Writing

Claim your rocking chairs and
Your solipsistic sunsets,
But close your eyes and listen.
The cicadas have silenced, and listen!
Is it quiet?

How do we live 

Knowing others cannot?

How do we breathe 

Knowing our comfort is at the hands of hidden devastation?

How do we laugh

when all around us Tears seem to be the only logical response?

She carried around a lip gloss with her, reminiscent of jam and the fruits I used to eat in my youth. It appears darker in the bottle than on her lips, yet she says it is perfect the way it is.

Pretty. 
A word I have been called a few times. 
But why can’t I see it? Why do I look at others and think they’re beautiful. 
Why can’t I see myself the same way? 

Blood spills onto our streets too much.

The streets were once safely kept

but now they're permanently stained

with cries, sirens, and death. 

The harrowing cold of the family house,

Everything was just too much that day. The hollow slam of her footsteps against the pavement floor caused all the creatures beneath her feet to scatter.