reflection
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The words stick in my throat. Heavy. Feeling foreign even though I utter them so freely, so frequently, so loosely daily to many of those who pass by in my life. Fear lingers around every syllable. Fear that saying it makes it real. Fear that they’ll be the next weapon of choice in the never
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Don’t think with your heart, they tell me, you’ll just end up getting hurt. How, I wonder, am I to think with anything else? What sense is there to be made of the way your hand fits into mine? How am I to make sense of the way your eyes catch mine and I try
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Someday my walls won’t be covered in fingerprints and dirt. Someday my laundry piles will be manageable and small. There won’t be an energetic girl doing cartwheels endlessly in my living room and bending in ways that surely are not human. There won’t be a boy eating snacks endlessly from the kitchen and speaking of
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It’s quite an epidemic it seems, among poets and writers alike, that those who speak of mental illness the most find the universe to an inexhaustible source of inspiration. I myself find it a fascinating and never tiring source of hope and quiet peace in a lot of ways. I found myself wondering what about
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I was not a girl made of subtlety. I was built of grand gestures and strong will. I cross lines and speak my mind entirely too much for my own good. When I am angry the Lord himself can feel my rage and I make no apology for the way I bleed when I’ve been
I Would Rather Be In Bed 