It hurts when she screams for attention
Because her reason is always
Something that I spend my time
Trying to run from.
Her sweet face.
How does she hold all that hurt behind it and not give it away.
What a smart girl.
A smart, clever
Loved
Beautiful girl.
Don't worry my baby.
You can rest with me for awhile

I was set on fire.
I don't really understand how
A memory is so powerful still.
How many more years does it need?
I daydream about being a person
Who can enjoy every touch
And not have to be prepared
For what reaction might
Escape my body.
I've read all I can about this
And still when it happens
Every thought and affirmation
Is blurry and reading it is impossible.
And even after writing this out
It still burns too ******* much
And all I can think is
Run
Run from yourself
And this body
And the memories it holds
And the poison it injects into your veins
Everytime you think you're well and
This time the sensation of being touched won't feel like you're killing yourself

There's something inside of you that screams my name so constantly it's all that's in my head lately.
A Call for connection, maybe.
A connection that sits in the front of our brains begging to be focused on 24 hours of the day, greedy attention seeking touch starved intensity that you feel so deeply inside of you it's as if your body turns into a soft current of electricity that brings our bones to life. The bones we never knew wanted to move that much. The bones that we thought were forever still and told us settling was comfort.
Comfort is the speed of which my heart leaps into your mouth saying devour me.
Comfort is your skin becoming my skin.
Comfort is nothing else but what we can never tell others, because explaining it would be so lacking in the actual feelings that it would be like the faintest breeze of wind. They would never see it. And it would change nothing for them.

A look and I breathe heavier. A touch and I melt down into dirt. Lips meet and I lose my place in reality. Anything more is just the most complicated song ever written. And we can follow along.

I was 10.
It's not my fault that when
My doctor compliments my hair
It send a tingle down my spine
And makes me feel on edge,
Alert and wondering if all men
Smell like him.

I was 13.
It's not my fault that my gym teacher
Likes to sit in the change room
With me while I try to skip class.
And he tells me I need to eat more to
Fill out my figure.
That I'll grow into a
"Beautiful young lady"

I'm 15.
It's not my fault the 23 yr old man
Looks at me and wonders what
I taste like.

I'm 17
It's not my fault that my friends dad
Tells her to invite me on every trip
And that one time I went too far
Into the lake and he had to come save me by holding on tight and grazing parts of me that made me feel small and quiet.
And wish I had drowned instead.

I know its wrong.
But it fulfills the
Need.

With every word that comes out of that sweet pink mouth I feel my body shrink, and shrink. Before I know it my vision is blurred, and my chest is just an open, bottomless pit.

And I want more. Do it more.
Let's move backwards in time
Until I don't exist.

I want to drown in a bucket of the pretty things I tell you to convince you that you mean something.
I want you to see that I'm so committed to your ego that I'm willing to get lost in it. And when you realize I've gone quiet it'll be too late.
Then you can sit there wondering where all those open wounds came from.

And realize it meant nothing.