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Telling myself: go on, sweetie, you can do this, you can do this... just try... you can...

and there's beautiful music in my ears and tears in my eyes and i'm thinking, this is your soul.
and i'm letting it bleed out through the cracks. thinking, i can do this. even as each word
splinters another bone. thinking, i'm a writer. ******** this. i'm a poet. this is me. and i won't let go.


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and i feel myself breaking
violent winds wracking me from
the inside, battering against
my ribs. and i feel myself
bleeding, the old scars opening
up, because they never did close.

and my eyes are dark circles
and my hands are too weak
and my face is the ghost
of a little girl. i feel
like a ghost. fading. like
a dream of something you can't
quite understand. and by the
time you wake, it's already
gone.

i'm a bloody question mark
on a white sheet. bloody illusions.
no matter how many times i
wash the stain of blood, it
won't ever go away. starched
pillowcases and a teddy bear
holding the memories of a sacred
childhood. was i ever a child?
i must've been, once.
everyone was a child once.
even me.

and i'm trying to remember
clutching my teddy bear tight.
an inanimate object
but he understands better than any.
trying to remember those days
of dancing barefoot in the rain
of thinking i loved, thinking i
was loved. of laughing
just because i felt
like laughing. those days when
i was immortal just because
i wanted to live so bad.

and i'm thinking
it never really
was.
just a shadow
just a memory
of a dream
and i've already waken.