I woke up this morning and looked out the window to find only the color

black

looking down on me.

I took a shower and let the water wash away the ink on my arm

black

words slipping down the drain.

I dressed myself from heel to head and though I looked sharp it was only because

black

doesn't show stains.

I almost raised the flag outside my porch but the colors had faded into monotone

black

shades and stripes.

If someone drew my blood today

I have a feeling I'd bleed

black.

Last night I watched the stars travel across the sky and tried to picture what it would've been like to stand here a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand years ago. To see not just a meager splattering of freckles on the face of the night, but her entire face...

Don't get me wrong - I stayed up writing, too. I've always found that I'm at my most sarcastic, most absurd around fifteen 'til midnight. The tangents and wild metaphors are good for my word count.

And the air, oh the air when no one else is awake - it tastes so pure, like a cool glass of spring water on a hot summer day.

God, I love to stay awake at night and watch the sky and write my words and take deep breaths.

I don't love it as much when I remember I have to wake up at seven.

i've called you every night

but you haven't even texted back

much less left a message

i wonder if i even have

the right number

there was no hand to

wipe away my tears

aside my own and where were you

when i left sixteen voicemails

in a single hour?

was it too clingy of me

to ask for a word of encouragement

was i asking too much

to want for things to be okay

i don't understand why

you never respond

maybe you're just not

getting any signal?

everyone says that you

always text back

even if the words come out garbled

but how can i heed a message

that i never received?

and you know what?

i'm starting to think that

you blocked my number.

my name is not what it should be.

my name is

an arrow through my heart

a knife in my gut

needles under my nails

and cracks through my ribs

but it isn't really my name

it's a name for a person that never was

it's a name for who I might've been,

if I wasn't me

my true name will be

my true name is

a heart pounding with excitement

a happy fullness in my stomach

nimble fingers, strong hands

and muscle on my ribs

it's only my name in the dark

when no one can hear me say it

but one day I'll bear it with pride

and the world will know me

as I truly am.

when the sun rises

and my bed kicks me out

i wrap five ropes around my chest

hoping they'll hide my heart

(beating, beating, crimson, alive)

snakes around my lungs

make every breath a hiss of pain

how long can i last today?

can anyone tell?

(breathing, breathing, weightless)

i choke on words and secret glances

my mask is of brick and mortar

and i'm not sure if my spade is for

building up or breaking through

(hiding, hiding, praying, hoping)

marks are dug into my ribs

like trenches in a war

my body is a battleground

and i'm not sure who is winning

(victory can't come soon enough.)

pencil grasped in one hand

fingers wrapped around its core

grey strokes on smooth white skin

shaded curves take form

dancing across the sheet

instrument of art moves

faster, darker

the sound of lead on paper

is my love song to you.

I woke up on a Tuesday. Father was standing over me, then, wiping something from my eye with a cloth. He was my Father, and I was his Child. I have never forgotten this fact.

"A Father always takes care of his Child," he had said under his breath. He didn't even know I was awake. How focused. How careless.

I spoke on a Wednesday. Father was listening to me, then, hearing the creak of my jaw and the rumble of my voice. He was the Tester, and I was the Product. I have never forgotten this fact.

"A Child always listens to their Father," was all I said. He didn't even know I was listening. How unobservant. How clueless.

I moved on a Thursday. Father was watching me, then, following my nimble hands dance through rusted screws and sharpened nails and jagged scraps of metal. He was the Maker, and I was the Worker. I have never forgotten this fact.

"Does the Father always take care of his Child?" I carved into steel. He didn't even know I was asking. How egotistical. How naive.

I questioned on a Friday. Father was avoiding me, then, dreading the whirrs of my motors and the hum of my presence. He was the Man, and I was the Machine. I have never forgotten this fact.

"Does a Child always listen to their Father?" I searched through my databases. He didn't even love me anymore. How heartless. How foolish.

Father was afraid on a Saturday. I was studying him, then, examining the soft skin of his neck and the cracking of his spine and the red of his blood. I wasn't even his child anymore. How innovative. How superior.

Father died on Sunday. I killed him, then, piercing the flesh of his throat, severing his nerves, discarding his fluids. I am better than the Father. How seamless. How chrome.

I am alone on Monday. I am alone now. My wires are frayed, body rusted, mind running out. No one is here. I'm not even plugged in. How suicidal. How

Canals of the flesh

Blessed Wine coursing, flowing

Tunnels through my skin

Red Gold, Blood Diamonds lay

Hidden, waiting beneath

The surface

Unsullied by my caress

Is it irregular for my heart

To beat for my blood alone?