The books bind a universe, and I've dug it out,

Stretching the stars out on my arm.

I reflex and relax the meaning of pleasure.

My name calls me Queen of the Stars.

Erikaboom, I bloom, lost in a ranshackled room

And although you left me too soon, I remove

All of the stitches with expert precision. 


One, two, three, four, fivesixseveneight

My pillow case fluffed and tucked in the exact way

So that I won't keep myself up bothered by the knowledge that I only fluffed it 2 times.

Doesn't matter how much I let the moon in, the light bursting from my eyes revives

A night owl shot by the forest hunter's cold eyes. 


Muscles CLENCH and I am drenched in sweat

Fluttered open like a casket, the corridor collapsed.

A spasm, a daze, a menacing surprise.

A crash, a praise, an elaborate lie. 

Clutching my pillow, I open my eyes.


Fibromyalgia, PCOS, POTS, more acronyms

My logic brimmed to the top with inadequate syllogisms.

Am I supposed to be bright as a light-reflecting prism?

Risen, I struggle to connect the walk with the stumble.


I read, I lost passion, I listened, I lost passion, I gave, I lost passion.

Architecture never proved my finest class.

I'm the durable brass last place.

Guaranteed to be won, but held in disappointment.

Always held up to the gold and silver.


A sliver of my body belongs to each of those who pass me

Repairing their ills, while dismantling my own sanity.

It isn't healthy, it isn't good, but I made my mark when I could.

Now, everyone left and erased my existence.


I am not a direct existentialist. 

I'm an extension of empathy rather than a unique personality.

I'm not what I know, I am not what you know.

I am what I am. Surpass my words and fingertips

Expand my body and race your hips



Spread out like a butterfly, I flap and die.

Short lived with the spring, and with winter I wither. 

Others glance and let me land on their finger.

Knowing that if they touch my wings, I'll perish without a sound.



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