3 a.m.

touch yourself

love yourself first

 

do not let someone

roll their fingers

down your spine

spinning threads

of lies into your 

skin.

 

Do not let 

their words soak in.

 

Be impermeable.

 

Waterproof your 

skin to tears and

sweat and rain.

 

Because they

will fall on you,

as often as

you fall apart.

 

Rain does not ask

permission to

wake you in the

middle of the night,

when your nightmares

are as loud as thunder,

and your tears streak

down your window.

 

Breathe.

 

Remember:

you are

your own.

 

When your hands shake

so violently you’re

afraid the magnitude

will represent how

hard your heart still

quakes, breaking your

chest open to a chasm

that holds all the darkness

you’ve been hiding for all

these years,

 

Remember:

Sunflowers lean

towards the sun,

even though they

know they will never

touch it.

 

Remember:

Your hands may

shake, but they

are not hollow.

 

Your fingers tell

stories, as they 

leave the perfume 

of your lovers on 

brick walls 

and doorways. 

And though

he will spin lies

on your spine,

you write about

what it feels like to

love when the world

doesn't love you,

what it feels like

to breathe when 

this air is not forgiving,

what it feels like to walk 

while a thread

pulls you back,

what it feels like 

to accept the parts of you

he called cracked, burnt,

ruined.

When you remember yourself,

be strong,

cut the thread he holds

you with,

and walk

then

run,

until your

legs shake instead

of your shoulders.

 

Become your own

earthquake

where your feet

meet the ground

 

and when you can’t

run any longer,

let your breathing

fill you.
Let the air fill you and 

release from you, 

reminding yourself

this is all you need 

to survive.

 

And when the rain

falls on your window

tomorrow,

know that you

do not have to

join in. 

 

No matter how many things,

How many people try,

Only you can touch yourself

 

Only you

can sew your skin

back together where

others had cut you

open and had tried to fill

your hollow bones with

guilt and regret.

 

But you are not hollow

You are full of yourself.

 

 

Reviews

[A. F. Carrera]

Powerful rhythm. Enjambment on point once again. I must continue typing so that I will receive writerscafe points, for whatever they're worth. And though I know brevity is the soul of wit, word count is the soul of writerscafe points. I can't believe I've only gotten one point for this review. ha ha great poem slam it down there's my second point. Thank you.