Taxi-Cab

I am not the dull sadness
of a cream colored room
at nine thirty on a friday night.

      A room identical to yours.

I am the crisp sway
of the evening fog,
as it blankets it's creations
with a remote kindness.

I am human,
and the poison that seeps
through my brain
is not my master.

It does not control me.

I am happy.

You

You are the chattering in my head.
            Stop. Stop. Stop.
You are my nerves in the morning,
or the waves,
as they flood my chest
while I stand barefoot in the kitchen.

You are what I wish to remember,
and what I wish to forget.

Strength

Sound mutes and captivates,
the forgotten parts of my weary soul:
renders me silent when I have considered myself defiant,
engulfs my broken limbs and
notches me to the concrete that describes my
grave.
The words that tip from the precipice of sanity and
hold together the frostbitten fingers of my courage.

Use of Force

His hands were anchors tied to the sea,
and his eyes were promises he could never keep.
His smile was the ocean as it consumed the shore,
and his heart was the landscape I'd been promised to explore.
His knees were the buckles looped around my hips,
and his whistle was the secret that never reached my lips.
His footprints were the memories I'd scrawled across my skin,
and his breath was my heartache as it sighed along my chin.

Before You Start Your Day

She puts her hand,
on the place where he left.
On the cavity that contained
her heart,
where he carved his name
on her like a possession.
And no matter how hard
she rubs,
or how hard she pulls,
she can't forget the words
he'd published on her chest
for everyone to see.

Being Human

Broken hipbones and twisted spines make your brain bleed a certain kind of crimson -- a fragility so centered in the apex of your thinking cavity that you almost forget that words can create noise when there is none and replace silence when it becomes so heavy you can't breathe. You've been force fed lies and phrases and given excuses for being who you are: which is human. You build walls of steel around your withering heart in the hopes that it will make you impervious to pain and make you a creature who can't be destroyed by hurtful words or nursery rhymes or flying fists. But no one ever told you that it's alright to have feelings -- that it's alright to feel pain as it bleeds through your fingertips and it's alright to feel that your brain has been stifled and your heart has been stolen.

It's alright to not be okay.

We seek imperfections in the grooves of our skin and create folds where there are none in the hopes that it will make us human. But you have forgotten that you are human. And that you are perfectly imperfect. Creation is what replenished us but nobody ever speaks of destruction -- of the decrepit buildings furrowing under weight they can't withstand, or humans tumbling under the cavities of normality and destroying themselves so that they can be rid of the distance they had created between themselves and humanity.

Destruction can be beautiful too.

Abolished factories and crumbling arcades are only an exemplification of human morality and for those of us that have reached the dingy corners of our frostbitten minds and dusted away the cobwebs, it can be normal. Sometimes we have to destroy: we have to clamber with violent fingers and tear apart the structures that had built us upward because they have made us whole and human -- and it's alright to be a segregated part of a puzzle, or the missing piece. Because one day someone will pick you up with tender fingers and slide you in your place and show you that the road to recovery is brutal and vehement, but also that it is kind. 

So it's alright to crawl to the recess of your mind and protect yourself from humanity: because humanity can be cruel. Humanity can be inhuman and immoral, and it can be aggressive, and it can crack your spine and leave you disabled. But it can be brilliant and wonderful -- and if you forget the good then you will be absorbed by the bad until you can't remember the light as it creeps through the blinds on a Sunday morning, or his breath on your skin to let you know that he is there and that he won't leave. 

You will forget the beauty of being human.

Blue

It was the color of his eyes in the morning. It was the color of the waves as they lapped the shore, and the color of the sky as they walked beneath it. It was the detail of his shirt as it settled against golden, bright and brilliant. It was the color of the storm as it thrashed against the windowpane as they found warmth beneath the coals. It was the color of his smile when he said "Goodbye, for now", and it was the color of the ocean as it mumbled beside the train. It was the color she felt flooding her chest, and the color that reminded her of him. It was the color of the bedsheets she'd betrayed him on, and the color of her guilt when she had said "yes". It was the color of her dress when she returned to his arms. And it was the color of his lips when he'd whispered, "But I loved you". It was the last color that reminded her of him. It was the color of his eyes when he'd murmured "goodbye".