I've shrouded my hands and face in lace and color and now I cannot see past it to the mirror
I'm a girl that changes with the seasons. Always a different person, and always the same.
There's no proper way to parse the syllables on my tongue or organize my heart into compartments.
Always the same patterns. Always the same person.
I want to bruise and bleed and tear myself to pieces but I can't I can't I can't I have to be perfect I have to be perfect
the realization that your life is all the same poem
Soft and almost smothered, the very air humming around me
Why must I always force the path of my thoughts?
Today I dipped my paintbrush In the wells beneath my eyes And painted the sky To match My father's eyes And I could not see the color because I do not know Their shade Enough to know When it stains my palette
blurry on the edges
There is a contentment in my chest and uncertainty in my throat. Desperation paces with muffled steps across my rib cage and wistfulness sighs on the bow of my heartstrings. My tongue does not move and my fingers are alight with the energy of what they will not do
