The girl exclaims that she is dying on the inside,
knowing that no one believes her.
Who would take something like that seriously,
from just a child?

So she plasters on a smile,
stays quiet,
and acts like she's okay.

But it is futile.
Her porcelain composure will shatter
on the floor.

As she tries to keep the blood filling her mouth,
from seeping through her lips
for everyone to see.

I am that girl.
I close my lips
to hide my crimson-stained teeth.
I pretend I'm not dying.
I pretend anyone cares.

Today I am wearing lacy black underwear
for the sole purpose of knowing I am wearing them.
And underneath that?
I am absolutely naked.

     And I’ve got skin. Miles and miles of skin;
I’ve got skin to cover all my thoughts like Saran Wrap
that you can see through to what leftovers are inside from the night before.

     And despite what you might think, my skin is not rough, nor is it bullet proof.
My skin is soft, and smooth, and easily scarred.
But that doesn’t matter, right?
You don’t care about how soft my skin is.
You just want to hear about what my fingers do in the dark.

     But what if all they do is crack open windows
So I can see lightning through the clouds?
What if all they crave is a jungle gym to climb for a taste of fresher air?
What if all they reach for is a notebook to scribble not a hand to hold?
But that’s not the story you want.

     You are licking your lips and baring your teeth.
Just once I would like to be the direction someone else is going in.
I don’t need to be the water in the well.
I don’t need to be the well.
But I’d like to not be, the ground anymore.
I’d like to not be the thing people dig their hands in anymore... for something they can own.
...
     Some girls know all the lyrics to each other’s songs.
They find harmonies in their laughter.
Their linked elbows echo in tune.
What if I can’t hum on key?
What if my melodies are the ones nobody hears?

     Some people can recognize a tree,
A front yard, and know they’ve made it home.
How many circles can I walk in before I give up looking?
How long before I’m lost for good.

     It must be possible to swim in the ocean of the one you love without drowning.
It must be possible to swim without becoming water yourself.
But I keep swallowing what I thought was air.
I keep finding stones tied to my feet.

I long for a heart,
but not my own blackened stone.

I long for one that beats,
and pumps blood through a tender body.
One that can sync in time with mine,
and with the rhythm of the music in our ears.

One that can pound alongside mine,
and choose not to leave.
A heart that knows patience
and kindness.

I long for a heart that aches like mine,
in all of the right ways.
A heart that is full of love.

I long for a heart.
Your heart.
But not just your heart,
after all.

I long for you.

When gods claimed her story was pre-written among  the stars,
She stormed up to the heavens.

She extinguished each burning fire with red,
Scorching hands.

The burning lights hold no claim over her head,
Nor her life.

The glittering night sky is hers now,
And she will carve into it with constellations of her own.

I feel Hollow.
Barren.
Empty.

That hollowness erodes my body,
leaving a trail of decay.
Cracks crawl through my brittle bones,
shattering my skull,
fragmenting my thoughts.

A carmine-colored river floods into my caving lungs,
before dragging itself up my throat.
The metallic taste slowly overwhelms my mouth,
and seeps through my gapped teeth.
My glass smile falls and shatters.

Terror grips what was once my voice,
holding sound captive-
my call for help erased by despair.
Only strangled sobs exist.
I'm left choking on my own life force.

Each sob collects upon my face;
a veil of tears cover my broken visage.
Shrouding me from prying eyes that encompass judgemental gazes.

Without even seeing,
their stares spear my soul and blacken my heart.
The forgotten, grayed ash
smothers out all that remains.

My rotted husk: a void, a dismal skeleton.
A vast emptiness that nothing can fill.

Broken.
Decayed.
Hollow.

It's what I am.

If I hurt myself on purpose-
...
Would anyone even care?
Would they show compassion
And empathy?

Or be cold and bitter like this cruel world?
Would they turn their heads and pretend they don't see,
Or simply close their eyes at the sight of me?

Would I be a monster?
One to hide children from
And push away?

Maybe I should find the answers to my own questions.
Maybe I will.

Shatter me.
Into a million pieces if you must.
I am too whole to stand by your side.
Too large to carry with you in your pockets.

So break my soul into shards,
And put me in your favorite things;
Like little horcruxes.

Your headphones.
Your credit-card guitar pick.
Even the color red.

Pour me into anything that you love,
For I want to be loved by you as well.
And I want to be with you,
Wherever you go.

So crumble my heart,
And harden it,
Then use it as a book mark.

Carry it with you,
And I will write lovely things
Onto your pages.

Shatter me.
And love me,
Until I'm not your favorite anymore.

I have ended wars single handedly,
Brought gods broken to their knees,
And dragged down the very lights
From the gods of Heaven.

But my greatest victory
Was always that I was the fire,
That sparked your brightest smiles.

My fingers are screaming
As I beat a rhythm into my desk's surface.
They strike in the same rhythm over and over again,
But you will never understand why.

It is mistaken for a distraction,
Or perceived to be anxiety.
And my classmates scowl and tell me to stop,
No matter how panicked I seem.

It is not a side effect of ADHD,
Or wanting pity.
It is a silent scream of pain
And fear.
It is my cry for help.

...---...

This is the hill I will die on.
I choose to stand on the high ground,
And fight in the war.

I will be bloodied.
Bruised.
Broken.

But I will not run to the safety,
In the home at the bottom.
I will not cry for mercy,
As you raise your blade above my bowed head.

I will stay.
I will empty your lungs of hot air,
And shove you over the edge.
I will watch your body lie at the bottom,
Pointed at gruesome angles.

For in your one-sided battle to knock me down,
I have turned the tide.
This place that I have chosen to rest
Is no longer my grave,
But yours.

Vultures are the holiest creatures,
Tending with honor to the dead.
Bowed low to kiss the corpse,
With death covered wings and bare head.

They whisper to the frigid flesh,
Of words we could never hear, nor see.

“Your old name is not your own.
This dying earth; Not your king.
So forget the seeds that you have sown,
For I rename you “everything.”

It's perfect,
My life.
Not a single worry to be found.

But when will it all fall apart?
When will I bolt out of bed
And realize it was never real?
This life of smiles
And laughter

It’s too perfect.
And feels too real,
Even as the corners fade to black.

Convinced:
Not awake,
I know I'm dreaming.

But the thing I dread most…
Is waking up.
How much longer do I have before the hourglass is empty?
How much farther can I tread before the road ends?

Not far, it seems.

The alarm screams at 6 am.
The fever dream shatters,
As I grasp at the jagged pieces.
I am dragged through my existence
In this dreary, gray world.
Until I fall back asleep.

Some people are just born to fight,
I think.

...

It's not that they're born brave,
Nor that they're born strong.
But that the universe has decided that this one,
This being will have grit
And fire
And steel in their blood.

And it shall be tested,
This cosmic mettle of theirs.
They'll face trial after trial,
be broken and damaged in countless ways.

But this one was born to fight.
Maybe it's not the life they would have chosen,
For maybe they'd love to lay down their arms.

Yet they were born to fight
For the weak.
It's what they know.
It's what they do best.
It's all they can do.