untitled/unwelcomed

sometimes it's the quiet ones

that get you the most.

the faded colors on winter trees,

the wind softened under voices,

the rose petals that glisten

and soak under the summer sun.

i always knew i had you.

since the moment bread met butter in grade 8

when the pulsing colors became blind;

i knew you were with me.

i knew and with that i healed.

slowly the blood rushed back to my brain

and i was free

and i was good

and i was better.

and then i fell again:

tripped over his long legs, black converse

and he was there to catch me.

but i still bent and back you came,

less quiet and now with vengeance,

and your black tendrils threatened to break me once more.

i pushed them out,

i pulled myself away,

and he would've held me safe

but you told him no way.

i lay dull in your tendrils and smoke

and i shatter in the mess we've made.