I was at the brink of vulnerability

but your cold eyes shut me out





tainted leaves

that caress my soul

consumed by grievance

autumn leaves to make me whole


because my heart is falling

into the pits of despair

on my knees crawling

heaving; looking for air





If I were a book, you would be the terrorizing fire burning all my pages out of spite.

because -your brutal flames negate the beauty of light.


If I were a book, you would be the flames feeding off of the words you don’t know

devouring everything that comes along that may challenge your inferno


because you have refused the brightness which was bestowed upon you

light that’s meant to allow people to see; you manipulated the embers that flew



you are your own pyre, in your damn empire; alone

you can burn my pages, but you’ll never burn my bones