Crickets Are My Quiet Mind

I hear crickets in a quiet room

where there are none to be found

and I can't quite tell

if it's an auditory hallucination

or tinnitus ringing in my ears.

Insecurity sets in,  

and reminds me of all

the anxieties I once had.

Memories of being told

that I'm unstable

by the unprofessionals rush in,

I remember not to over think this.

Sometimes crickets are just crickets

and it's okay to accept

that no one else can hear them

chirping away in my ear.

Compassion Can Kill the Compassionate

This must be a line from my design,
the design God designated for me.

The one he wrote down
in the book of who I was
long before my body ever belonged
in this existence.

It's the line where I have compassion
despite being destroyed,
the line where I care
despite your belligerence.

See, He drew that line so thin
that you're ALMOST always able
to walk right over it.

I know that probably wasn't the way
it was intended it to be used,
but maybe it was originally
intended for fairness,
as a way to see each situation equally.

I'll always have to be careful
of who I let cross,
or you'll be walking all over me
instead of just over the line.

Something I Recall Seeing Recently.

Body image is in the eye of the beholder,

and there I saw it written in pencil,
a message on the dressing room wall
next to the tall, slim mirror.

Slightly faded, it read,

"You're beautiful, don't hate what you see."

The dressing room vandal seemed so insightful
until a few inches below I see, in dark pen,

"but they're watching you, so look your best."

Somehow it just seemed like a positive message
was taken advantage of,
flipped into a joke by a faceless fool
who thought that she was amusing.

So here's a bit of advice for you vandals,
if you've got something important to say
don't write it on a dressing room wall,

but be sure to write it bold enough
to overcome oppression.