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Alice Nov 2021
I lie on the bed
I cover my face  
Waking up has left me 
With my soul out of place  
I dig my nails into my hands
And lace my fingers to ask for grace 
But I am too scared to ask God
To cleanse a girl so debased.
Alice Nov 2021
I’m sorry I’m your heart breaker.
Penny-pincher; love-taker
Joy-sucker; hurt-maker
I’m sorry I’m your heart breaker.  

I’m sorry I’m your worst fear.
Pull you close; hold you near-
But now I’m going to disappear.
I’m sorry I’m your worst fear.

I’m sorry I’m your dark night.
If I could give you wings- let you take flight
I would in a second- to escape my own spite.
I’m sorry I’m your dark night.
Alice Jan 2021
I miss being childlike
Curling up in my mommy’s lap: snug, warm, safe.
Playing and pulling her brown hair between my fingers.
Feeling her belly rise and fall with breath, interwoven with who we are, mother from daughter, her womb my fingerprints.
I am but a child.
Alice Sep 2018
I am a wilting flower.
I am over-watered, hung heavy.
I am the blackish-blue in your eyes after a flash.  Splotchy, blinding, lacking clarity.
I am the looks you receive and the smiles you don’t when you enter a room
I am the ringing in your ears, the sharp alarm
of your eardrum dying.
I am the weight in your stomach, a cowbell sitting above your bladder.
I am the cold.
I am the frigid wind at 5 a.m. on a February morning.
I am the dark, suffocating, all-encompassing feeling of being smothered beneath a pillow.
I am the frostbite which makes your fingers swell and feel like needle jabs.
I am the exact-o knife against your skin.
I am the beads of blood.
I am the slice which opens up when you pull on my lips, revealing the muscle inside.
I am the wall which stares back as you sit staring.
I am the voice in your head which cycles over and over.
I am the rotten banana peel left on the lunch table for the janitor.
I am the wreaking garbage on your curb.
I am the abandoned wrapper everyone steps over but no one picks up.
I am the dried gum stuck to the sidewalk and under desks.
I am the drowsiness, the lack of concentration, the sadness.
I am the numbness, the lead in your limbs, the cramps in your back.
I am the constipation and the nausea.  
I am the headaches which press into your temples.
I am the thoughts and the quiet holding you to the bed.  
I am the used ****** left in the vineyard.
I am the empty roads and stoplights after dark.
I am the fist which clenches your heart.
I am the suffocation.
I am the loneliness.
I am the fear.
I am the self-hatred.
I am the weight.
I am the loss.
I am the spreading.
I am the increasing while you decrease.
I am the dark cloud.
I am the thunderstorm.
I am the heavy rain on your windshield on the highway.  I am the broken windshield wipers. you cannot see anymore.
I am the empty cavity in your chest.
I am the remembered, you are the forgotten. .
First poem in a small series I did a few years back.  Very sad and rather personal.  A few vague triggers, but please do not read if triggered easily!  Once again, if you in any way feel like this for an extended period of time, please seek help and I promise it gets better!
Alice Sep 2018
There is something about the way the sunlight slants through the blinds, how my blanket
feels warm after a night hugging my body.
The way my sock-enmeshed toes stretch and my
arms reach out like wings then fold back in
to the warmth of my chest.
The way my feet pad across the oak floors
and my apple tastes as it crushes between my molars,
sweet and watery and fresh,
as though the flowers of on my windowsill have turned red
and the petals filled with nectar.
Alice Sep 2018
I want to give you clear instructions on how to make the blood bead up.
You start with an edge, blunt is fine, but sharper is better.
Then, you choose a side, the one less scarred is usually best.
Once you’ve chosen, pull the skin taut, it’ll make the slice easier.
Then draw the tip of your object of choice across the skin.
Do it over and over, until the proper amount of depth is achieved
to create BBs of blood ebbing from the new line in on your hip.
Move on to a different section, continuing to slice until your leg
is sufficiently covered in rubies.
Rinse item, tend wound(s), and repeat the next time
you feel numb inside or like you might explode.
Please be aware this poem contains references to self-harm and mental illness.  DO NOT READ if you feel this will cause you great distress.  And please, if you are in distress, ask for help!  Things do get better :)
Alice Sep 2018
When i was young, my skin was smooth and soft and un-ravaged.
Then, I grew up, and my top and bottom cheeks sagged, and my laughter
became a tangible memory around the corners of my eyes.
Now, when I smile, there are dimples and there are lines,
like the life-line and the love-line which are supposed to spell out my story
on the palm of my hand.
When I opened my eyes as a child, I saw brown water and blue skies and popsicles.
I saw floats on a lake and boats and friends splashing in from a water-trampoline,
yellow life jackets bobbing and children shouting.
Now, I still see blue skies, but sometimes there are white clouds and sometimes grey.  
I see my mother with her own memories of laughter around her eyes and I see the crevices
at the edges of my father’s mouth from smiling and frowning.
I smell flowers now, and little boys inform me they're fuschia, and when I breathe
at night my pillow smells like London and my room like lavender so I am home and
abroad at once.
Once, when I was sad, I would think mommy and daddy mommy and daddy.  
Now, when I am afraid, I think mommy mommy daddy I miss you.  
I sleep in a twin bed and I tickle myself and it is like I am in kindergarten but now
my fantasies are slicker and harsher but they still paint pictures of a school girl.
I lay in shivasna when I was young yet not old, and I saw a peach pit uncovered,
and it transcended back in time to a baby, just born in the world, and I realized
how it is we can die before our bodies do, how our minds can leave even though
we physically stay.
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