What I Found At The Bottom of My Mug.

You wouldn't know
real love
if it slapped you
across the face.
Actually,
it has.
I remember doing so
quite vividly.
In our world of
recycle bins and
consignment shops,
nothing is treasured.
I suppose being
reused is better than
discarded...
But aren't they the same?
My brain swims
in a sea of caffeine.

I suppose it's better

than drowning. 

Again, I cannot

see the difference. 

I never did learn

how to swim.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

2 A.M. on a Saturday morning.

Let's just pretend
for just a moment
that my friends are okay;
that we're all okay.
You keep calling me,
and my thumb keeps hitting
ignore.
I'm good at that.

I feel like part of me
evaporated
with the smoke
as I exhaled.
It's like it
doesn't even matter
anymore.
Even if I achieve
perfection,
you're still jacked up.

What the hell is
your problem?!
I'm pounding on
the glass box:
your cage.
I'm beating it
repeatedly, screaming,
but you're not
listening.

I don't know how to
help you help yourself.
You're lost in a place
I've never been.
Don't worry.
I suppose I'll
catch up soon enough.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012

"Girl, Untitled."

Disproportionate to your frame,
you quiver with the weight
of the yoke you bear.
You are so small.
Why are you struggling,
attempting the impossible?
Oh, you've caught a chill.
I would lend you my coat,
but this is not bone deep.
Why are you screaming?!
Smoke ingested,
Moth infested,
Truth rejected.
Floating away...soft laughter...
What the hell are you doing?
Where the hell are you?
Who the hell are you?
Since you don't know,
They will tell you.
As they slap the label
across your parched lips,
you don't even care.
At least you have a
Name.

Christina Sawyer (c) 2012