Writing

there's a jar on my nightstand;

it used to be my grandmother's

but i recycled her memory 

into a pandora's box full of happiness.

the slips of paper are periwinkle

with dark purple penned messily,

Sometimes I imagine

That my life is a movie

Each scene belongs to a song

Each song to a scene

Sometimes I let myself

Just float in the music

Like I'm in a sea of notes sharps and flats

My little notebooks, 

with lined paper so blue like the sea,

With words of my thoughts upon its pages that have gotten me through so much hardship.

it stretches my face apart

not unlike the plates,

we learn about in science class.

pulling at my jaw,

cheeks,

lips,

until finally 

my whole demeanor

has been compromised,

I was thinking- is it okay to be cruel to somebody if it's to protect them from something even worse?

hope is a thing with feathers, you say.

i met it, once.

it's repulsive.

grotesque.

hideous.

it sings too, apparently.

cawing loudly,

off-key,

at 3 o'clock in the morning.