Punctuation

In My Head

The most dangerous of her moments

are the ones she lives with in the shadows,

behind the closed doors of her bedroom, 

the ones when the rest of the world is asleep. 

She's not a child any more, 

she's been the martyr of manifold depths of darkness. 

And she's not perturbed by what it brings, 

what it shelters.

No, she embraces those places. 

She admires the chattel a dark place can produce. 

Neighborhoods as those produce works such as these,

they compose intricate works of art which she would yearn for when without.

She thirsts for her door to seal itself shut tighter, 

hinder all light and sound from billowing in. 

Protect her family from traumatizing happenings to a young woman's mind, 

protect them from the sobs she muffles with her pillow and skilled experience. 

There are so many monsters, 

but her bed is on the floor, 

and they don't have anywhere to live. 

She's not afraid of them. 

They crawl under the covers, 

basking in her body heat, 

nibbling at her skin, licking away sweet dreams.

Robbing blind of her warmth. 

She pleads with them to take her away from the misery, 

she wishes they would eat her

before her thoughts, her aching heart, her broken emotions did for them. 

Before the tears streaming down her face accumulated into a river, 

and then an ocean, 

and then drowned her in her own sorrows. 

Any darkness is brighter than that of the midnight in her own head, 

any darkness is lighter than the gravity holding down her heart...

making it nearly impossible for her to breathe. 

to think. to eat. to talk. to live. 

Any darkness is better than another prick of her finger, 

mountain to scale down without safety, 

valley to escape from. 

Day with this demon inside of her, taking everything, but her blanched bones. 

The most dangerous of her moments

are the moments when she's alone in her head, 

silent and still. 

Motionless. While the world keeps turning around her.