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.

"Have you had any firsts with me at all?" I ask, breath catching and a sadness coming over me as I realize there's not one thing unique about me.

The silence after my question spreads out and latches onto my heart, concreting the idea that I'm nothing special after all.

You flounder, trying to come up with something, anything, but you have not one occasion to offer me.

You possess so very many of my firsts, and I felt there was something important in the act of giving them to you.

But my sweetest memories are quickly tainted by the realization that many others before me gifted you with the same, their own firsts.

And I can't help but feel *****, used, and alone. For a while there, I really thought I was special.

What a joke.

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 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.

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.

He discovered her in a world of grays and blacks.
She put forth the image of smiles and pinks, but held back
secrets, kept in the shadows,
which revealed an artist
trained in writing with silver.
And though she tried her hardest to create purples or the yellows of happiness
red was her medium
until he discovered her,
and ripped her tedium apart
with his sea of green.
He peeled back her layers:
     The false pinks used to fool the world
     Bright oranges, tools for when the pinks began to crack
     The black, forming an endless pool she was slowly drowning in
Until he found the blue
     Blue as the sky in which he made her feel like she was flying
     Blue from the effort of actually trying for once
     Blue as the sea where her soul now seemed to float
He peeled back her layers and showed her just how colorful
the world could be.

I went all day without caffeine.
Nothing, not a sip.
Neither coffee nor soda.
At almost five in the afternoon
I caved.
Wrapping my hands around the cup,
feeling the warmth deep through,
I inhaled deeply,
took the aroma in,
felt it infuse itself into my being,
and I swear
in that first sip,
I found religion again.

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'm tired of feeling pulled 
in ten different directions 
by all these expectations 
and never knowing just
who I'm supposed to listen to. 
I want to live for myself
and make my own decisions,
but I've never really risen
to the occasion when it counted. 
What I am good at, though,
is letting myself be controlled
by the wishes of others. 
I guess I'm just inadequate,
my efforts never suffice
when I'm left to my own devices.

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.

We're terrible at goodbyes.
It's probably what we're worst at
in our relationship.
We suddenly turn into one of those
mushy couples everyone gags around,
unable to part each other's company,
constantly returning for "just one more."
Goodbyes are the worst,
and we **** at them.
Yet every time you leave me,
I am left with the hugest grin
on my face, unable to contain myself
because someone such as you
loves me so dearly
that it's a struggle
to part ways.
So although I know
I'll miss you terribly,
and we quite simply **** at goodbyes,
I'm always left behind
in the best of moods,
filled to the brim
with my love for you.

The most dangerous place
in the world
is alone with my thoughts.
Inside every person
is a completely unique
universe, of which they
are the sole ruler,
                       dictator,
                                 GOD.
Are you a benevolent leader?

                Me, I am a tortuous murderer,
                                     laying waste to all
                           good thoughts that dare
                                        try to enter here.
                          You cannot run from the
                                  voices in your head,
                          can't escape the monster
                         once it's wormed its way
                              inside your very flesh.

There's no way you could have possibly known
when you called while I was driving home,
but the whole day my thoughts had been
utterly preoccupied with plans for the moment when
I arrived and would go into my reclusive
mode. I had thought too much about those elusive
non-feelings, and how I could quickly achieve
them. And on the ride home, I couldn't believe
it when I found something that had slipped
my mind-a pocket knife. Now equipped,
a renewed sense of purpose fueled
my drive. Then you called and my thoughts cooled
considerably, instantly. But you knew,
like you somehow always manage to do,
that I wasn't by any means okay,
no matter what I attempted to say
to convince you otherwise. So I drove
and you crawled in my head and wove
a net for me to fall into. And you stayed
on the phone with me until the call of the blade
was drowned out by our laughter sounds.
You managed to, yet again, turn me around,
and I don't know if you realize just how much
of an impact you can have, how such
insignificant words can change the course of a life.
So I'd like to thank you for helping me beat the knife,
not just today, but every single day.

