for years,
your body desperately searched for me,
flesh and muscle foraging with hope,
your essence offered, liquid gold,
and I drank you in like nectar,
my sun-bleached bones seeking sustenance

I’d been so very parched,
and your touch was a welcomed storm,
but, at some point,
I realized it wasn’t enough

my thirst could not be quenched –
you offered yourself with touch,
but you could not find me inside my body

that’s not where I live

-image via Tumblr



time isn’t a funny and fickle thing;
it always passes

it passes in a flash,
and in this world that moves so damn fast,




I am slow,
and I can’t seem catch it

even when I sprint,
I’m slow;
my processors are always
and I’m either lagging behind
or stumbling toward
as I find myself

in a world destined to lose itself,
time moves on,
and no matter how slow I am,
so do I

time isn’t funny and fickle –
I am


when it all feels like too much,
some people implode or combust,
but I deconstruct

and lately it’s all been too much,
so I’ve been picking at my loose threads,
pulling at my over-stuffing,
peeling at layers that feel like clutter –
and I just don’t know yet what to hold on to,
and what to let go

but I am teetering toward less,
and every step feels a little lighter

-image via Pixabay


there are times when life requires that you fight,
that you wake ready for battle,
ready to flip-flop and rearrange for perspective,
to reach to uncharted depths for motivation,
to forage for ribbons of hope

it’s a war of sorts, this fight,
one where there are no winners –
there’s only the return home

so, you find a way to fight,
and fight

and one day, you wake up,
ready for the fight,
and you realize that, somehow,
you’re stronger,
certain about the one thing that matters most amidst the continual uncertainty

you wake up,
and you realize you’ve altered old patterns,
and that even when you were exhausted,
you showed up for yourself,
and you hadn’t even noticed

you realize that, once again,
you’ve made it home to yourself,
like you have so many times before

-image via Tumblr


what of dust, of fortune telling,
of lightning coming too soon?
what will I become?, I wondered,
whispering to the moon

she told me I already know,
I know from where I came;
the rest is right in front of me,
try dusting off my name

-image found on Pinterest; shared as part of Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie Tale Weaver prompt, dust

Take It or Leave It

don’t be angry;
I haven’t become someone else
in front of your eyes

the problem is,
you don’t want this to be me –
you have always had some idea of me
that doesn’t exist,
some set of expectations I can’t possibly
live up to

you have constructed some ideal based
on something inside you,
and you have seen what you have
wanted to see –
you have refused to see my truth

but it’s been so very exhausting,
and not very fair to have to pretend
all the time

you don’t know me,
but I’ve been right here,
all along

here I am –
take it or leave it

-image via Pinterest, original source unknown


am I irrelevant?

I suppose asking that question
is like pissing in the wind,
when the answer is likely
to be twisted,
pointed back in my direction,
the wall of defense too thick,
when I’m left feeling peripheral,
in focus only when my voice is loud,
the squeaky wheel getting the grease,
a game of manipulation,
one I’m no longer willing to play,
when my thinking of you and hoping you’ll do the same becomes inconsequential,

ash, blowing in the wind

-image via Pinterest, original source unknown


my heart moves so slowly,
but my body races deceitfully,
balling it’s fists and snapping into action,
muscles made of memories,
reminders that slow is unacceptable,
that elephants should be ignored,
that depth should be shallow
and easily treadable

except it’s not easy for me –
I always lose my footing,
my muscles exhaust in triviality,
as the gap between what is real
and what is expected widens,
engulfing pieces of me in the wake of the deceit

this deceit –
I have held onto it,
but it’s not mine to keep

-artwork via Pinterest, by Charlie Bowater


she sunk to her knees,
the outline of her ribs a desperate whispering
against the smooth cloth of her shirt,
eyelids closing over foggy, tired eyes,
like haunted marbles lodged into two deep, dark sockets,
and she cried,
a brittle bird bone cry,
futility whispering against her ribs,
just as her ribs whispered against the flawless fabric;
she was withering away to the nothing she always felt

-art via Pinterest, original source unknown