Wear the bruises on my skin like armor;
battle scars to shine in the light like swelling
dabs of plum paint i smudged on the empty
canvas of my body; I am not small, not fragile—
I am human, and you will hear me roar
On our porch sits a lonely rocking chair,
gently bobbing back and forth
to the ever so delicate breeze.
I walk over to the chair and
close my eyes to feel the wind
fly through my finger tips
as I spread my arms into the sky.
You would have loved this breeze,
I wrote a message on the mirror
of my apartment’s restroom, pressed
my lips to the glass, my forehead
to the letters, closed my eyes
and watched them shatter to the ground
Destruction: the ultimate form of creation,
the creation of emptiness for new opportunities to fulfill and yet again reach a similar fate,
Recycling this delicate equilibrium.
I Am Whatever You Want Me To Be, Minus the Certainty
A stray thought caught in the void between
hope and despair.
but quite possibly impossible.
Please, do doubt.