First Quarter

First Quarter

In my room

in my room,

I have a screaming contest

with a dolls head,

black eyes

dart through me

like I were, 

miles and miles away.

And I shudder to think

how my life affected hers

or rather didn't,

she spilled my blood once;

now having a taste for it

she stores it in mason jars

under her lovers

side of the bed.

I don't want to bend

until my back breaks,

I want to be a strong tide,

pull my own water,

be an ocean

with many rivers still.

But my heart won't let me

and sometimes I wish I were dead.

I wish I were dead.

And my ears sting

from the lack of sound,

the image of I alone forever

open-mouthed screaming

for someone who...

...never even whispered my name.