i welcome in his soft, honeysuckle bruises—each one graciously and delicately placed.

he is drowning deep within freshwater and our lungs—paired in synchronicity—

both gasp for the piercing air.

swallowing swords to keep us sane,

symphonies of sadness swell overtime

and it is within quietness we find our comfortable surrender.

barricaded and constricted between the warmth of new love and irrefutable emotions, we are exiled time and time again.

“hell hath no fury than a woman scorned”, but hell hath no fear than a woman who is in love—both remarkable, yet perilous.

shamelessly and hopelessly refusing to turn my back, the world shouts,

“OH, NAIVE GIRL, WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”

and my whispers crash like hot lightening against the foolish breeze,

i am the thinking girl-

the nothing girl-

the feeling girl-

the everything girl-

the metaphor girl.

i am a caged bird,

perched at the end of my iron wires,

holding myself in,

much like the sorrows locked beneath my rib cage.

some days the traumas knock so loud at my hallow chest that there is nothing left to do but sink into the depths of madness,

disguised as unwanted adventure.

i am a caged bird.

my wings plucked

and soft whistle

stolen,

gouged out from within me

and replaced with endless tears

that spill into heavy waterfalls whose shallow puddles collect my rage and embrace it as its own.