Don't you think I want to be able to
have a drink with him
without the panic setting in.

Don't you see that when I say
my ex was an abusive alcoholic,
I mean that I'm still recovering.

Don't you feel my panic rising
with every sip of liquor
that flows down past his lips.

Don't you realize that when you
downplay my worry
your words are a vicious slap.

Don't you think that I do want
to get over it, but that I just
can't help but remember.

Don't you see the impact
I still feel from the squeezing
of his fingers around my neck.

Don't you feel any sympathy,
or are they just words to you,
"abusive ex."

Don't you realize that to me,
that was years of expecting death
at the hands of the one I loved.

So please, just. Don't.

The first was a neighbor
I fell fast into friendship with
Until he betrayed my innocent trust.

The second was a cousin,
Someone admired and adored
Until he twisted my adoration
Into something I didn't recognize
Or ask for.

The third was an uncle,
A partner in crime
Kept close to my heart
Until he bent the rules
And my will.

My view of the world
Was shaped
Changed
Shattered
By these three men.

Men I knew. Cared for.
Looked up to in awe.
And they used that
Toddler fascination
To their sick advantage.

Until I learned that
Love is shown in funny ways.
A secret meeting
Shh, don't tell your parents
Threats only barely veiled
Or something bad might happen
To your little sister.
And bruises left as reminders
You asked for it.

They showed me the love I was worth.

All
            my old scars have faded away, requiring a prolonged glance
            to distinguish the results of my past anguishes.
            My weapon of choice unavailable, I sidle into the kitchen
            and looked for a suitable substitute.
I
            sit on the floor, tracing over the places I
know
            they hide with the tip of a knife held gently in my hands.
            My mind sputters along slowly, trying to engage my heart.
            But once I’ve reached the point of seeking
pain
            directed outward, my emotions have dissipated,
            and my personality flat-lines.

I           won’t be long, just have a couple things to get done.
             Resigned, I sigh as quietly as possible and put on a smile we both know
             is contrived. Sure, not a problem. I’ve seen you for maybe an hour, but
             there’s no way I’m going to let you see what I’m holding back. Why
Can’t   I be your most imperative commitment?
             *Everything I do is for you, and our future.
             How am I supposed to argue with that? I’ve tried telling you before
             that I’d much rather get time with you than trivial items. I try to
Trust   my mind, telling me that I’d rather have someone who works a lot
             Than someone who never works at all.
             But that argument is little comfort when I’m alone in bed again.
             I’ll be home at 4. Promise me. I promise. We both know it’s
A          lie, yet you let it slide easily through your mouth. It’s left hanging
             there between us right on top of I’ll take care of that for you,
             your other most common phrase. Something I used to believe,
             but now no longer waste energy on. See, that’s the
Thing, a promise is nothing without a follow through. And I’ve learned
             that your promises are without any actual value,
             counterfeit currency you try to slip past me. But after too many times
             waiting on you to prove the worth of your words, I’m defeated.
You      glance at me, leading you to momentarily postpone your departure,
             There’s something different in your eyes tonight. Is everything ok?
             Yea, I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong. And with my promise,
             the crossing of our pinkies deftly disguises everything I need to
Say.

A sentence most innocent,
     yet the undercurrent
     is deep and swift.
                                                          ­  I love you, too.
A snap-reflex response
     to a heartfelt exhibition
     of true emotion.
                                                        ­    I love you, too.
To an outsider,
     nothing would be amiss
     but I read the lack of words.
                                                          ­  I love you, too.
This throwaway text
     hides something much more
     than you care to show.
                                                           ­ I love you, too.
And simple as those
     four little words, I know
     something is wrong.

She looks at me and I know in that
                                     quickest
                               of
                           seconds
             something is wrong.
                                 "Mom?
                                        Mom?!"
And she
              crumples
       against my sister.
I saw the
                            confusion
       in my mom's eyes
and now I see the
                            panic
       in my sister's.
My mom, limp on the ground,
       isn't responding
       to my repeated pleas.
"She's having a stroke!
            She's having a stroke!"
Panic makes my sister's voice
                            frantic.
                   We've been here before.

