Writing

golden like the sun, 

blooming in the spring, 

till they turn to fuzz, 

flying in the wind. 

what our parents call weeds, 

what we called flowers when we were young. 

The fiery sunset gleamed in the heart of the evening while the sparkling rain reflected its capturing glow.

• I have not even met all of me left
• The ocean understands a part of me I always keep hidden
• I will always escape to nature and never you
• I keep trying to tell you it's been a while since I've been me
• The less I

My head cold waits at my bedroom windowsill 

Tells me: 

‘No, you can’t do your homework. Lie back down and quit thinking so much.’ 

Tells me: 

every twist of inadequacy's blade

(each one worse than the previous)

fell in a rhythmic order, one that your silence

carried in. did you hate me?

you'd never say so. so blindly, i never changed.

In my attic I keep my heart. 
I hold it there, safe amidst pillows, blankets and childhood stuffed animals. 
When I make things, I break off a piece of my heart, 
and sew it into pillows,