A guitar sits behind glass and unused guitar picks sigh. Dusty piano keys do everything they can to not just pop out of the piano and keel over to die right there on the tile floor. I speak in only the minor key now, love. Gloom trickles from the sky into my hands. I’m standing here, in the living room, tossing it around in the empty air like a madman.

Nurtured to be a woman
They say you should be modest.
"Hide yourself," they tell you,
"Cover your brain."

My mind is bursting at the seams.

I am no genius, that is certain.
Yet, I've carefully stepped behind
Others' shadowy minds
Enough to know it is
A waste of time.

So, I create my own shadow.
She is my own and only mine.

When I write, my room rains. It's a thunderstorm of dust, rocks, mud, and water pounding into the paper. Thousands of raindrops burst from the ceiling and plummet to the floor, the desk - every surface there is. They all fall, and by the end of it, my skin is soaked in water and my hair is dripping with words. Every drop is a thought that dances in my mind.
A true thunderstorm passes when I write in my room.

Sometimes you can
be so wrapped up
in writing things down in
a hurriedly explanation
that you forget
to breathe within the moment.

It's alright to pause.

It's okay to forget your pencil
and listen to the stars when
they ask you to slow down.

So, I paused.
And I heard wonderful things.

I discovered the sky is beautiful tonight.
More so that I could ever tell you through words.

So, please...  breathe.

I desperately want to fix people I relate to. I need fixing because I want to fix others.
I find myself mending my pieces together again, pulling a needle and thread through my flesh to make it last longer. I take pieces of myself that have been lost and glue them right back on in the wrong places. Glue only sticks for so long and thread eventually snaps.
I try to hide these stitches I’ve sewn. I’ve spent years covering them with thick layers of glossy paint. I use rich pigments of prussian blue, shiny yellow ochre, deep crimson, and lilac to distract you.
And it works.
Look at what I drowned myself in. Watch me pour the colors over my honest, weathered skin; over my nose and mouth where I breathe and speak. Don't look at me and the path I've detonated. Look at my mask instead.
I’ve been shattered before. With only the delicate touch of another human, I exploded. Sharp splinters of glass burst from within me and flew miles away when it happened. I need to fix myself before I can fix others, otherwise I’ll fix them broken like me.
But how can you expect me to pick up every shattered piece? I would much rather stay broken than collect myself and feel whole. Thanks, though.