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I climb the stairs in my hoarder house mind. Stepping over memories I can’t bring myself to toss just yet. Smiles sway in frames lining the hall. You can follow behind, but stay clear of the hiding things that used to be.

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Memory keeps a tight grip on your heart, demanding to be cherished. A perfect disguise for a web of lies, spun at the right time, ensuring a doubt and fear that will carry you far beyond your adolescent years.

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Can you see me? I can’t find my reflection… just a blurry outline, lost in the abyss. Let me know I’m still here, and not fading into all the rest.

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There’s words that’ll make sense of all this. I just don’t know where they exist. Maybe I’ll walk into them one sunny day, or I’ll stumble and be caught by a pair of Oxford hands.. saving me with alphabetical answers.

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The act of forgiving and forgetting is a fine line. Am I healing or just growing old? Caught in a balancing act of knowing too much and losing it all.

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hearts at the graveyard

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I’ll be a fifty year old woman, still pleading like a little girl that..

I want to go home.

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My reflection sent chills down my spine.. my own startling fright starring back at me. I was the gory jump scare.

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Charles Bukowski, "a great writer," from The People Look Like Flowers At Last

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We make the lights to go out in rooms we’ve never entered..

A poweroutage of chances lost.

Even if you know it or not.

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Whoever smites your right cheek turn to them the other also.

I’ve encountered enough

pokes and prods to recognize

the oozing mess that seeps

from us all.

We are a biohazard lacking a caution sign.

How messy it is to be human.

It was okay to spill a little on me.

It goes unnoticed amongst my own.

I hope it made you feel more free.

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Those last words aren’t

always tucked away into a

comfortable bed, surrounded by

gentle smiles, and outreached arms.

Sometimes those last words

are a hopeful morning

wake up call.

Sometimes those last words

are gone before they can

even be muttered.

Sometimes those last words are

erased

and

redacted

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I waited for you like

the changing of seasons.

hoping you may appear

alongside the leaves

in the trees..

that maybe our past could

disintegrate into the soil

so we could start again.

Winter has been so long.

We can only cut down so

much of ourselves to

stay warm

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you.. sweetheart..

were the greatest high.

I found myself in the floor munching

on the broken pieces of my heart..

hoping to become whole again for you

laughing at the times it never worked

before.

falling into a deep sleep filled

with dreams of how things are

supposed

to

be

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From "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath", dated October 17, 1951

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I can’t count how many times

I’ve been cut.

Sometimes out of curiosity

Sometimes out of spite

Sometimes on accident

However, I know

after each time..

I said thank you

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Our hearts in a tie

for the fastest pace

My trembling body could

fit perfectly in your

shaky hands

Honey, the quiet would sound

perfect with you.