I miss when you
   missed me
             when you weren't a few bottles
            
                                                             deep.

I watched you growing from afar.
The distance doesn't blur what I see.
I've watched storms strip your leaves,
branches fall at my knees.
Fruit wasted.

New buds have sprouted,
stronger than the ones last year.
The leaves from those buds flourish.
Broken limbs slowly grow back,
if at all.

Yet you grow taller, stonger.
Your roots dig deep,
making precise calculations to say hi.
You invite me to build with you.
A treehouse, safe in your limbs.

I prune you.
You feed me.

As the new year comes around, I look on the dreadful past and the hopeful future.
I look into the forest that houses these creatures, venturing in further.
Armed with my shield and my ever-full heart.
I slice through each one, daring to face my monsters head-on.
After the battle is won, I stand victorious, yet tired.
My brain and heart weigh heavily with my experiences re-experienced.
I bury them, my demons.
They deserve to be out to rest.
Then I venture home, to my bed,
to sleep away and reflect on my self-help.

I don't need to be saved.
From myself,
my perils,
or, you.

I don't need to be told I'm broken,
for I know that better than most.
I am aware I am hurting,
and that there are fake smiles that never reach my eyes.

However, I don't need a great love to be better.
Not romantically anyway.
Though it would be nice,
I value self-love above lust.

I am getting better, day by day.
By myself, for myself.
Though I still hurt and let tears run rampant,
I am me, and I believe that to be poetic of sorts.

I feel pretty with my makeup,
mysterious with my clothes,
experienced with my heartache,
and alluring with my inner demons.

I don't need to be saved, I need to do the saving.

Play. Pause. Rewind.
Play. Pause. Rewind.
Play. Pause. Rewind.

So tiresome are the days.
So full of effort in a sober daze.
Sinking into a manic craze.

Play. Pause. Rewind.
Live. Cry. Repeat.