Flight

One day I will fly
My eyes touch the horizons
and soon, so will I
My wings, though clipped
will grow
And the sun, though eclipsed
still glows

Bright Colors

If I've fallen now, at least I can say that my eyes can only
look upwards. But that isn't right. I constantly look down,
and I can perceive unplumbed depths that call to me in voices
sweetened by my own lack of hesitation. I am numb. No -- less
than that -- deadened to sensation to such an extent that I long
for the things that used to cut and bruise and turn my insides
black with their onslaught. I am perhaps a masochist. Or is it
that I simply long for bright bursts of color, and I do not
care if they are the reds of blood and the purples of
congealing sorrows? For happy things: the yellows, the pinks,
and the greens seem so distant, altogether garish
and brazen, that I fear they would disrupt the collage
I've built within myself.

Doors

It is in so many ways like a flower that is afraid of the sun. What do the innards look like? Are the colors ugly? The risk is too great! I must hide myself, lest the world see the garish truth and the clashing petals. It is in this way that I become a frigid thing, locked away inside many rooms. I pace the floors and I know these tiles so well that my mind begins to believe that I have imagined the ones before them. I can still recall the scent of her perfume. I close that door.
Running, I find that I am lost among many memories, and that another has been stripped from me; no matter how many frames I beat upon, it is gone, gone, gone.

Phoenix Falling

Human fires: burning, consuming, killing. Everything we touch is slowly sucked clean of life, yet somehow, new things still manage to push through all the soot and cinders. Do people really believe that we, having only the power to destroy, are what coaxes that pale, fragile creature that we call life to go on? All we ever manage to do is unravel the beautiful ribbons of hope and love that hold us together. Always, we are responsible for all those little things inside of us that fall apart. Always we let go; we give up; we choose to die. 

Bitterness

My shame gnaws at me like a famished thing. I've felt it swallowing me throughout the years: consuming me and eroding me. How to run from a bitterness turned from others and thus unto myself? How to forgive amid the loathing and despair? Weak, I was. Always weak, and much like a famished thing myself. I didn't have the strength  to tell the truth, blinded as I was by fear and confusion.
Ah, I hated them; I hated them for the way they looked at me, when I knew the things that I did at the time. I despised the injustice sealed away -- this filthy little secret-- behind closed doors.
But wasn't I the one who truly faltered? Throat closing up rapidly, tears running rampant down my despairing face; I ran from those eyes with a false confession on my lips. Perhaps the truth wouldn't have been so hard to believe if I had actually told it. I simply hadn't been strong enough. And at night, I cried over my own failure. I was only a child, but I prayed that I could die in my sleep and be reborn. I wanted to be anyone, anything, other than myself. I prayed that the person that I was would die.
I never wanted to feel those eyes that smoldered with rebuke saying, "Tell the truth!"
The truth was always first on my tongue, only to be twisted and vomited back out as the lie.
THE LIE.
Why did I lie to them? Why did I let them conquer me and manipulate me into telling them the lie that they so wanted to hear? How could I betray myself so horribly?
Ah, I may be far, far from perfect now, but I was very close to it then. I only wanted them to love me, to keep me. But I was too weak, and in my weakness I destroyed my chance to be loved, and I am close to being cast away and forgotten by them, with relief on their part.
I am so bitter. How could I have been so weak?

Unknown

First, I thought summer would mark the end of school: of graduating and of moving in with the one person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. And then, I thought it would bring an end to everything I'd held dear; I thought it meant the start of a new life in a different city for him, goodbyes, and thousands of "what if...?". Shortly after that, I believed summer would be something of a reprieve from sorrow and confusion. Now I see that summer was truly a time of anger and of pain, of screaming fights and insults that stick inside the mind for years, of hatred.
I understand now that disappointment should be expected around every corner. Nothing is ever as easy as you want or expect it to be. That's life, isn't it? Ever uncertain, always changing, forever indistinct. I guess the only thing to be said about it is that it's nothing to cry about. After all, what's an adventure without a little bit of rocky sailing?