I’m sorry I ever came into existence. I really am.
Eggshells
Walking on eggshells
As the feelings dwelled,
I gulped it down in lumps.
I gulped all thoughts forlorn
Sitting on the edge of dawn
Where once we tried to jump.
Where once the world would spin
Infatuated with your grin
That conjured the clouds above.
That conjured a blissful trance
though we never had a chance
to catch this flight of love.
Sand
Facing headlights, she strayed between dashed lines,
panting caution into winds to find him.
And when they sat on the slides - side by side - in the sand,
unanswerable questions meandered unseen.
Then dawn: headed back into shadows east and west,
with grains left lingering in back pockets.
Sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole,
just like a faucet that leaks, and there is comfort in the sound.
But while you debate half empty or half full, it slowly rises -
Your love is going to drown.
We had a temporary phase of permanent love.
I don’t know how to put this poetically, so I’m going to put it frankly. Not only do I not deserve to be alive, but my existence is also pointless. I come and go from places and leave no impact whatsoever. I think I form meaningful relationships with people, but I know they’re all one-sided and no one ever needs me as much as I need them. I walk around feeling inadequate, trying to please people who probably don’t even give the slightest shit about me. Not because they’re a bad person, but because I’m just not worthy of it. When I say I don’t deserve to be here, I mean that I’m not a good person - not a good friend, or daughter, or sister, or any other role that life makes me play. Whenever I talk to people I know I’m really just bothering them and my presence is more of an inconvenience for others more so than anything else. In general, people are kind and the world is a pretty place. Thus, I don’t belong.
So why do I need to be here? ‘Here’ as in alive, breathing, wasting space.The answer is I really don’t. And it’s comforting to know that, soon enough, I no longer will be.
I skidded through the blurry moons on the road.
And thought of you.
Distillation
My bare feet sifts warm water that reforms unaffected,
and I am infected with goose bumps on a marble floor.
As I shrink to forehead and nose, the glass fogs
and drains thoughts once thought to distill.
Back to when I waved good mourning to the world,
and it waved a cheerful hand back at me.
Back to when I grabbed the acts and swung,
blue the candles, and they clapped unknowingly.
Back to when the voices rang,
“Poor me, Poor me, Pour me”
And so I did with a glass on the rocks.
I step out pale, stripped, shivering at the core,
to rest upon the pane; my personal bier,
away from the chamber of mist.
Bonnie. 18. 
