There are bones in the wood;
cracking, groaning, shattering.
The skeleton of what could
Have
            Been

There are bones in the wood;
whistling, wailing, whispering.
The skeleton is not pure—not good
It
            Still
                        Has
           ­                         Flesh

??          how many mirrors  
        does it take  
   to find a face  
              that isn’t  
         pretending?

    i say:      “i’m fine.”  
     but the words  
            taste      like copper.  
   like they’ve been kept  
             in my mouth  
      too long.  

     someone asks me  
             if i’m okay,  
          and i flinch—  
   like the question  
           was a match  
       struck     too close.  

      when did sincerity  
                 become so sharp?

        every smile now  
             feels like        a riddle.  
     a locked box  
               with a laugh  
         coiled inside.  

         what is sarcasm  
       if not     a second skin—  
             worn so long  
     it fits better  
            than truth?

     my words            walk backward.  
          i mean yes  
               but say maybe.  
      i say maybe  
              but mean:  
             please, stay.  

     the truth is:  
           i don’t know  
   what i’m saying anymore.  
         or if it’s  
                me  
       who’s speaking.  

         does the wind  
         mean it  
    when it howls?

       does a shadow  
     know it’s lying  
              when it follows?

       i try to speak softly—  
     but even whispering  
                sounds scripted.  
        like my voice  
              is reading lines  
         i don’t remember writing.  

     sometimes i ask questions  
             just to see  
                    if i still believe  
          in answers.  

    is a compliment  
        still a gift  
               if you have to  
                   unwrap it     twice?

        is a joke  
           still a joke  
               if no one laughs—  
      or if everyone does?

    the truth sits  
              at the bottom  
        of a lake.  
          and i keep diving  
                with stones  
      in my pockets.  

      the surface smiles.  
         the surface always smiles.  

     i say:  
          “i didn’t mean it.”  
      but my hands  
              won’t stop shaking.  

      i say:  
          “just kidding.”  
      but the ache  
            doesn’t leave.  

     how do you hold  
            something honest  
       without bruising it?

         how do you know  
      the echo  
          isn’t just  
     what you want  
                 to hear?

    maybe sarcasm  
       is just honesty  
         wearing gloves.  

   maybe i’ve spent so long  
       painting my words  
           that i’ve forgotten  
       what they looked like  
                 plain.  

        maybe truth  
               isn’t gone—  
          just quiet.  
           just waiting  
               for someone  
        to stop laughing.

why  
                          do you say the sky is clear  
                      when the clouds  
                                   are chewing  
                            on the sun?

          what makes you blink so fast  
                     when someone whispers  
             i’m fine  
                   like a lie  
                         wrapped in a compliment?

     is your smile stretched—  
                  or stitched?  
                            can you even feel  
                         the corners of it anymore?  

         how many rehearsals  
                         does it take  
                 before a feeling feels  
                                       real?  

                     do your hands twitch  
                        because you’re cold—  
             or because silence  
                              has teeth?  

      is there a ghost  
               in your throat  
                        or just  
             words you never learned  
                                how to carry?  

  how long  
        can you keep dodging mirrors  
                         before you forget  
                                      what a face  
                                                    even does?

          how many opinions  
                  fit in a shopping cart  
                                  at half-off?

   did you choose them?  
                        did you try them on?  
       did you like how they made  
                                  you look?  

       or did you just wear them  
                              because they were  
                                     trending?

              who taught you  
         to nod when you meant no  
                       and smile  
                              when your bones  
                       wanted to howl?

         did they say  
               it was polite  
                         to fold yourself  
               into origami  
                               that never unfolds?

     why do you ask  
                          how are you  
                   like it’s a pop quiz?  
          is the answer  
                    just another line  
                                      in your script?

      is it easier  
            to be misunderstood—  
                            than  
                        to be fully  
                                seen?

         when you speak—  
                    are you offering  
              a bridge  
                    or laying  
                a trap?

               are you listening  
           or just  
                 reloading?

what are you protecting  
                 with all that certainty?  

        do you believe what you say—  
                      or are you just  
                good at  
                          sounding  
                             like you do?

                 why do you keep  
        building fences  
             and painting them  
                          like windows?  

          do you realize  
                      how much of you  
                goes missing  
          every time  
                   you shrink yourself  
                                 to fit  
                                        inside someone else’s  
                                                                echo?

and—

          when was the last time  
                   you sat with a question  
                            and didn’t  
                     rip it open  
                          like it owed you  
                                       a map?

       what if—

                      the point  
                              was never  
                      to find  
                                 answers  

                             but to become  
                                           a better  
                                                   question?

who     was the first  
                           to     ask —  
               not pray  
                            not plead—  
                     just  
                             wonder
        where the silence ends?

        ››    did the stars       agree  
                 to be named?  
               or did we just      carve  
                            their deaths  
          into chalk lines—
                     & call it  
              science.  


      what kind of hunger  
                    swallows light  
             & asks for more?

   when we punctured         the sky  
         did it        bleed  
                     or simply  
         sigh?

                   (you never checked.)

         we build      machines  
             with spines,  
          launch them  
                to listen  
                           for gods—  
              or echoes—  
                    or maybe  
     our own guilt.


        she turned her face  
             like a coin:  
                  spent.  
                      flipped.  
                           dropped  
                in a wishing well  
                          full of lies.

        she said nothing.

          (but i swear  
              something grinned.)



          what is curiosity
                 if not  
         the first betrayal?

                  no sword,  
                    just a finger  
                          on the seam  
                  of heaven  
                        tugging—  

                         harder.  


          a child pulls truth  
                  out of a socket.  
               the lights flicker.  
         the room     gasps.  

     nothing burns.  
                 but everything  
                          smells like  
               wrong.



     ›› do we chase answers  
           or just fear  
                  what silence  
                        might say  
                              back?


     sometimes i think  
        black holes  
                are just  
                    mouths  
         tired of listening.  



         and still —  
           we ask.  
               we ask.  
                   we ask.

baby blue skies cold
fresh snow covers soft earth
                growth awakening

what did you think       would satisfy you,  
           and did it even        come close?

     i wake up hungry         for something  
               i can’t      name.  
         it’s not food.  
         it’s not love.  
               but i look for both anyway.

    i open my phone  
             like a prayer.  
       i scroll until       the wanting quiets.  
            it never does.

       i eat when i’m full.  
              i speak when i’m tired.  
         i buy things i forget  
              right after opening.  

     i keep thinking the next thing  
                 will be the thing.  
          the final thing.  
                  the thing that sticks.  

      but nothing holds.  
         nothing stays.  
      it all goes soft  
             and slips through me.

       people tell me         i’m lucky.  
          but luck doesn’t fill  
                whatever this is.

     i want more hours,  
                but sleep makes me sick.  
      i want quiet,  
         but silence        scratches at me.

           i touch someone  
                   and already  
         want to be somewhere else.  

      i love them,  
             but my chest  
         still feels         too empty  
                  or        too full.  

     i ask myself why i’m like this  
           and the question echoes  
                back       as laughter.

       i think maybe          i want peace.  
             or maybe just  
                 a reason.

        i keep trying  
           to press pause  
                 on a life  
        that won’t stop        spinning.

     but i can’t stop reaching.  
            can’t stop needing  
                 even when  
         i have everything.

        is it always going  
                      to be like this?

     or will i wake up  
             one day  
                   and finally  
             feel like  
         i’ve had     enough?