i found my balance in the lack of it.

plunging a knife in / sending reality

tumbling in a downwards slice.

even if i were deaf, i would not be

invulnerable to the cries of the stupid /

my own fists, pressing my eyes into their

sockets and trying to find security in

the pain. i want to be invulnerable and

totally selfish, if only then i can be

steadfast in my own beliefs. if heaven

does not house me, then i do not need it

to offer me bread. the moment of strength

is only fleeting / having hope means being scared of

the lack of it. your hands are the right temperature, cut me

open just to prove me right. i will not listen

to your cries. i will not listen to your cries.

finally, i have found my own place if only for

a second, as i define blackness by closing my

eyes, stars explode under my lashes and peel them

open. i want to burst from this shell and tear this

soft shell open with my fingernails. if i can find

security in being selfish, then i will grab it. if

i could call it “personal weakness” then i will be

weak. if i see you in the distant future, i want to

break your back just to see you crying my name.

undoubtably, who you are is no concern of mine, only

what you’ll do. your body is unimportant / all

soft and bendy, all hard and brittle / only the path

you choose to take will determine your taste for

the devil’s taking. you you you. who you are has

been turned into what you are. hold tight to these

undeniable things. i do not care, i will shatter you into

pieces. i will destroy you.

i will take back what is mine.

it doesn't matter if i wasn't the reason you left;

i should've been the reason you stayed.

so, another shot at

happily ever after?

we'll never have that;

i'm not risking the hurt again.

so don't ask if we're okay,

we'll never be okay again.

if we move to vermont

i wonder if some other girl might choose my bedroom because it's

blue

blue the color of the ocean.

might as well dye the carpet if it means the house won't sell, and you know

my blue hair didn't fix me.

girls here ignored it anyway--they don't wear their collars up.

they don't dress in darks but they gob on mascara and pull their buns so tight

you don't have to wonder where open mindedness went.

it's in there cinching somewhere.

their hair is blond and brown and red and light, even though it's not sometimes

and belonging is a construct but they've got it constructed as an add on to their homes.

but if i move to vermont, i'll have to box up the black shirts and the pink in the same box

i'll have to use the dye or leave it for some other girl who wants to drown in

blue

blue the color of the ocean

blue the color we paint the chesapeake bay over

brown the color we see the chesapeake bay as

they'll never see me get into college,

raise my longest finger at graduation and i'll splatter my cap and gown with

blue

i'll never ever be changed

i'll never ever be kissed

i'll never ever belong in one place

and if i move to vermont with my faded blue hair i wonder if it'll be easy to forget

the way me and him talked about picking flowers on the water

the way he said my flower was a daisy

if i move to vermont i'll bring him a bouquet on the way out of state,

dye them

blue

(blue the color of the ocean)

dye the water

blue

(blue the color of the ocean)

and if i move to vermont maybe it'll be a second chance to be all alone again.

He smiles, and it makes your toes curl, but not for the reason you wished they would. Your stomach churns, and you dance with the possibility that he drugged you. It was a controlled environment, he said, you'd be safe with him no matter what happened.

But if he was the danger in this so-called "safe" environment, there was no one to protect you but yourself.

A part of you wonders if he'd prefer you dead in his bed, compared to you being alive. There's nothing more pretty than a rigid pillow princess in his eyes - what's the difference if you're breathing or not? As if you'd want to breathe in the smell of a man past his prime. Too proud to hide the stench of alcohol emanating from every orifice of his body, so you suffocate. Booze has never meant anything to you, but to him, it's the damn world.

You choke back a laugh as he brushes his hand against your cheek. He moves a stray hair behind your ear. You look past his eyes while he stares, "lovingly," into yours.

You wish you could kill him. He drowns in booze and eats girls so young that they could call him "father." Or one of the variations for it, at least. You'd rather choke than call him any name other than "the scum on the bottom of my boot."

You close your eyes when he bites. A part of you wishes you were dead - or that he was. But you lie there and pretend that you can't feel him on you. You didn't want to get blood on yourself, after all.

So you wait until he's finished, and you thank and curse whatever higher being there is because he didn't feel the knife under the mattress.

When he moves to leave, you press yourself to his back. You feel the knife puncture skin and pray that you get one of his lungs. He doesn't scream - he's too shocked, and the fact makes you want to laugh. You pull the blade out of his back only to stab him again. He tries to speak, but blood is the only thing that gurgles out of his mouth.

After he falls, you open the door and move to crack open the window.

"I think I'll clean the sheets," you say aloud, and you hear footsteps coming toward your room. You watch in your periphery as the man's limp body is dragged out of the room. The quirk of your lips is hard to hide.

You fold your comforter. There is no blood on the sheets.

You wash them anyway.