Honestly, me.

brown eyes of melted caramel,
mania mourning sockets that they sit in.
Sleep deprived skin slings underneath
those eyes like hammocks.
Lips tinted pink with
a pouting presence
skin, flawed with white
and pink shaded lines.
old and new.
A treasure chest heart,
Locked by despair.
Hands, limp as feathers
scratched from handling the metal sharpness.
Anxious bitten fingernails.
Picking the nail polish off.
Piled books.
Pencils, pens.
Screeching of sirens gravitating.
Thighs carved into with silver of
the blade
glass mirror, broken and shattered
desperate measures for a
Filling emptiness with
objects and people
flooding the void
with disappointment in large coffee cup sizes.
Quiet, shy.
That’s what they say.
skin deep.
A beating heart,
pumping blood.
Long black hair,
wavy curls
bursting beams of lightening.
Toenails painted red.
Thoughts hunting heavily.
Hope, found in the ink of a pen.
Love, found in the arms of a mother figure
a place of safety in those arms.
a flower
growing through the storm of rubble.
Found words in skin, selfish sin. needles adding ink to
hard grit skin.
Sandpaper skin.
dictionary. A supplied gift remaining.
Crumpled paper. Genetics
chemical imbalance.
A hurting heart
breathing still.


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