The Stories You Make, The Stories I Tell

The “U” in Lucifer

Falling. Whether it be in love or for you, still there is no ladder for me. The beauty of climbing up knives in replacement. One heart broke, four hands bloody. The marks on your palms seem to bleed. They bled through your concealment of lies. I look down upon the moments you and I had, and I say I hate you with a smile on my face.

The climb. It wasn’t as difficult as I thought. Didn’t hurt as much. Is that how you felt? In the sky? All I see is the clipping of your wings. A fallen angel. Swinging your dagger through my garden. Even grace can’t save you now.

You look funny. 

Adam would agree. 

And Eve…she was busy being your accomplice.

Lilith would be upset with those knives you call horns on your head.

Not My Responsibility

I feel you watching…my every move. Always. I feel your stares, your disapproval. If I lived by your rules, I would be paralyzed. Does my body provoke you? My chest, my hips. If I take off layers, I am sexualized. You have never seen my body. What makes you think you can judge me for it? Objectify me for it? Is my worth only based on what you see?

Am I a zombie for validation?

Or is your opinion of me…

Not my responsibility?

Amber Eyes

I knew a girl once when I was small 

A brunette brown, with eyes of fall

She wore lots of makeup for the fame

Her clothes complimented her style

And all she wanted was one good smile

But to him it was just a game

He was the only place she was happy

Their honeymoon to be in Hawai’i

Then she found out it was a lie

All the things she did for him

Blind to see their future dim

Their conversation ended with “bye”

She desired his validation

But another girl was his vacation

From her stupid foundation

She wanted to call him “mine”

But to him, she was a crime

Women now are worth a dime


Water. The element of change and power. The calming sound and smell of rain. The feeling of water dripping off your skin. But perhaps I don’t want to lose it. That power penetrating through my skin. Why would I want to let go of something I’ve dreaded so long for? Power is what holds us back. 

Water. Something so soft. Something that can turn cold. As cold as ice. Being painted blue behind the red blood stains on my lips. My heart may be frozen, immune to the melting. The melting of the pain and suffering that I thought was weakness.

Drip. Drip. Losing the strength I needed. The power I needed to stop the fire. The fire you started to burn down my forests. The forests that protected me. From you.

Cutting The Apple

Diamonds in the cut, always know how to fool me with your knives. All they do is slash, lacerate, repeat. But I know when to stop. Do you? I’m not scared to give you my body. I’m not afraid to look into your eyes. I’m frightened by the reason why you want me. Why do you? I want to see myself the way you see me. 

Must be perfect. Just like the angle in which you sharpen your blade. And you’d be finished cutting within a second and toss me aside like I’m rotten to the core.

I guess only time will tell. And when you lose the sharpness of your power, that’s when you’ll prick your finger. You won’t fall to an eternal sleep, but to my feet.

The “U” in Assault

Do you know me? Do you really know me? Do you know what’s happening behind the mask?

How could you understand me if I don’t even understand myself? Why am I expected to be someone I’m not? Why is there an impossible standard that I can’t even reach? Why does masculinity exist? How is showing just a little bit of femininity automatically make me gay? Why did I drink so much at that party? Why do I flinch every time someone raises their arm toward me? Why does every man who gets near me automatically remind me of him? Why didn’t I stop him? Why didn’t I scream for help? Am I doing something wrong? Does my body suddenly provoke you? Why do I have to hide my story? Why do I allow myself to be put in this position? How was I able to stop him? How am I able to stop myself?


red rose

I’m scared. I’m only fifteen and yet I’m afraid of death. I’ve got so many years left ahead of me. Is death painful? Is it an eternal silence? Death is often associated with negativity and darkness. But without death, there wouldn’t be life.

It’s kinda like darkness and light. One can’t exist without the other. Yin n’ yang. Fire and ice. Balance. And all that good stuff. But what if death wasn’t really dying? It for sure ain’t living, I can tell you that. Is it just sleeping…feeling numb forever? I wonder what it’s like being trapped in a box. Roses. Wet with the sweat from your folks’ eyes. The roses being dropped on you. Marigolds being placed on your altar. Being suffocated with dirt just several feet below the surface.

It’s not much of a difference from where I’m at. Being trapped in a prison with only a sheet of paper and a pencil. Huge weights of study being dropped on the desk. Being suffocated with information that I need to know to start my own life. I don’t wanna do it anymore.

Or maybe I could just be like that guy who meditated under a big tree for God knows how long and historians can tell the world that I’m enlightened. Maybe it is that easy. Maybe the only way to stop the suffering is to stop feeling at all. To let go of my psyche. Pour all my emotions into the ground. Be one with the earth. Maybe that is death. Letting go and moving on. Then death is a beautiful thing really. But in this world…death. Death is always dying.

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