Don't You Just Hate It When You Get The Chance To Talk. Like Finally Talk For The First Time In Forever.

Sometimes when two people are broken in the same way their jagged edges fit together

Damned if you do

Damned if you don't

Wish there were more options

Than will

Or won't

The wall

I've dug my fingers in the slated spaces between bones. Clawing and dragging my way up this jagged wall. Knees braced against bleached and broken fragments. Stained red where they've nicked my skin.

Silent is the cursed air. Like the very sound of my voice may break in front of me. Cutting even deeper than the bits of skelton beneath my palms. Than the pale splinters lodged under my nails.

I see nothing above or below, only the wall stretches endless anchoring me in it's ancient death.

What I wouldnt give to feel the static in my limbs again.

For as much as it makes me jump and twitch at least I can move.

For as distracting as my restlessness is at least I am not still.

Not frozen by the empty space between my skin and my bones.

Left hollow by the absence of motivation; Of want for anything.

Name me not Cassandra

Name me not Cassandra for my voice it must be heard.

Even if you bind my mouth with fabric and brush away my word.

I claim not a higher wisdom for vanity or spite.

Only a point of view from far below your height.

I am cursed with the experience of an unwelcome hand.

And through this lens I now see my sister who too have been touched by man.

You may turn and shield your ears from me, laugh away my proof

But my mouth, it will not waver in telling you the truth.

Name me not Cassandra for your Helen is on her way.

She brings chaos and together we as women will make you pay.

I'm good for love

A fertile plot for it to claim. It springs to life under my feet. It drips and curls down from my fingertips. Its roots in my every thought.

I love colors and sunsets. White fluffy clouds. Boys and girls. Friends and strangers. The texture of cotton. Hot steam and cool stream water. Eyes and arms and noses. Hands and hearts and shoulders. Fresh baby kittens and sun-soaked kitchens. Me and you and them.

Love grows up my arms like new grass sprouts. Tangles around my ankles like thorny vines. Grows thick in my chest like moss. It's suffacating

I'm good for love but love isn't good for me.

I was told I needed to learn to sit with my grief. to hold its hand and mother it. to allow it to exist within me.

But I don't think I can mother anything, not even myself. I sit beside my grief, hand in hand. We're staring at each other. both wondering why we're here.

She tastes like the metallic burn of blood.

She smells like the pop of wood as the fire consumes it.

She feels like the static that clings to your clothes.

She looks like lightning as it cracks the sky.

And he fancies himself Zeus.

I'm still the same size as I have always been. it's just the world that's gotten so much smaller than I knew. so small that I can't really see the details anymore. it's all out of focus.

There are hands on my hips and I dread where they might go; cold and calloused and full of intent.

They inch up instead along my ribs; crawling and scraping against my skin.

Under my sternum they begin to dig; slicing deep with sharpened nails.

They stab and burrow deep in my chest; hands pressed in prayer barely brush my heart.

They snap my bones when they pull apart; prying me open to hungry eyes.

Yet still, I beat for their entertainment; exposed and bleeding and no longer me.