For You

Call me out on my insecurities,

and I will palpate bouquets out of the gashes

on my skin,

you can wish upon the dandelions that emerge

from my within.

I shall have no thorns; you can pluck for your garlands

all you may,

weave a headdress out of my daisies and your hair

shall never grey.

I will become the Garden of Eden, from where life

itself was born,

but contrast my own eternity, for life without death

is just forlorn.

I will be maliciously elegant, so all you breathe in

is unparalleled scent,

until your lungs only know fragrance and your

feet forget cement.


Call me out on my insecurities,

and I will shed them all for you,

so I can be fucking gorgeous,

and you can be beautiful too.




“How do you sleep after knowing you have wrecked a soul?”


The mirror with uplifting Post-its is looking

at me with pity that curls up under my eyes and

whimpers how the 13 hours of slumber weren’t so sound.


I warned them I was concentrated chaos contained in a vial

labeled ‘X’.


The lowermost drawer of my desk is trembling

as if the handwriting it stores is going to unravel and

embrace my neck so I lack of air in a brimming atmosphere.


I told them I wouldn’t turn to milkshake if they scribbled ‘Sugar’ on a

striked out ‘X’.


The pillow beneath my hair astray, is vomiting

out tears from a time when I was not the monster and

I feel myself drowning in agony which doesn’t belong to me.


I reminded them, that if uncorcked, I would flood every vein with an

Amplified ‘X’,

but they did not listen.


So now, to me, the Alphabet Song escalates to agonizingly disturbed harmony

as it reaches the letter third from last and

that, my friend, is the lullaby

that puts me to sleep.