I am the middle child,
Stuck between the naivety
Of nostalgia,
And the hardness
Of trauma.
The biggest problem is -
Both pull me backwards.

I have 1,001 pieces
That never seem to fit together.
When he owned me,
It felt like I knew what I was.
And that felt nice.
When his words turned from
"I couldn't live without you"
Into
"Ill **** you and myself if you leave"
I thought, wow.
He's so passionate.
I craved that intensity,
Red hot,
Deep in my gut.

I am an abandoned library filled with dust covered books containing all of the things I have ever dreamt I could be. The sunbeams highlight the shelves, and create little pockets of life where you can watch the dust dance around, and celebrate all of this space Ive allowed them to build their homes.
Sometimes when I feel quiet, I walk down the rows of stories and graze each one as I pass by.
As if it was possible to soak up those words through my fingertips and become all the things I could never quite form into a reality.

Its odd to think that this skin that covers my bones is the same skin that witnessed all of my love and hurt, stretching and shrinking, bleeding and healing, emptiness and growth.
The map that shows you where every hand has been, and all the corners Ill never allow to be touched again.

You always smell like cinnamon. When you kiss me, you hold my neck like you're taking care of me. The rain and the truck and the backseat. The constant reassurance and gentle chuckle, like you just can't believe we are here. Its all the same. Pouring myself into you until I am half empty, convincing you I am that girl for you. All for you.

The safe little nest Ive created
And burrowed in for a week
Is getting thinner and messier
And less safe.
I can see right through the
Paper thin walls,
Outside is covered in
Neon lights that spell out
SHAME.
I dread it.
I can feel it in my chest
Like Im about to ***** all of the
Feelings and words and tears.
Will I ever stop hating myself?
When will that burning in my stomach
Stop coming up,
Reminding me why I am desperate
To run.