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art form.

there is an art to pain.
to putting on that smiling face
and laughing so real.
there’s an art to feeling
like your soul is ripping
down the fucking middle
and still standing straight up
against the brick wall
you keep running into.
pain. pain is an art form.
take that blood,
swirl it on a canvas,
make it fucking pretty.
rinse your brush in tears
you promised you would never cry.
hug yourself.
love yourself.
hurt yourself.
there is an art to pain.

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tbt

i think about the throwback Thursdays
that will come, inevitably
how my heart will break again
the first time i see you
with a face that’s not mine,
arms wrapped around somebody,
who’s not me,
somebody you could love a little more
want more, need more.

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tendrils.

He’s like an angry lover
with his hands around her throat
and his whispers in her ear.
She can feel him touching
all her secret places –
her heart
her soul
her thoughts
He’s inside her,
like the devil he is.
He finds the cracks
in her heart and rips
and rips until she can’t
find enough pieces
to make half of a whole.
He tries to suffocate her
in crowded rooms
and it’s so hard to walk
across the parking lot
when he’s dragging her down
like a ball and chain
around her neck.
No one sees.
No one notices.
She’d scream but he’s got
his hand over her mouth
and he forces her words away.
They can’t see him,
they can’t feel him.
But he’s there all the same.
She can hear him laugh,
when she tries to escape.
When she tries to be stronger
bigger
better.
One day he’ll kill her
If she doesn’t escape.
If he doesn’t let her go.
If she can’t shake him –
and she’ll have to do it alone
because no one sees
no one notices
no one.