jane doe.

i may be young,
but my soul feels
old and creased and monochrome.
i have those days
and weeks and months
where nothing seems to make a circle.
everything has corners;
everything has points;
everything ends.

i wish i could be a bird.
i go to the rooftop and
stare at the ground and
think "i will leap;
i will leap and fly,
and i will be a bird,
i will be a bird."
and then i remember
i'm terrified of heights.
so i cry.
i step away from the ledge
and i cry vigorously,
violently and ferociously.
eventually the tears dry up,
and there's nothing left to do.

one day i was telling you
all of my secrets.
and they were no longer
my secrets.
they were ours.
my emotions were spread out
between us
like paint in a Pollock piece,
and i trusted you like Pollock
trusted his sticks.

and if the universe
ever chose to wear a jacket,
it'd be the white of stars,
and the blue of the night sky,
and the red of ichor,
because everyone bleeds.