We All Want What We Can’t Have

I want to break the binds,
and reject the embrace
I’m stuck in.
I want to sever the knots
in the stitches holding
the hurt inside my head.
I want to scream in the silence
and shatter the glass cage
keeping the numbing ice
pressed against my skin,
when all I need
is the warmth
of gentle fingertips
and the tenderness
of delicately spoken promises.

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Mr. Lonely

Time is precious, and lonely knows it.
He is a greedy man, stealing moments
that should be spent filling your heart,
not your cup. He locks your mind in a
box, leaving the slideshow of memories
from a time you were not alone. He
leaves your aching heart to mend its
own, knowing your only company is
pain and the numbing substance of
your choosing.


I am not porcelain,
your touch will not break me.
But the tumble
from a glass throne
will shatter parts of me
you can only see
during the fall.
I am not porcelain,
I will not crack
when a single breath
hits my skin.
But I sit on a kingdom
stitched together
with broken beads
and ripped promises,
a lifeline reliant
on how you treat me.
I am not fragile,
but the stage I perform is
and I’m tired of
pulling splinters
from my feet.


He had a soul of embers and a heart of ash.
The smoke filling my lungs when we kissed
became an addiction. His love was given to
me with a  singed tongue, but I’d come to
crave the way it seared my heart. The heat
was comfort, contrasted my iced eyes,
glazed over with gasoline. That night I
cried, I forgot to blink away, leaving me to
live in the aftermath of his explosion.

Childhood Withered

Once upon a time,

I was a little girl, innocent, but for forbidden cookies before dinner.

I was a wildflower; small and pure, a growing desire to watch beauty succeed.

But as my growth stunted with an absent sun, I began to wither.

Harboring stolen hearts in broken jars, I was searching for my newest fix.

A craving to replace a ruined childhood, the price of goodbyes

was always so much cheaper than opening up past vulnerability.

Once upon a time,

I was a child with spirit and personality; not becoming what makes me, me.

When the Camera Clicks

We’re all looking at life through camera lenses

Taking pictures clear only to those who were there

Blurred for the rest of us who don’t share those memories

Some of us with fogged glass from hot-breathed ghosts of our pasts breathing down the necks of our sights

Clear for those with lives pristine

Or cracked and shattered for those beaten and fighting

No matter the state of the lens, the second the camera clicks, remember this;

Th pictures do not lie

And if the camera can see what’s in front of us;

Why can’t we?