Cough Syrup.

You cut me open with contempt

always as quiet as a coffin;
a chemistry so callous that
we left ourselves orphaned.

And we just grinned,
and we ignored it;
stole serenity straight from
the sordid sleeve of our own
promised land of peace.
,
I would give freely;
unconditional love like a fountain,
and you would take it all, so easily,
hoarding my hospitality so you
could build your own mountain.

Take it all, bleed me dry,
i refuse to watch you fall,
Take it all, see me try—
yet, you still left me to die.

This distinction between
us star-crossed lovers,
should've made me want
to run & hide, but instead
i ran to you, to dry the
crocodile tears you cried.

Black Tourmaline.

Raging raven rebellion rani, raspy & reclusive.
Parades peppered praise inside poltergeist pockets.
Ebony so effervescent, it could've been onyx.
Opal, obsidian—an obsessive evening of anguish.
Colliding as I crash on repeat, reckless.
At the very intersect of valour & arrogance exists an abyss,
a blackhole of laboured breath that blankets us like breakfast.
Grief is a graveyard of gifts, organized in rows that remind us of impermanence.
Tied to trauma tinted by teflon terrorism—I will always be your hostage..

Ownership.

Resolutions run out when their effort
outweighs the return on our investment.
For a life founded on the fulfillment of
micro-goals feels more to me like freedom.
As I continue learning, in this chaotic choir practice,
I aspire to always be improving;
evolving into the best version of me.
With integrity acting as the oil spill inside my soul,
I intend to act accountable for me.
Through ownership of the intricacies of my insanity,
I embark on an adventure that explores my energy.
With every instant observed through the lens of gratefulness,
I am here.
I am present.
And simplest yet,
I am.

Polar Plastic Girl.

Working weary palms into a lather,
wrung from havoc wreaked by her hummingbird mind.
A grenade of ghastly hues ground together
until deep jade and forest greens highlighted
each grain of her sandy gaze.

As steeped in symbolism as the burning nun,
society seemed deadset on seeing her become a saintly victim.
With a single violent stroke,
she shed the mask she'd worn that evening,
like a clown deprived of sleep.

A circus acrobat, perhaps, or tight-rope walker;
painted garishly in pancake makeup.
Whatever you desire her to be, she revolts;
repulsed by the men that seek to destroy her with control.

She is the spectator, but also the spectacle!
A sight for sore eyes,
as the paint spilled on her pallette
poured into the pain inside her pageant heart.