She fell so fast, she could have been on fire

And the stars that watched told tales of her descent;

She hit the ground with sound of earthen choir

With muddied feet (she'd landed in the mire)

She runs until her energy is spent;

She fell so fast, she could have been on fire

She'll never die, but burns upon her pyre

As her flesh draws bird of prey with burning scent;

She hit the ground with sound of earthen choir

If you saw her you would deem your sight a liar,

But you'd somehow understand what all this meant;

She fell so fast, she could have been on fire

And the ground is ash, the sky a burnt reminder

That the branch will fall down as the tree is bent;

She hit the ground with sound of earthen choir

So when you see a star that falls from higher,

Remember how she fell and where she went;

She fell so fast, she could have been on fire;

She hit the ground with sound of earthen choir

strange

i can’t decide if it’s too much or not enough

or nothing at all

i try with an obnoxious desperation

to simply be

but there is nothing simple about it

there are far too many layers of paint

to this art of Being

that i’ve lost what intentions

with which i picked up the paintbrush

in the first place

so instead

i wish and i wish

until my eyes bleed scarlet

scarlet like the sweater you wore

when i told you i loved you

now my bathroom sink

is made a sea of

the little black bodies of eyelashes

plucked like dandelions from poisoned earth

left to decay in puddles of agony

all thanks to me, the murderer

who only wants to feel again

but with a flicker of the stage lights

there goes all feeling

farewell to the last delicious drops of september romance

october reminds me that

life is drawing circles

again and again

until i’ve no more ink to go on

a girl, an etching in the indigo spaces

between stars

soon to be seventeen scars

in the milky way

tell me, why is it so hard?

If you were to drown, I would teach you to fish,

because teach a man to swim, he’ll go hungry tomorrow,

teach a man to fish, and he’ll always have something in his belly,

to weigh him down.

If you would catch fire, I would teach you to cook.

because if you burned your bridges,

you’d better know how to make lemonade.

If you cried for help, I’d teach you to sing.

because no one likes complainers in this world,

but music makes the world go around.

If you were down in the dumps, I’d teach you math,

because knowing what you miss is not as important,

as knowing how much of it is gone.

Standing up after losing balance.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Drying my tears after drowning in them.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Taking a bite of food after hours of hunger.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Washing my face after looking like a mess.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Smiling for the first time after crying wild.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Slowly pulling you in the back of my brain.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Getting comfortable after all that discomfort.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Doing injustice to your existence.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Sliding you in my state of unconscious.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Celebrating happiness without you.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Sleeping peacefully in day or night.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Remembering you at seldom times.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Simply welling up tears in my eyes.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Starting to become independent of you.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Passing days without thinking about you.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Quietly hoping to meet you in Paradise.

I’m sorry for moving on.

Living my life after your death.

I’m sorry for moving on.

For all the little and big heinousness.

I’m sorry for moving on

But thats how this life goes on.

And I’m so sorry for moving on.

×∞ Adin

11 February 2021

She breaks more.

breaking intestines as she swears on stars that one day she will be light enough to fly away,

breaking her mind as her thoughts swing like the swing set where she lost her innocence to a man she called father

(back and forth, back and forth),

breaking skin to show the sun how she can glisten too

(how she can be happy too, how she can feel powerful too),

breaking her heart as she isolates herself in her basement room

(droopy eyes, drawn blinds),

breaking bones as she bashes to remind herself that she is a failure that deserves it

(over, and over)

breaking her soul with the breaking of her body with the breaking of her life

(she is hurting till she doesn’t hurt).

She breaks more

(more, and more)

because she wants to

(because she needs to, has to),

and crack by crack

(break by break)

she will

c r u m b l e.

(but she lived till today, and it’s a miracle I say)

Tell me it’s okay. Tell me I’m going to wake up tomorrow and the sun will shine through the shutter blinds like it always used to, making patterns on the floorboards and turning the dust in the air into little golden specks, and that while my eyes are still half closed I’ll smell the fragrance of coffee and something frying in the kitchen. Tell me that tonight I’ll hold my baby in my arms, feel her soft little body against mine, her fingers running gently through my hair as she drifts off to sleep, safe and warm. Tell me that when I lie in bed, in that comfortable state between consciousness and dreams, I will hear only your soft breathing, the creak of the bed as you turn, the gentle sighs of sleep. Tell me that when I walk out the door I will see a beautiful world, a world that isn’t crushed and broken; that I will feel whole and my heart will pulse with hope and I’ll know that I’m living and not simply surviving painfully with each new day. Tell me that I can still cry with joy as well as sorrow. I’ll believe you, for just a moment. While you hold me and I bury my face on your shoulder, I’ll believe that nothing ever changed and we still have a family, a home, a life. I can’t tell it to myself anymore. I need to feel it in the squeeze of your hand on my arm and know it from the reassurance in your soft voice. I need to hear it from your lips.

Please ... just tell me it’s okay.

(In case you didn’t read the first comment I posted, this is just a fictional piece I wrote for fun. I imagine it to be something like the prologue to a dystopian novel. It doesn’t reflect my own thoughts, but the thoughts of a character whose life has been crushed. Perhaps her husband has died and she’s trying to tell herself he’s not gone. That’s my opinion, anyway :)

what if i want to be lonely?

what if this dark

loveless place

isn't a prison

but what

i've wanted all

along

if i did this to myself

and it's entirely

my fault

and i'm just in

denial

staring at the paintings

on the walls

colors and numbers

and strange alphabets

trying to find meaning

wanting to get out

yet i locked

myself in

poetry in the mind

is a mirror that

objectifies -

interlaced palms

and open mics

sweating under lights

we face the room

and when we can't do that

we crack.

there is a zipper at the nape of her neck,

a vein of black metal dripping between vertebrae,

and at night she reaches back,

taking the metal between forefinger and thumb,

pulling until her skin ripples like satin,

pooling around her hips,

a shroud of mortality cast aside.

she stands alone in the vacuum of her chest,

fingers moving with frightning familiarity.

hands twist between a ribcage of glass and silver-

the chandalier that adorns this empty place-

And gently she removes the corpses.

three doves, necks snapped cleanly,

the beginnings of sentances she never bothered to finish.

the butterflies that once danced among blushing cheeks and a shy smile,

wings torn off by a boy who liked breaking hearts a little too much.

a doe, all wide eyes and innocence,

shot five times in the chest by words she wasn't supposed to hear.

she buries them under her pillow,

prays their phantom screams will not wake her,

and with the tug of a zipper-

the stitching of a smile-

she is human again.