Am I a princess,

trapped in a tower

Or an ogre,

hidden away in a cave?

This question haunts my thoughts.

I can not answer this question,

but the onlookers can.

They will know.

They know everything,

right?

The darkness consumes me

limb by limb.

My toes to my knees.

My fingers to my elbows.

My heart to my soul.

But what is left of one

when they do not have

a heart

or a soul?

Sometimes I like to think of my life as empty boxes. People, places, possessions— they come into my life and always leave. I’ve never had one thing that has stayed… other than my empty boxes.

People walked out like leaves falling from trees in autumn— it was just routine. I was used to it. I didn’t always have empty boxes. I had my family.

I remember on Christmas morning, I would dart downstairs straight to my parent’s room. I’d shout and squeal, jump on top of them— anything to get them to awake. My parents would wake with glassy eyes and tumble out of bed like zombies. We’d walk to the living room together, as a family. I miss those days. I’ll always have the memories, but it isn’t the same.

I don’t need people, places, or possessions. I have my empty boxes and memories to keep me company. I’m fine.

The heart

a soft pink petal

bleeds white droplets

smaller, circular petals.

I changed my profile picture to a bleeding heart.

Partly because they are beautiful,

But mostly because my heart is bleeding.

I didn't lose him to the world above.

I lost him to the chaotic world we live in.

The world pushed us together

only to pull us apart.

My heart is bleeding

and I have no way to stop it.

The cardinal,

beautiful, bright red,

sits in the maple tree

watching me.

Mother says,

cardinals are angels

sent down to watch us.

Is that my great grandma?

My great grandpa?

My dog, who was more of a brother?

Or is it just a bird?

The cardinal flies through

Rain

Snow

Sleet

to sit in the maple tree

and watch me.

The blood is gushing out.

Flooding the room.

Filling the room.

The room is half-filled.

The room is full of my crimson, red blood.

I am unable to

fly,

swim,

walk

out.

I,

the wounded, bleeding bird,

am trapped in the prison I created.

I,

the wounded, bleeding bird,

will die in the prison I created.

I was always told "we can do it",

but we didn't.

We crashed & burned,

setting a forest on fire.

It's still burning.

I can't put it out.

I've tried.

Only you can.

You can make the fire bigger

or put it out in an instant.

Only you can decide.

Only you...

I was a little bird in a nest-

safe from harm.

Then you came along.

You taught me how to fly.

I felt the freedom- the maturity.

But then we crashed... hard.

It was unexpected

at least for me.

Now, I lay on the beaten ground

and I wonder,

Are you watching from afar

or are you flying with someone else?

I want to find gifts under the tree with red bows on top.

I want to have a kiss under the mistletoe.

I want to wear a band with a jewel- signifying I am to you as you are to me.

I want the magic.

I want the story.

I want the one in a million.

I want to be loved.

I want to find love.

I want the one.

The canvas starts black

As black as a raven's feather

Slowly- shyly

Bright dots appear

Illuminating the page

A perfect circle draws the viewer's attention.

It's not white,

but rather cream.

Large and glowing.

It catches you

like a moth to light.

The painting

glorious and astonishing.

How could one person create such a beautiful sky?

Why does it have to go?

The blue sky will replace it,

but it will be back again.