Poetry

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 

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 

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.

i break lines like a maniac 

obsessed with meter, st 

opping thoughts before they begin 

: a psy 

                 chotic insomniac frankenstein's 

it feels weird 

walking past you like strangers 

knowing i still remember 

everything about you 

from your favorite color 

You can do everything in the world to prove yourself, 

but sometimes you might not have to.

You just have to find the right people. 

this night 

the light is a milky, silvery blue 

cascading down from the sky

in rays that look like liquid silk

dripping off tree branches 

and coating the world in a cool, heavenly glow 

the rat chases me

it follows my every step

it stalks my every breath

the rat bites my ankles when i'm not looking

it makes me bleed

i cry in pain

There's a kind of love

And it's like hide and seek

An endless chase

Of shadows with flowing hair

Whispers of names and delighted laughter

Out of sight, whistling around you

it had seemed almost magical that evening.

twinkle lights strung up around, 

affixed to the wooden fences surrounding, 

holding us in.