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.

Let me tell you the story of how I fell in love with all the little things you do.  Let me tell you how it started the night of our first car date, when you wouldn’t let me walk in the rain.  Let me tell you how grumpy I get without breakfast, and how you know that, so you’ll stop to buy me something if you know I went to work without any.  Let me also tell you how much it means when you cook me breakfast, and I get out of the shower and it’s done and waiting for me.  And let me tell you about when you tried so hard to make the magic toast your mom makes that I love, and you failed utterly, but how cute it was when I pictured your mom giving you that cooking lesson.  Let me tell you about your “good morning beautiful” texts and how I wait all morning for them, and they make me smile instantly every single time.  Let me also tell you about your support, and how much it means to have someone special always there cheering for me and my dreams, even when I’m not quite sure exactly what they are.  Let me tell you about how I hate both doing dishes and seeing them pile up, and when you did them for me that one morning I was so grateful.  And let me tell you how much I liked walking into the kitchen and seeing you there at the counter, because I got a glimpse of our future.  Let me tell you about the time you ran me a bubble bath and lit candles all around it and sat with me while I relaxed.  And let me tell you about the morning I left, thinking you were close behind me, but you stayed to hide little notes all over my house.  And let me tell you about finding those notes for a freaking month, and how each one made me smile and light up, a welcome reminder of your love.  Let me tell you about you washing my laundry on your day off, doing my chores when you should have been relaxing.  Let me also tell you, I’m not much of a flower-loving girl, but the evening I left work to find my favorite flowers sitting in my car was such a sweet surprise.  And let me tell you about when you dip me low and kiss me deeply, and how I’m kind of scared of falling but ****, is it romantic.  Let me tell you how I never know how to react when you start singing gushy songs to me because all I can do is blush-but baby, please don’t ever stop.  And let me tell you about the times I was oh so very sad and you put on music, took my hand, and slow danced with me until all I could possibly feel was loved.  Let me tell you how some of my favorite moments are in the car because you rest your hand gently on my leg as you drive.  And let me tell you about how I feel when we’re lying in bed wrapped around one another, legs like pretzels, and just as I’m drifting off I feel you caress my face, smooth my hair, and kiss me gently.  Let me tell you, I could go one forever about the little things you do, because I fall in love with you more every single day, with every little thing you do.

I'm not sure if you realize
just how many of my smiles
are a direct result of you.
In fact, most mornings
you're the sole reason
I bother removing myself
from the safe confines of my bed.

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.

****.
I hate knowing,
    KNOWING
ways to make it all better
and being simultaneously
unable to take advantage
of those socially unacceptable
escapes of mine.
I have to just be here,
plaster on
my societal face
and it's all so ******* fake.
So fake.
All I want to do is give in
to the ever-taunting whims
that are begging,
pleading for release.
It's a dangerous game,
one I know I can't afford to lose
but ****
is it fun while I'm playing
with my deadly vices.
****,
how hard it is
to say no sometimes.

I wish I knew just how to confess
the sickness happening in my head,
but I have no clue how to start
because I honestly have no idea
how this whole mess began.

Each bite I take is precious,
a tasty present I allow myself
only once I've reached a state
of pure unavoidable hunger.
And each bite is torture,
for I know each one will come back
to haunt me, taunt me.

I walk into the bathroom,
look down at the toilet,
brush my hair off to the side,
and begin my clandestine routine.
I despise myself for this practice,
but it is nothing compared to
the repugnance I feel when
looking at myself in a mirror.
The few minutes of disgust
are worthless in relation to
the elation I feel when I see
those calories expelled from my body,
unable to be absorbed into my system,
added onto me as even more fat.

It's an up and down mind battle.
I hate myself for each action I take,
but am unable to help it. I try not to
eat, but sometimes I just get so
**** hungry I cave to my cravings,
regretting each torturous morsel
as it passes between my lips.
A trip to the bathroom, then,
and it'll all be better soon I guess.
But I'm hungry again much too soon
and the terrible circle begins anew.

