glances whispers rumors spark feelings without names igniting icy rage tinted jealous jarred thoughts unglued scattered lacking sentence structure because my mind has no lines no boundaries no control when wandering wanders too far i can’t retrieve the wanderers from the wilderness so i weep for the nameless soldiers of the war within the battles beneath breasts behind smiles masking chaos at its snowcapped peak cracking sliding an avalanche of aimless agony burying the excess emotions undesirable and ugly for no eyes but His and even those glint suspicious with partiality unspoken prejudice unrevealed instead put away privately but sensed and unraveled at the battlegrounds now a graveyard littered with death but bursting with new life choking out the mundane existence until the mundane departs and superficial standards still stand they still stand they still stand i can’t stand it any longer

i have been under the impression

that the bright places belong to me

that being a bright place was for me, only me

but now i have a hallway light

to chase the nightmares from my bedroom

and bring the colour back to my walls

and i can once again make out

all the milk tea cans i’ve collected

when i realize that you're in the next room

in the pitch black

feeling consumed, chewed and swallowed

into the belly of depression

i'd like to be your eyes

to be a little bright spot in your dark, dark world

i think i found some bright places

so i could be a bright place

for you, maybe more than me

a home in which hair ties are hazards

here i learn the scrutiny of

fluorescent lights

on every scab

every square inch of skin that

ordinarily stays a secret

only known to myself and my razorblade

now

i’m watching old movies with new strangers

and spotting tree frogs on the windows

ten minute phone calls

and two tshirts for the week

i don’t remember what time it is,

not even what day

quite frankly

i don’t know where i am exactly

or why i am wherever i am

or who is holding this blue marker

and hoping Mrs. Maribel won’t take it

before i finish this poem

but i’ll be okay

i’m just gonna go sit a while

with other sick people

and let myself laugh

for a time

i find myself

reading old poems

for a distraction

because

i can't tell them

that i want to disappear

that i still can't believe

after seven days in the hospital

and longer than that

in my bible

i wish i had never said a word

never been born to say a word

because all i know how to do

is let people down

mornings

have always been

for procrastinating being alive

listening to sad songs

to start the day

just in case i forgot who i was

while i was sleeping

mornings mean

watching the sun

set fire to the pictures of violence

littering my twin bedsheets

from the night

i yawn and stretch my shoulders

in the dull heat of the flames

every morning

when i wave hello to my walls again

darkness clings to me

it clings to me

like dust clings to old sweaters

like viruses cling to young bodies

and it is heavy,

this darkness

this morning,

the demons complimented

my music taste

and i cut my wired headphones

with purple scissors

every morning,

and every moment

between mornings,

i am standing on a battlefield

with a ballpoint pen between my fingers

and in the soft flesh of my belly

i inscribe poems

telling myself, i'm winning! i'm winning!

but i'm just bleeding

this morning

i realize

i've married myself to darkness

and called it a coping mechanism

this morning

and the last

i have prayed for light

but it is difficult to know

if the sun is rising or falling

(am i finally winning?

was it ever mine to win?)

this morning

i feel bloated with questions

and prayers that i don't want to pray

and unfinished poems

to scribble onto sketchbook pages

instead of skin

i yawn

and i stretch

and i brush my hair

and i pray anyways

for Light

because i want to understand what it's like to see

and to win

and to dream in colors that aren't red

and to dance

and to be alive again

i pray in poetry

and sometimes in no words at all

but still i pray

because this morning

there is nothing else left for me to do

well fuck

there's that feeling again

would i be more alive if i was bleeding?

listen, i know

'feelings are fleeting'

and 'my heart is misleading'

and 'i need to watch what i'm eating'

but are you really even

s e e i n g

me?

i see me

when i close my eyes at night

i see me

in the bathroom mirror, tying my necktie

i see me

tugging, tightening until my eyes go violet

i see me

gasping until my flesh gives

to the polyester

and

i see my head

and then i see my body

and i see

the horrible mess i've made

on my mother's pale blue walls

and i wish

a wish bleeding desperation

that i could unsee me

but i can't

i have become too familiar

with the colours of violence,

with the metallic flavour of blood

on my half-sleeping tongue

all i ask,

is that you hold my hand

while i dream about death

and perhaps you will never see me

like i see me

but having you with me

might be enough

wherever haylee goes,

butterflies follow.

purple wings

to remind her that things

won’t always be this way.

they flutter behind her

as she paces the floor

and settle in her curls

which she wishes would uncurl.

when haylee smiles,

monarchs escape her mouth

and dance through the gaps in the courtyard fence

which she wishes would fall.

she wishes, and sometimes she wonders

if it’s even worth it.

but then she smiles

and the butterflies that kiss her freckled face

remind her that it is.

it’s worth it;

she is worth it.

this morning

there’s this buzz in the dayroom

other than the ordinary fluorescent hum

and not the cicadas in the courtyard

but more an anticipation

buzzing

through thirteen young, scarred bodies

there’s a new smile to return

new hands and new art and new words

and it’s all buzzing, buzzing with energy

that is golden yellow

and called jo.

jo has glass shards

in her smile

but they don’t cut when she laughs

instead, they reflect light

and she shines

kaitie combs her hair quietly;

it’s not so quiet in her head

no, it’s loud

like the ocean waves

as they shatter against the shoreline

she swallows pills to flush the crabs from her bones

but still they scuttle

where she wishes instead flowers would grow

one day

kaitie‘s gonna wake up

and smell springtime

instead of salt

daisies and roses and sunflowers and

poppies and dandelions

and she will flash her braces to the blue sky and know

she is alive!