spent with only myself
to answer to
to reason with
i carved lines in prison walls
cut hopes into skin with fingernails sharpened by wit
trapped inside my own skin
insecurity blanket round neck like a noose awaiting a hanging
i am tired of feeling invisible
i have said over and over
no more self inflicted emotional wounds
to prove i feel?
were my tears real?
love masochistic means beating your head into a wall
but only for so long
until being a martyr for your cause
writes labels on your concert tee
screaming pathetic
over the amplified white noise
that lulls you into a quiet complacency
back handing me back to reality
i am stronger than i appeared to be

escaped

this person is not delicate
no bruised petals nor shrunken violets shrivelled up
buried - deep into the earth
do not go easy on skin
do not touch with a soft hand
without conviction
create caresses without
the ammunition
of leaving a lasting impression
This memory recalls days when proximity only would
send rippled electricity from ears to toes
indifference begs and trains for something
a bit rougher around the edges
tougher thicker skin
callused palms turned upward against my cheek
This person is not delicate
not to be babied
rocked back and forth with soothing lullaby lies
but to be embraced
with equal strength
with unafraid passion plays
bold and brazen and screaming from rooftops
I am here and real and will
push pull tug and scream back at you
this person is not delicate