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Our story bleeds from my eyes until I cannot tell the stars from streetlights.

Stephanie Briar

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Our story bleeds from my eyes until I cannot tell the stars from streetlights.
STEPHANIE BRIAR

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Anxiety is living with an apple on your head and you imagine that everyone you know stands watching with a bow to shoot an arrow at it.
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Some days, my mind will still be in prison, but I will live in spite of it. I unlearn how to swim; I trade my gills for lungs and wings.
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Your darkness does not scare me, nor will I run from you; like a star, I’m falling for the phases of your moon.
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We usually seek the divine in the sky, But religion is best found on the ground. Nature is our true creator.
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The search for external sources is nothing compared to internal forces.
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You could not keep me fed by throwing me bones and empty promises. I am ashamed to admit how much starving I did before I finally left.
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Poetry? That’s easy. I just cut the vein, and let it bleed.
STEPHANIE BRIAR

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Last night, I sent you home with a kiss and a promise. I hope you still believe in roses.
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Trauma has deep roots indeed, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pull the weeds.
STEPHANIE BRIAR

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Creatives are neither born nor created. They are activated.
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Our memories lurch to a reluctant halt in their funeral march, so I can pour salt over them one last time.
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Standing in your power scares a lot of people. You become something formidable, intimating, and aspirational all at once.
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Can hope bloom in the shade? Can time give back what it takes away? I once saw the answers to life in your eyes; now I can remember the words to goodbye.
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In my dreams we got past the parking lot; you took me past the old, oak door, led me up onto the vacant altar, and offered me to every god whose name you invoked as you worshipped my body.
STEPHANIE BRIAR

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I was looking for you in all the places our love used to be. When all along I should have been looking for me.
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