Things that make me; Either a Martyr or a Monster The box of crayons I got for my birthday 8 years ago, Is a tiny house, bandaged- Wrapped with cellphone. Cigarettes, blades, and stains. Grow a family together inside. The bathroom window Half opened, Paper perfume packets; Casket for ashes and cigarette butts. The Water drips down the faucet above my head; growing wildflowers on the wall The light slowly turns everything Styro white, red. Predator stares, Consumes everything happy for dinner Creating everything alive, A testimony of my struggles- Staging youth, freedom between serving time, Writing words for the inside of magic 8ball For evidence of life. The deliberate imperfections I can’t find anything beautiful, Poetic, Worth a suicide note for Anymore. I’m simply bitter, unhappy. The hands ready to snatch Glass half empty; Now glass full stolen. I want what’s yours Until it’s completely mine again. Smelly, bloody and rigged. Unwanted and alone. Saving the world from its ugliness. I’m always either a Martyr or a monster.