All around people are crowding
       waytooclose,
but the shouts for EMS can't
              drown out the
                                          burst
of silence suddenly in my head.
My sister and I lock eyes,
                                   transported
to when this happened before,
              wondering...
                            wo­rrying...

You stumbled upon me
     when I was down on my knees.
Broken, I told you not to bother,
     but you knelt beside me
     and reached out a hand.
Helping me up slowly,
     you showed me your own
     bruised and ****** body.
And I knew you had been stuck
     down there before too.
So I met your eyes cautiously
     and let you guide me to my feet.

I think if you had stopped there,
     we wouldn't be here today.
But you weren't content
     with just setting me on my feet.
You gave me a step up,
     then another,
          and another,
until you had me on a pedestal
     I never wanted.
I was never meant to be
     the princess in the tower.
I can't live up to that.
Heights scare me,
     and the air suffocates up there.
So with the pressure pushing in,
     I did the only thing I could
     to free myself from the fearful view.
                                                           ­           I jumped.

.                                                   I miss you.
Every morning when we part ways,
                                                    I miss you.
Throughout every day I'm thinking of you,
                      always,
                                                    and I miss you
until the moment we're together again.
My body misses yours
when we unwittingly pull apart
in the depths of our slumber,
and I seek you out sleepily,
needing to have you closer.
But most of all
                                                    I miss you
when I've been looking forward to you
because I've had a hard day
and my own frustration is exactly
what causes me to
                         push you
                                                    away.
I lash out at you,
and wind up missing you most
when we're side
                          by
                            side.

And in the moments that follow
I realize and regret my mistake,
but can never seem to correct
that crash course of action.
So I fold
      down
      deep
      into myself,
hoping with all of my might
that you won't one day grow tired
of this undeserved fight
and leave me
          crumpled
      in the dirt.
                  Not that I could blame you, really.

But please,
           oh please,
you really must know
the reason I try to learn
from my rash reactions
and grow as a person.
Look in the mirror
and you'll see it right away,
the very thing that keeps me
going each
            and every day.

After repeated inquiries
into the state of my mind
                                                      you
resort to lingering side-
long glances, trying to
                                                      see
the truth behind my
steadfast denials and
imitation smiles.

You attempt slyness, but
                                                      I'm
qui­ck to notice these
analytical gazes. It's not
your fault that I am
both unable and unwilling
to allow you into
the maze of my mind.

Though hurtful
to us both, it's
                                                      just so
much easier to lash out
than to let you in.

There's simply nothing
                                                      goo­d
in there, you see. Trust
me when I say the terrors
flinging themselves
                                                      ­at
my brain will gladly
make you their prey too.
No one is safe from my
                                                      sabotage­.

.                                                         ******* *****.
The words come out swift
                          and angry,
accompanied by the contempt
                          in your eyes.
                                                         ******* *****.
I stand, accosted by your
                          animosity,
accepting every insult you fling so
                          unceremoniously.
                   ­                                      ******* *****.
Sorry, don't think I heard you quite
                          well enough.
Please, repeat so I may keep your words
                          clutched closely.
                                                         ******* *****.
I take these taunts you throw out
                          so casually,
                          mold them tightly
                          into a ball
and force them down my throat,
                          swallowing them
                          like the poison
                          that you are.
                                                       ******** *****.

I dreamt of her again last night.
                              Time heals all wounds.
It's been a while since I've relived
her in my sleep so I guess that's
partially true. But only partially,
because the shattering of my heart has
yet to lessen with each awakening.
                              This year makes five.
Five years later and I'm still trying
to learn how to live without her.
Who do you confide in when the one
you ran to is the person taken so
suddenly from you? In my dreams
she comes alive once more. Not a mere
memory, but a smiling, laughing,
breathing being. I get to experience
her presence for just a few precious
moments. Upon waking I'm smiling,
having just spent time with my best
and closest friend. For about five
seconds the illusion remains before
it crashes down around me, and
I'm left looking at the shards remaining.
The more desperately I try to pick
them up, the deeper I am cut.  
                               It hit me like a ton of bricks.
This saying at least, holds true.
It's a cruel reality having to relive
that moment you learn of your loss.
So I'm left to myself, curled up and
clutching my chest from the pain of
losing her all over again, crying heavy
sobs from the depths of my soul.
When it's over and I've been able to
compose myself, carefully replace all
of my pieces, I'm able to be thankful.
The pain is terrible, yes, but something
I've lived with for years. It never
lessens, we just become better at
bearing it. But to have those few
moments of living with her again,
even if only in my dream world, well,
anyone who has ever lost someone
will tell you that they would give
just about anything for the chance
to see the persons face again.
                              *The pain is worth pleasure.

Falling
              in
                    love
           with
    you
was its own intrinsic adventure,
that
        oh
            so
       typical
            whirlwind
of gathering knowledge
and settling the groundwork
for memories yet to be made.
But being,
                   ah,
being in love with you
is quite different, sir.
Falling, see, was a
                                               flash flood,
waters up to my neck
and I was drowning
in the emotion before
I could comprehend
it for what it was-
                                     love.
But being, being is a
                                             steady drizzle,
the kind that's light
and enjoyable. You sit
at the window watching
the steady stream and
listening to the tap
                    tap
             tap
and it seems it will never end.
So you go outside and
throw your arms out,
point your face up and
                  twirl
                             twirl
             twirl
with wild abandon.
Falling in love with you was
a head-spinningly exciting
experience, but being in love
with you is when I truly became
                                                          ­free.

I'm like a small child
stretching my arms up
and begging to be loved.
                                                  I love you.
                                                  I miss you.
I'm still waiting for you
to show me the proof
behind your words.
                                                  I wish I could
                                                  be there with you.
Come, be with me then.
Why do I keep waking
up alone?

I give out so many mixed signals
even I can't hope to understand
all the contradictions, though
that doesn't make them any
more intentional. I assure
you that I see exactly
what I am doing
though I'm
powerless
to stop,
because
each
conflicting
word and action
is precisely what I'm
feeling in that moment. So
with each passing day my feelings
seesaw back and forth, and we're just
stuck in the seats, unable to walk away
from the ride in which I have entrapped us.

.                          To seek                  out love
                       is a letdown         in the making.
                    They feed your     heart with all the
                false words, but the moment you try to  
             grasp on to that love it turns out they were
           just using an accumulation of sounds that do
          nothing but disguise their lust.  For that's all it
             is underneath. Peel back the proclamations
                of love and adoration, seek out the truth,
                      the purpose of the utterances, and
                          maybe you'll be able to peek a
                             glimpse at the truth within.
                                They say they love you,
                                     *******, they just
                                        want to ****
                                               you.

Old habits are hard to break,
this timeless wisdom holds true.
Unfortunately I've always had
an addictive personality, and
                                                               it's
never been more true
than now, when I'm trying
to break myself of you. And
maybe you can't decipher
my inconsistent actions, but
                                                              you
see it's hard to change my
reactions to your movements.
So when you lean in close and
turn your head towards mine,
instinct takes over, and
                                                              I
can't help but go for the kiss
I seem to constantly
                                                              crave.

I'm said it before,
written it before,
                                we have an easy love.
The kind you just
            fall
back in to,
like children tumbling
backward onto a trampoline,
lungs bursting with laughter.
And they never fear the fall
because they know
they'll be caught and
bounced right back up.
And let's be honest,
the exhilaration of the fall
is half the fun.

I don't know what I'm feeling anymore.

He loves me,
     so why can't I let myself love him too?
     What's holding me back?
And he says he loves me too,
     so why am I so wary of his love, and often
     left feeling unfulfilled and deserted?
I don't love me right now,
     and when I look in the mirror
     I don't recognize this person
     in front of me anymore.

My nights are filled with
     stolen kisses and
     drunken ***,
     yet I'm always left alone
     at the end of it.
And it's then, when I'm
     lonely and tearful
     that I question everything,
     most of all
                           myself.

The decision was mine,
     and throughout the day
     I own it.
But late at night,
     home alone,
     lying in bed,
     the façade crumbles.
And I think about
     everything we had,
     how perfect it seemed.
I wrote poetry proclaiming
     my love for you,
But now I'm stuck with these
     tear-marked pages.
Logically, my head tells me
     it was the right choice,
     but it's hard to explain that
     to my heart sometimes.
If I let myself,
     I miss you so ******* much.
But this was my decision,
     so I have to own it.

Attempts to look ahead bring nothing but
       indecision.
Glances back into the past hurt with their
       nostalgia,
tinted by the loneliness and confusion of
       now.

So I walk around with my head down,
trying to find the path that will get me
to contentment the fastest.
But walking amongst rubble
isn't the easiest course
to pick your way through.
Head lowered, eyes intent,
I stumble my way through,
tripped up so much that I begin to think
there's no trail here after all.

How do people do this every night?
Go to bed all alone,
knowing there isn't anyone
to fill that side of the bed?
Curling up into myself,
I try to ignore the fact
that I'm completely alone,
no one here to wrap around.
But ****, is it lonely
and sad, so ******* sad.
Sunlight brings welcome respite,
because during the day I'm able
to pretend all is well.
But night, oh god, the night.
I dread having to lie in bed
knowing too **** well it's me
and me alone to fill that space.
And no matter how tightly
I wrap my arms around myself,
they're no substitute for yours.

I should come with a ******* warning label,
cautioning others about my tendencies
toward self-destruction,
and warning them of the consequences
of choosing to get too attached
to the inevitable time bomb of me.

I try to warn them away,
but they don't listen,
or they brush it off as nonsense.

"You shouldn't love me," I say,
eyes deep with grief
because I know the truth of the words.

But nobody heeds my ******* warnings,
so I'm left stepping over the remains
of us, having to live with the knowledge
of what I've done.

******, I tried to tell you.
But no one ever listens,
they refuse to believe.

And in the end I'm left having to watch
you shatter, knowing I'm the cause.
I tried to warn you.
You should've listened.

I had lost sight of myself,
probably more than a little,
and now I'm having to fight
to get myself back again.

It's not easy finding out
which aspects are extraneous,
and it's a terribly sad process,
cutting out parts of yourself.

But the process is necessary
to pare it down to the
true individual within.

So it's been a mad method
of drunken nights and
evenings brimming with tears
that have propelled me along.

But with each drop
of alcohol down my throat
my mind clears up a bit.
And with each drop
of a tear down my cheek
my vision is a little less blurred.

I had lost sight of myself a little,
but I'm gaining ground every day
on who I'm really meant to be.

The pressure builds and builds
until I've ballooned so big
that a piece of me jostles loose
and begins
               floating
                           off.
I
           leap
    after it, aghast,
and clutch it firmly to my chest.
Only when I go to place it
back in its rightful spot
            do I notice
                   other remnants gone
                missing, floating
                               wayward.
Gasping, rushing to catch them
     all before I'm completely lost,
I hurriedly put them back
     and rush to grab more.
Only after securing the last piece
     do I realize
that in my haphazard haste
I've put myself together
                                 all wrong.

The one person I want
                                           to talk to most is
the person I need
                                           to stay away from.
And how can I decide between
the one who
                                takes my breath away
and the one who
                                makes it so I can breathe?

I've lost all semblance of myself,
an island that I unwillingly left behind.
Stepping gingerly at first
to test the water upon my toes,
venturing further as I grew bolder,
only to turn around
and find the shore gone,
all sight of land lost.
Now I'm stuck, treading,
tiring quickly.
And I've no idea which direction
I'm supposed to swim
to find myself again.