I don't know how to ask for help,
am far too ashamed to admit
these disgustingly illicit deeds.
And for now I get to see
the numbers on the scale decrease.
Getting help would halt
the progress I've worked so hard for.

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.

You
                    look at me and I sigh,
                    my world filled with a
                    pure haze and fully
complete
                    now that I know the
                    power of your smile.
                    You have brought life to
me.
                    A life I never dreamed of,
                    but now is real, too real.
                    That is the power of
                                                              ­             you-
                    the ability to bring about
                    dreams so big my stomach
                    flutters in fear. I get a
                                                               ­            scare
                    from your optimism, and
                    every bit of positivity you so
                    painstakingly draw out of
                                                              ­             me.

Let me tell you the story of how you brought out the bravery hidden deep within me.  Let me tell you how I’m so shy and reserved that people can know me for years and never know anything about me.  But let me also tell you how I summoned every wisp of courage-like emotion within me each and every time I spoke to you, so scared was I of my feelings not being reciprocated.  And let me tell you how I hid nothing, for I wanted you terribly, but I wanted you to like me only if you knew the true me.  Let me tell you about how impatiently I waited for you to make a move, until I couldn’t take it a moment longer.  And let me tell you too about being determined, so I left my number for you to find-sick of waiting for you to ask for it, but also wanting to give you the choice of whether or not to use it.  And let me tell you about later that day, when I asked you if you liked me, and how I thought I would faint, but I just had to know.  Let me tell you how my heart dropped when you answered that you needed to get to know me better, for I had already bared so much of myself.  But let me tell you about the hope you had given me, because you had come to my work area to talk, as well as texted me to give me your number.  Let me tell you how out of character all of this was for me-someone who didn’t talk to people, much less put myself out there to be rejected.  But let me tell you too how I used this newfound courage to call you for the first time that night.  And let me tell you about how I smiled instead of cried the entire ride home, for the first time in a very long time.

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.

Most words get casually tossed into the air,
gently carried away by their impermanence,
lack of true depth or meaning.
This is the majority of conversation.

Some words stumble out unwillingly,
forced out over tongue and through teeth.
These words are harder to coerce into being,
yet too heavy to be kept inside.  

And then there are words flung out innocently,
born of a benevolent background
or intending no substantial meaning at all.
But the implied connotation is hurtful nonetheless.

Or the words haphazardly spit out
in a weakened moment of anger,
and the regret runs deeper than the thought
put behind the decision to hurl them around

These are the words that settle into minds,
the ones that flop out and lie there,
panting from the exertion of the pain caused,  
intentional or not.

Be wary of the words you bring into existence.

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.

I stand in the Garden of Evil
Grinning in satisfaction
That you have to be with me
Though I hear your silent pleas
Staring in to those eyes
Soundless screams evokes
From within a place deep.
I watch the scars form
Visible remnants of my sin
But still I refuse to let go
And give you the peace I seek.
The blackness rising up
Inside us and around our bodies
I grin again, the malice in it
Reaching my eye
As you stare at me, gaping
Begging me to let this end.
I stop it all, give you breath
Deceit slowly filling my bone
Mysterious malignancy
I feel my internal grimace
Only to feel it rise again
My true evil reflecting in your eyes.
I could set you free, easily
But the darkness has taken me
Shivering in its clutches
I do its evil bidding
Not caring that it is you I hurt.
Lashing out with power,
The ability to destroy
Swirling ash envelops us
This time your screams are clear
Audible, and I sense fear.
We both fear who I am now
Too far gone to realize
The struggle has ended
Within my gleeful soul I dance
The darkness will commence.

