You’re an unusual little bird

With mottled brown and black plumage,

Flying in through the kitchen window

Three times now this week.

You’ve created quite a stir this Christmas Eve;

That’s the broom my mom is grabbing for,

Mistaking the tufts of feathers on your head for horns.

You, with the round, yellow chromatic eyes,

Festooning the Christmas tree, are unmistakably

The best happy holiday card ever sent to me.

Here! Spread your wings and fly.

You start a typhoon as you fly about

Before finally passing through the open door,

My mother coming into the room,

Carrying, yes,

The broom.

i first saw her silhouette behind the curtain,

in front of the fire escape, she stood, i'm certain,

her halo rippled like the moon's reflection,

on evening waters, and i looked in her direction,

the way I would later look at broken glass

after drinking to the bottom's impasse,

she asked me, "who are you?"

"Ashley, what about you?"

"oh sweetie," she replied, "you're not Ashley,"

and at my confusion, "you're Alli.G."

she took my hand and intertwined her fingers,

ever since then, until now, for forever she lingers,

when I sleep, she preps my pillow and watches me,

i smell the fire on her fingertips, an effluvious potpourri,

Of sulpher, of mountain-laurel and hemlock,

when I wake up in a sweat, I know her clock

is ringing between my ears until i can shake it off,

my throat dries up, i begin to cough

behind the curtain, she offers me water

beckons me to her like an only daughter,

i drink from her hands, lips to palms, head down,

i plead for mercy when she's around,

on the nights she falls to slumber first, i watch her sleep,

her long hair at my feet, where I steep

and churn thoughts of strangling her with the hair

i had shaved off, but she still could wear,

then I cry because all i could do is kiss her cheek and thank

her for keeping me safe in walls of white,in blank,

i've tried to kill her, yes i have, but i am not a murderer,

she cannot be killed, she is a sorcerer,

although she screams when i wish for quiet,

although, by my worries, she is excited,

i know that in her arms I will always lie,

her voice, the last i hear befor i die

@chainedinshadow

my scars are beautiful

they are scabs that i have picked on

again and again because i have dared enough

to know who i am and who i am

is the biggest scar i have

i bleed to know

how i feel

they have bled until the

surrounding veins the surrounding

capillaries have restricted and healed underneath

my skin and my skin has greatly formed into

markings and my markings

have become reminders

of a world too big

to understand

i have scars from hunger

scars from living a life as a young

arriviste and conniving my way to becoming

self-satisfied happy and radiant in the

glory of my pain till my bones have

cracked and my frame was forged

into steel but I have smiled in the

face of transformation

my scars are beautiful

and they make me smile at craters

and slits that have gathered dirt i have shaken

off letting infections to manifest into bulbous abscesses

i have looked at myself in the mirror

and I have seen myself slowly

disfiguring into someone

i didn't recognize

but you wouldn't know because

all you would see are smiles my wide-toothed

grin reminding you that anger becomes selfishness becomes an act

of arrogant self-indulgence and as my skin wrinkles

from the insides trying to fall out onto the

floor as my face contorts into tears

from scars that take lifetimes

to heal i remember my

scars are beautiful

because i have dared to know who i am

no lesion no wound no scab can change that

and as i scream at the rupturings of my being

you will hear how i carry the world in tune

in melodies akin to instrumental silence

My heart ticks and tocks.

The flutters in my stomach begin

To form rocks in the essence

Of my narrowed gut

And I breathe in an airless breath

As the scented candle in my room

Mitigates the effluvium of loneliness.

I lift my fingers to the bookends that hold

My life together with paper, pens, and

Words I repeat again in realisation.

That's right my lovely dearies, how can

I ever forget Roethke's gasping turtle,

Wishing to cross through rubble,

Or Burns' meadow mouse stampeding

By itself to make a nest for winter?

What to make of the road that Gibson had tread?

Or Wordsworth's cloud upon seeing daffodils?

I forget to remember that I write in solitude.

Where there is quiet, there are thoughts heavier than

Metal, louder than music, carried by soundless tune

And I remember to always forget that we, as people,

Die from bitter loneliness.

I love too much. My emotions do not understand the word "heel." My heart...can be cleaved into many parts, burrowing itself into different soils at my feet or fifty miles away. There is no middle ground, only extremes and to me, it's my protection against indifference and the comatose state of my hyperactive, awaiting mind. I love too much so I do not understand logic the way I should according to my family, I am the walking embodiment of unconditional trust. I begin to cherish people when I meet them, see their wold through lenses painted a pastel blue, wish to share their burdens, wish to raise them above skyscrapes, and because I love people too much, I never ask them to stay.

I will label myself as long as it doesn't define me,

Will speak words others have said as long as you know

My lips are not loose; they're as tight as they get in

English pronunciation classes. (How do I know? Cause,

I'm a teacher) and that's my first label: teacher.

Now, I don't mean to sound too arrogant, and again,

I remind you, words from another's lips, well, I

guess I can jumble them with my own. Who's the author

And am I the painting? Well, I guess, we'll never know.

(Kidding, of course I'm the author of my story!)

I'm the butterfly that comes into your life and flies away

Just as quick; that pleasant little thing to make your

Day better; Dare I say the other person? (Nice to meet you, I'm pansexual.)

I learned from a young age that people are blessings;

I'm the gregarious woman who loves to love people just a little too much,

But who also has anxiety (she's my roomie for life!) so that's always fun.

Always people watching and talking, and even people helping until it's clear

I'm being used, but let's be honest, I'll never notice.

You use me, I use you, I'm a user and I use you all,

For your affection (cause, I'll starve without it) and your company.

Now, I call myself a pretty, pacifist, paranoid, pure-hearted person, but honestly,

I'm a fierce ticking time bomb of emotions just waiting to explode again.

i tried drowning you as you spoke

with lips that would bite yours

you held onto tiny wrists

dandled me on knees

until i broke

out in

laughter

it's quiet over the cemetary

there's snow on the porcelain angel wings

on the solemn gravestone with no markings

i see people footprints making small trails

crossing eachother like railroad tracks

leading the winter wanderers home

the trees are bare of their leaves

how does it feel to lose that

which you've grown by dozens at

a time with the simple breath

of a breeze and to lose dozens more at the

howling of the wind

i wrap my arms around my shoulders

and make believe the layers of

clothing is protecting me from

spilling my insides onto the

blanket of white and burning over

i wonder who has use of a frozen heart

who would think frozen water could burn

from something other than joy on

a chirstmas evening and that fire can burn

from something other than cold like the snow

i am touching i wonder why beauty burns

like fire in a fireplace or like ice to the touch

or like sleep when it's freezing

You see, I will come to you whispering tales

Of the exact things you want to hear.

You will watch as I force myself through

Memories again and again like a puppeteer

Trapped in her own web of silk threads.

They are the shiny strands that surround the clouds,

The ones people always tell you to look for

While everything else rises to enshroud

Your very sanity in a knot of tumbleweeds.

I will come to you and give you the gift of beauty,

Creating sweet conversations spoken through lips

That were too scared to open, too parched to kiss,

But with the help of a pen, were made to eclipse

From the same day their eyes did, met in

Tribute to the scarred, yet haughty auspices.

Your eyes will read the way it should have been

And it all will be remembered without hostages

Of the past nor insomniacs of the future.

I will come to you embellishing truths,

Painting an imaginary middle no one will dare

To ever cross without having a reality of their own,

For those who stand for nothing cannot prepare

For the story I write with the soft hands I've

Used to touch your very core.