The only feeling I've ever seemed to be consistent with is the feeling like I'm missing something.
Home used to be a feeling, not a permanent residence but every time I leave school I live somewhere new. Home never got to be "home," I never had enough time.
I think I left because I felt like the second you'd become home I'd be uprooted.
So I did what I did best, I moved.
And sometimes I still fall asleep to the memory of me collapsing on my bedroom floor and apologizing for telling you I loved you too soon.
But ten months apart and home isn't home, home isn't your skin on a Friday morning. Home isn't skipping class to feel the warmth of your sheets for just a few more hours.
Home feels like trying to remember your voice when you won't even look at me.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 10:57 PM UTC
The first time you hear your ex
is with someone new,
it will feel like a ton of bricks
resting on your lungs.
You'll find yourself deserting
the flowers they planted there,
reminding yourself of the things
that used to break you both apart.
You promised to love me
with everything in you,
but ********* does it scare
me to ask the question:
"can anyone really love me
despite my mental disorders?"
Because God, loving a paranoid,
anxious, Obsessive Compulsive,
depressed ******* tore you down.
And God, did it destroy me
to watch you fall apart with me.
I've been stuck on the idea
that all I need to hear from you
is that you don't miss me anymore.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
I can feel my sanity fleeing,
harsh memories sliding
through my fingers like sand.
I find comfort in isolation,
because the fleeting feeling
of acceptance by my peers
becomes so minimal that
it keeps me up at night.
There are millions of stars
outside and I hope one day,
far from now,
when I can find a way to
put in words just how hard it is
that you can't love me back,
we can lay there
and count them together.
I dream of it.
But I also dream of
being someone else and
I have spent the past few years
trying to correct an
emotional abuse that just
won't seem to fix itself.
I won't get better until the
existence of my internal isolation
is so minimal that
I won't have to hide
under covers the second
my sadness kicks in.
I meet people that
are beautiful and
I try to be beautiful,
I try to sit straighter,
I try not to push people away
but I just can't be more than
a wilting flower.
I just can't fix it.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
You get real tired of that boy
that takes and takes and takes.
I am so ******* tired
of drinking and calling
and wishing it was more
than it actually is.
You move out of your home
town to forget them
and you paint the walls
the color of their eyes anyway.
Sometimes my head feels
like it is carving hieroglyphics
into my skull because
I can't seem to read myself
any better than anyone
else can.
There is nothing like
throwing up in the shower
because you couldn't
wash off the feeling of
their fingertips almost three
whole years later.
But the boys that take
and take
and take
will keep you up at night
and never ask why your
walls are blue or why you
cry in the shower and
why you scream your
favorite songs alone.
He won't ask until alcohol
fills his blood just like the
first and last time
he kissed you.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 11:34 PM UTC
I think I'll go back to you until
you ******* want me,
but I haven't wanted to
**** myself in about
two weeks and I think
that says something about us.
Or maybe it doesn't.
Maybe this is as foolish
as the time I romanticized
street lights
because a boy told me
he'd be a street light
over a stop sign.
I think about your smile
when I see the sunset,
because nothing will compare
to the night you told me
about where you'd like
to be by next year.
I'm starting to feel like
a stranger every where I go.
I havn't been able to lose
the vacant signs between
my veins, my shoulder blades,
my bones.
People will insist on
making homes inside yourself,
but Goddamit it's
so hard to find light
in the darkest parts of yourself.
Maybe I don't have
to stop breathing to die.
I just have to love you again.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
When you are sitting with
beautiful people, and
you still feel sad,
does that say a thing about you?
Well, if you're asking me,
I don't want to be nervous anymore.
Maybe I can't tell my friends
that I'm happy because
last week I found myself covered in mud
and still didn't feel as *****
as the days I found myself
still trying to wash
your fingerprints off.
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 9:11 AM UTC
A boy asked me today if I was happy,
And I couldn't answer.
And when I told him "I don't know,"
He told me I did.
Today a boy asked me
What makes me happy,
and I couldn't answer.
In most cases, I'd tell him it was him.
But it was too simple,
too in-the-moment.
Do you ever meet someone
and wonder how they could love you,
and more importantly how someone
couldn't be crazy about them?
I want to learn the crooks and crannies
of your ******* skin,
and I want to learn the wheels
in your brain that turn
when you wait for me to answer -
What makes you happy?
And I wish I knew,
I wish I could tell you it is you.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
They diagnosed me with
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,
and Anxiety Disorder,
less than three months before I told you
I wanted to **** myself.
That was four years ago.
Sometimes, when there's
a moment of silence in my head,
quite like the pause in words when
you've realized you said too much,
I think I should of followed through when you had asked me to.
I think there would be a lot less
heartache for every body I touched
but couldn't love.
I fear that you'll be hidden below their skin,
waiting for me to fall in love again.
Speaking of skin, it's been almost three years
since you last touched mine.
Every July I still scrub a little harder in the shower,
somehow believing that I will forget you again.
You haven't touched me since
the 13th of December back in 2012,
but it feels like your fingertips are still crawling up my skin.
You've fallen in love again, and I can't
hold a steady relationship for more than a few months.
Maybe that's because
I still kiss boys that remind me of you.
Maybe that's because
I still hear you saying
"I never even loved you,"
long after I've forgotten the sound of your voice.
I sometimes catch the gym teacher
looking at me the same way
one would look at their siblings like
"I won't tell if you won't."
I don't mean this to sound questionable, in fact,
he gives me that look when I become distressed, like a mutual
"we don't have to talk about it, just know I know."
He gave me that same look in 2012,
when I threatened to leave you,
when you grabbed my arms and
told me not to walk away from you.
Your grip made me flinch,
and I think back then it was as unnerving
for him as it is for me to realize
I haven't gotten better in the past four years.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
I am not so sure quite
What frightens me most;
The knowledge that my
Hands could break
You in half, metaphorically,
Or the inability
To judge the way
You could break me, literally.
I find myself lying next to bodies
To feel their heart,
As if their breathing
Could somehow remind me
That I am still here, that
I still breathe among them.
We can destroy the
Homes we made in people,
With the same shaky hands
We used to build them.
We can rip apart the same flesh
We tenderly kissed just hours before.
We are monsters;
I cannot breathe among them.
I've been finding myself
Alone in dark rooms,
Often with the ghost of
Your past and God,
Do we miss you.
I can no longer trust
My judgement on others;
I will lower them to my standard,
I will rip them apart
In my mind until they
Are no longer human,
But rather pawns.
I cannot love you like pawns.
I don't think I can love you at all.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
I'll never forget the way the sun
Hits your eyes, but I've
Forgotten the shade of
Ocean they resemble.
I fell in love with the trail
Of flowers that led from
Your grandmother's garden and
To your father's old wooden
Front door, through the kitchen
We once danced in and into
Your bedroom.
On days I cannot forget you,
I scrub a little harder in the shower.
I'm sure you no longer have
Your fingertips lost somewhere
Between my pores
(Better safe than sorry,
Like you always said).
You left me breathless from the
Day you told me I never
Deserved what he had done,
To the day you told me I never
Deserved you, either.
I sometimes catch myself
Screaming your name
In my dreams.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC