I used to a little girl,
but one day they told you that
it wasn’t okay to be afraid of the dark.
I’m not quite sure exactly
the day that I wasn’t anymore,
maybe it was when i locked the door
in the florescent-lighted bathrooms
hoping no one could hear my breathing
because it was too loud
and it sounded too much like crying.

Where do you feel safe? my shrink asked me,
what I can’t answer is that you can’t feel
safe
anywhere,
because no place is safe.
one nanosecond you are taking a math test,
the next you aren’t breathing
because some blue-eyed kid
cut a hole through your lungs
with a bullet
because no,
no place is safe,
but people are safe.
who is safe? is the better question,
because people,
not places,
are safe.

being alone is easier,
because I can’t lie.
people ask you so much,
how are you
but the ultimate irony
is they don’t care about your answer.
but I’m tired of lying,
so I just say,
the same
instead of fine.

the problem is
I’m just a cigarette
i’ll blacken your lungs
and you’ll smell too much like smoke.
as if there was something burning in between your ribcage.

maybe being alone is easier
because i locked all my doors
three months ago
and for the life of me i can’t find the key
and there is warfare between this hurricane skin and
glass mind
and it is no wonder I am cutting myself up
on the outside, too.

i feel okay,
when i drive home at night,
maybe it’s because we breathe
stars
when it’s dark,
or maybe it’s because
we are all the same
when we are all driving home.

i know we’re all stories,
and i’m sorry we’re all tragedies.

Before bed I think of red bathtubs
and unwritten words,
but why cant I fall asleep?
and anyway,
why do we call it falling?

for the life of me,
i wish i could stop,
but i won’t
because there are too many
pieces of me scattered throughout my bedroom,
and i’m not sure i can find them all.