Tonight is a drinking night,
a need-to-not-think night,
because I need a break
from constant over contemplation.
Someone else take the wheel,
I'm going to take the bottle.
My brain is fried anyway,
perpetually assessing
every possible action
and the ensuing consequences.
**** it, I'm tired of this lie,
someone else drive for a while,
and let me sit to the side
while the road is chosen.
I'll be over there, drinking.

It's a bad habit I've picked up,
that when I start getting confused
about life I panic, want to run.
You see, it just seems infinitely
easier to leave it all behind,
let the chaos remain while I go
                                                              ­           somewhere
unknown and begin anew.
I've seen it time and again,
bore witness to the pattern
as my mom loaded us up and fled.
As a child I hated being forced
to pick up my entire life to go
                                                                ­            along
for a ride I never wanted.
As an adult though, I understand,
more completely than I would ever
have thought possible. And now
is one of those pivotal times
I'm stuck contemplating
                                                                ­           the way
out of the mess I've created.
I know the routine all too well:
sell all, keep only what fits
in the back of the car. All else
is extraneous, replaceable.
Drive without purpose until
                                                                ­           I've lost
all semblance of an endpoint.
Where I end up is where I go.
Some try to tell me that this
method of coping is unhealthy,
but how can I fight its allure?
When my mind becomes madness
and I can't figure my life out,
what's a better solution than
running, flight over fight,
no one to complicate things, only
                                                                ­            myself.

.                       Hello there old friend,
                        how I've missed you.
No, don't try to talk sense
into me at this moment.
I know your advice is sound,
and you have good intentions,
but right now I don't need
to know the moral path.
I'm in need of a little more
soul sacrificing pleasure.
                       Hello there old friend,
                       how I've missed you.
                       Welcome back, I'm sure
                       we'll get reacquainted quickly.

I'm unsure of how to persevere
in this role I'm supposed to
be pretending I was given.
And I fear that I'm continually
mistaken for my mask
when all that lies beneath
is treachery and deceit.
Yet you are fooled over and again
while I am left with the slimy remnants
after I've sent out the venom.
Tell me, is there truly such a thing
as a good-hearted executioner,
or am I only attempting
to fool myself as well?

The melody of your voice
no longer holds appeal,
bringing only disappointment
in the things left unsaid.
As for subjects mentioned,
your promises mean nothing
and the words you speak
are mere sounds that hold
no value to me anymore.
They are all too devoid
of the trust I was mistaken
in putting in you before.

I'm trying to navigate through life,
but the roads are iced over
and this vehicle wasn't built
for the treachery of snowy slopes.
My tires turn at odd angles,
oscillating wildly in their attempt
to catch some semblance of traction.
But the snow bank is getting closer
and no matter how I twist the wheel
I can't seem to steer away from
what seems to be impending impact.

If I called a psychic hotline,
could the disembodied voice
on the other end of the line
give me some secret to my future?

Or should I try the palm readers
so ubiquitous throughout
the seedier parts of town late at night?
Maybe they can read the clues
sketched onto my hands
and point me in the direction
of the path I'm meant to be on.

Can I find a crystal ball gazer
and have her look deep
into the swirling mists of myself?
Tell me ma'am, am I doing
anything at all right?

I suppose I'm meant to be content
wandering aimlessly along,
with no one to whisper
secrets in my ear as I go.  
But tell me ma'am,
does it drive everyone
as mad as it's driving me?

I sometimes wonder if you realize
just how tumultuous the
                          back
       and
                 forth
in my head becomes day in
                           and day out.
I see the way you look at me,
as if you could gaze right through
the side of my skull,
and into my very thoughts,
as you wonder what's going on in there.
           So
               very
       much.
Tornadic
         thoughts
    hurl
themselves
        about,
and it takes all efforts to keep
my exterior placid
But the calmness is the clue you need
to know that something is brewing within.
And I'm too tired to explain,
so I leave you there, and let you wonder.

