Strip.

Peel me down to the basics.

Unhook my chains, ropes and laces.

Replace my decorations with dedication.

Interrupt my meditation with motivation.

Fold my fictions and cover them with facts.

Throw away the mask- still intact.

Blaze my costume and Conclude my act.

Wash away my extras, add-ons and bonus features. Let it all burn out like a high fever.

empty me of everything I don’t need… of that which is not me… then

Drag me home like a lost-and-found child

if you really do love me..

Please don’t leave me wild

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Plan B.

And here I am again..

In the middle of no-man’s land.

Outstretch my hands.

Trying to catch my wishes before they hit the sand.

Tried to wish upon a shooting star…

But mine were just too big to make it that far.

Heavy bits of failed attempts drop from above and leave my palms bruised and scarred.

Collecting and gathering every wishful shard,

so I can push, pull and drag my dreams out of Imagination’s junkyard.

Through Broken Boulevards.

Past Fantasy’s graveyard.

Straight to Reality’s backyard…

Never knowing if my wants will be realized, yet too proud to give up or compromise…

So I’ve made up my mind to roll up my sleeves.

Done tripping on wishes…

I’ll do it manually.

Closing Act.

Back here again.

The most familiar place I’ve ever been.

This is the part where I’m forgotten… again.

Where I fold into the shadows of memories that blend in with empty spaces and cold wind.

The part where I am let go of.

Where I come crashing down from above. Where I’m reminded that the embarrassing fall out of love often comes with a beastly shove.

The part where the end is near. Closer than it appears.

Where my eyes build up with tears- blinding me, so I won’t have to face my fears.

The part where I become another “was”.

Because my “ends and odds” are finally realized as flaws.

So before my scene gets paused and the curtain draws…

Let me give my best.

If it has to end,

let it be to the sound of a grand applause.

Break.

I know I need to leave you,

But how does one split the moon?

How can you separate the dirt from the wind in a monsoon?

You were me and I was you. Always one. Never two.

The time will come soon,

The great divide of one of a kind.

A masterpiece awoken and burned alive.

Inside, it evokes a feeling much like peeling apart the bones of my spine.

Inevitably interrupting the design of my mind.

Disrupting the rhyme on the two and four.

Won’t cry, just gaze in my eyes- puffy and sore, one last time, before the pieces of the moon hit the floor.

Monogamy.

yellowYou call it bitter, sour, overbearing, confining… a much too powerful concentrate.
But…
I love you.
Is that okay?
I do not care to share or ration my passion.
But I promise you will feel no pain.
This luscious lemon love drops between us. Cleansing Citric Rain.
As yellow as the sun, right down to the last of its lagging rays.
A luminous yellow Moon glowing beyond the bay.

I want you to stay.
Is that okay?
Please come and be my Eve.
A garden of heavenly yellow dreams- in yellow daisies, we shall lay for seven nights and seven days, with nothing but vibrant love, face-to-face, quiet love, living in shade, whispered love, just for me and you to hear. Never let it go astray. Only let it swing and sway between us and our mason jar of the sweetest kind of lemonade.
Golden yellow treasure we must embrace… its the only color of first place.

And only one can fill that space.

 

Self Care.

Her writing became a band aid. Underneath, you’d see where scars laid. Bookmarks the spot of her oldest wound. Turn the page to her newest bruise.

Open cuts between metaphors. Each chapter covers swollen sores… surrounding Similes of ripped flesh like pages torn. Paragraphs of skin graphs. Broken bones under fresh drafts. Fractures wrapped in comic laughter. Notepad enhanced as her fingertips danced.

Write,

erase.

Type it up,

stop.

Read.

Backspace….

Keep typing,

re-writing.

Proofreads and editing.

New pain. New page.

Write,

re-read and write again.

Hearing the growth of her never-ending cracks. Knowing Her heart is soon to collapse…

Open a new doc to prepare for impact.

Still.

For those of us who don’t just “feel” feelings but become feelings.

Or maybe feel too little “everythings” and too many “nothings”.

Who daydream of that one beautiful thing someone once said… inbetween the horrible things floating in your head.

Who needs the power of every God in every universe to give us the energy to get out of bed.

Are razors the only way out?

Does a bottle of pills and a bottle of vodka show what the nightmares are about.

Will this overdose solve it?

Will that jump from the bridge resolve it?

Can anyone see us on the ledge?

Could you reach out before we tip over the edge?

Don’t save those weekly flowers and visits for the grave.

Use them when we’re out there trying to be brave.

For those of us who were born unclear,

Just know we were not put here to suffer here to break here and leave here…

So.

Before you ask for the check and pay the bill.

Just for now,

Please…

Be still.