You know, I'm pretty sure
I could watch you for just a minute,
     the most fleeting of moments,
and find a hundred reasons more
     to fall in love with you.
I catch myself staring all too often,
eyes tracing over your features
as I try to understand,
     even just a little bit,
this spell you have over me.
I'm not speaking of swooning
     over the curvature of your clavicles
or tumbling down into the depths
     of your green eyes.
Though if I'm honest,
     I love all those cliché things too.
                                                                 No, baby, you see,
                                                                        I've fallen quite madly,
                                                                             for you, wholly,
                                                                                  mind,
                                                                                      heart,
                                                                                           and spirit.
                                                                 It is the very essence of you
                                                                     that causes my ardent adoration.

It's 3:30 in the morning
and this always happens
on the nights we stay apart.
I'm suddenly up in the middle of it,
wide awake for no reason at all,
sleep eluding me until
it's almost time to rise anyway.
I can only guess that my body
is subconsciously yearning
for the trace of yours against it,
and my mind would rather have me
not sleep at all
than to peacefully slumber
away the darkness
without your presence.
It's 3:30 in the morning
and I need to get back to sleep,
so I roll over and try to pretend
I have your limbs wrapped around me
in your usual manner,
the best kind of full body embrace.
My imagination is no substitute
for the warmth of you.  
It's 3:30 in the morning
and I lie awake, restless,
unable to stop thinking of you.

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.

Why am I so scared of this?
I can't explain this rumble jumble
     of feelings tornado-ing
     around inside me right now.
I want it, I like this chance, I do.
But ****, am I terrified too.
And the apprehension itself
     scares me.
I'm standing at the edge,
     cautiously peeking over,
     as my toes creep ever closer
          until they've passed the ledge
     dangling in that scary oblivion
heart racing, breaths tumbling
     as they chase each other
     out of my chest.
I have to jump, make this leap
     or I'll never be sure.
I can't be too scared to try,
     too fearful of the fall,
     to risk the chance to fly.

I know I caught you 
quite by surprise
when I looked at you
and you knew…
         oh man, you knew
by the look in my eyes
that the talk we were
about to have was in fact
        THE TALK.
I never meant to blow
your mind in the worst
possible way, and I know
this news is a land mine 
seemingly coming from
nowhere. Trust me, I don't 
make this decision lightly,
but I simply must take my leave 
of you, and do it 
right
this 
second. 
Please, 
       oh please, 
believe me when I say that
I'm trying to show you how
to seize control of your own life,
not trying to wreck it. And 
right now I'm going to 
lead by example, so I'll have to
say my most sincere apology
and my last goodbye here.

"Don't go," I beg yet again.
"Do you want me to stay?" you ask, and I'm really quite confused as to how you aren't seeing that every single action of mine is pleading with you to stay with me tonight. I need you, need you to show me you love me in the most nonphysical and physical ways both, and at the same time I need you to understand all of that without me having to come right out and ask for it. I'm not trying to play mind games. Not at all. I need you, need you in the purest, rawest sense of the word. Yet no matter how many signals I put out they all slip past you. And after you leave, I lie there and cry to myself. Completely alone.

Your preference for her
     is all too clear
and becomes more obvious
     each time you turn
     away from me
     to seek her out.
I'm left behind, reeling
     from your silent insults,
breaths stuttering as I try
     to comprehend
     when I stopped
     being good enough.

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.

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.

What am I supposed to write when I feel nothing at all?  When the letters and words beat at me, begging to be let out, but no poetry falls from my pen? How do I express the feelings when I am quite simply exhausted from their very presence and my mind has become a jumbled numbness? I am unable to express myself and so am stuck with the yearning to create without the ability. I sigh, not liking this mindless haze that is becoming the home of my brain, wishing I could find my way back to my voice.

Loving you is easy, it took no effort at
     all
I loved you instantly, no choice in my
     fall.
The thing is, though, I feel I can only
     hope to be
the person you inexplicably see within
      me.
So you're teaching me to love myself,
     day by day.
And I'm learning that patience is the
     only way,
for complete acceptance of my own
     flaws may be slow
But true self-love is worth each ebb
     and every flow.