People ask me why am so quiet,
and I say it's because I have nothing
worth saying aloud at the moment.

I watch, observing others waste
their words, and I don't see the point.
When I speak, it shall have worth.

And yet, when I make attempts,
often I am interrupted by others
who value their own words above mine.

My words are no more important than another's,
but if I take the time to speak them,
I feel I should be given the chance.

So why am I so quiet? Honestly,
part of the reason is because
even when I bother to speak,
                                                    no one hears me.

Thank you
       I say quickly, out of nowhere.

For what?
      you question.

Reasons pile up so fast
in my head that they avalanche,
forming a barricade to my mouth.

For everything,
      I say simply,
      meaning so much more.

For loving me,
       I think simply,
       meaning so much more.

You should be here
waiting for me in bed
when I get home, sir.
Just an idea.

Do you have any clue
how hard it is for me
to focus at work
with my ******* slick
from thoughts of you?

It's hard to act calm
and professional
when I'm thinking
of you entering me
from behind, pushing
into me as you pull
my hair and own me.

Nobody at work knows
that when I smile it's not
to be polite, but because
of the secret dirtiness
I keep covered inside
that none of them
would ever guess.

It's only because I am
thinking of you,
contemplating licking
those secret places
only I know of, that I can
make it through the day.

You should be here
waiting for me in bed
when I get home, sir.
Just an idea.

I'm restless and *******
but ******* isn't even really right
because I'm not angry,
I'm just not remotely content.
Frustrated, but it's more than that
and I'm unable to put into words
the inability to fake more
enthusiasm or happiness.
I'm not ok with where I'm at
not just in life, but literally,
geographically.
I want to pick up and run,
run far away, fill up the tank
and drive until I'm on empty,
and I'm not sure if I'm referring to gas.
Where would I end up
and could I find some semblance
of an adventure there,
something to kickstart
me back to life.

We arrive home
and I see you look over there.
I've been so happy
just spending time with you.
It's been just the two of us,
a welcome escape.
It's not often this happens,
when we get time alone
without interruption
from texts or a phone call.
But tonight we are free
and we have the most
mundanely grand plans.
And I look forward to them
with utmost glee.
But then it happens.
We pull in and you say
you're going there
"just for a minute."
I'm not fooled,
it's never just a minute.
Our plans are derailed,
I'm left to bring in the groceries
alone.
And do the dishes,
alone.
We said we'd tackle them
together,
tag-team the massive pile.
Yet here I am,
alone.
And I get left feeling like
a complete and utter *****
because I'm upset at the fact
that you want to go home
to tell your parents good night.
I just want this to be your home.
And I'm afraid
it never will be.
You'll always have to go there
and we'll always have some
sort of interruption.
And I'll never have you
all to myself, never,
and sometimes I'll be left
feeling completely *******
alone.

A casual conversation turned wrong in my head
and you haven't a clue the pain you've caused.
Fun facts about ourselves is what we seek.
               Tell me five things I like
you request
and I rattle off a dozen items, categories.
                Now you,
I playfully demand.
                Five things about me. Go.
You spit out two quickly,
then stutter back to the first.
I watch, confused, as you falter.
A third stumbles out and I flinch inwardly.
Cute clothes? I ******* hate clothes.
I have no clue why you'd say that,
pick something so completely
    off
as a gift for me.
You're actually really hard to buy for
you try to reason with me.
And I'm offended.
I lay out a myriad of options quickly
that anyone with a passing knowledge
could pick up on.
Any item to do with
literature
art
crafting
cooking
would do.
How do you not know this?
I thought you knew me better than anyone?
You know that I have this weird obsession
with globes, can't resist running my fingers
over their surfaces, dreaming of traveling
all along them in reality.
And yet you make no mention of them.
Or typewriters. Or sewing machines.
My two biggest gifts I've been begging for.
And I am heartbroken.
It has nothing to do with material goods.
I thought you knew me,
and apparently you don't.
And I realize also, you couldn't
name even five things.