I am simply a vessel for you
To feel
Important,
Controlled.
Strong.

My saviour.

Fear spills into me, and soaks through every ***** like ink makes its way through paper. So effortless. Without hesitating.
I wonder if healing will ever feel less like dying.
Ive inhaled so much poison my lungs are nothing but corrupted flesh, Ive set fire to my stomach hoping that it will **** whatever is in there, eating me from the inside out.
None of it works.

Ive wrapped this rope around my neck hoping that it will pull me out of this dark cavern of a soul,
not thinking about the possibility of it strangling me on the way up.
I crave chaos and fire deep in my gut, I live off of gasoline and insanity.
I grab at whatever strand I can find, tying bows until it looks like the cutest little tangled up mess.

Admitting powerlessness does not =
Giving up.
Asking for help does not =
Weakness.

I will turn this rope into the softest golden thread, and weave in the most incredible love anyone has ever seen.

They stitch together an entire coat for you to wear, created with all of their layers
And layers
Of self hate.
disappointment.
hurt.
resentment.

They line it with wool,
And pick out the perfect pattern
That makes your eyes turn to stars
And your skin itch to have it wrapped entirely around you.

Ive started to notice the way the fabric silently pulls a needle and thread through every inch of this skin.
This hurting, dry, raw skin.

I refuse to hand this tradition down to my kids.

This body of mine is not
Made up of braille.
You do not need to touch me
To know me.
I have felt emptiness
Through fingertips
Enough times to last me until
I die.
Give me warmth.
Look at me.
Show me what you mean.
I want to be taught how other people
Enjoy relationships and bodies
And don't flinch at the amount of movement created by humans walking past me, noisy and unaware of how it feels in my head.

I want calm comfort now.

Sometimes I feel like my bones are made up of inflated balloons.
Filled with flat air that never floats me in the right direction.
I have skin and clothes covering them but with every step I still hear them move.

And everyone sees me.

Just because he can't love me
Doesnt mean I am unlovable.
Just because I was told I am
Incapable
Doesnt mean I have to stop myself
From being capable.

I am valid.

We have spent 12 years dissolving the shells we grew as we got older,
Everytime we would get close
Another layer seemed to
Disappear.
Our flesh and loving words
Became shelter over our
Open wounds.
I dont know where I end
Where you begin
Or how we do this thing called
Independance
Partnership
Detach with love.

I want to know you on the outside
And not only as this blur of comfort.

I am angry at him.
I am angry at her.
I am angry at them

I am angry at myself.

The seasons pour out of my joints and run down every limb.
My leaves grow out of my eyes and mouth and ears,
The branches wrap around every inch of my soiled skin

And she breathes.

If I don't use destructive coping mechanisms simply out of fear of rejection, abandonment or judgment..
Am I still succeeding?

I have lived many lifetimes of
Multiple identities,
None of them representing me
Truthfully.
And now I am trying to dig through
These piles of dirt
And find the bones I have
Hidden underneath.
Ive buried every person
I thought I should have become;
The seeds other people have planted
But forgot to water.
They poked holes and
Pushed that life inside of me
Without even asking me if
My soil was ready to nurture
Anything but myself
And the life I was born with.

I want to start caring and encouraging myself as vigorously as I try to **** what is inside, hurting me.

I am not this dark room.
I am not the person to continue this cycle of neglect and abandonment.
Quiet closed doors and feeling like
A stranger, creeping into my kids rooms to stare at their faces while they sleep.
I am not getting swallowed up by
My mental illness.
I am not alone.
I am not hopeless.
I am not my father.

Reliving trauma through my muscles and bones and mouth means my brain knows I am strong enough to handle it now.
I can hold her through this,
In my safe home with my safe people.

Ive been learning to love myself for a year, so why is she deciding to fight back now? We had relief, some calm.
Now the bones are rattling and the screams are crawling up my veins.

She keeps telling me that Im alone
And that its over.

No one hugs me as warmly as that powder did. He never said no, or that he was too busy, or didnt feel like being touched. He asked for nothing in return.
Those lines were my yellow brick road
Leading to the fantasy of Oz,
A city where I could sing and sparkle
And take long journeys with a natural courage that I never had to steal from someone else.
It was mine, and it was all color.

Its taken me 13 months to shed this skin that has kept me prisoner for
29 years.
She died last night and
Im dedicating this entire day to planning her funeral.
I love you, little girl.
But it's time for me to be free.

I grew up as an invisible child.
The rejection and loneliness became
Familiar comfort.
His manic days were my favourite,
He turned up the brightness.
Was so inspired.
He would read me his poetry,
And even though I knew once it ended
Id be back to neither seen, or heard.
That moment was enough,
& what I spend my life seeking.

Every bit of pain I felt as a child
And worked my whole life to forget
Is floating to the surface at an
Alarming rate.

All of my words are foggy and I can't seem to find the right combination, to build the truth I keep digging for. Only broken bridges come out of this mouth. They lead you over waterfalls and into dense forests, filled with trees my past has grown for me. Trees that have rooted themselves deep inside of me. Ive become so enmeshed, I cant tell where the roots end and my limbs begin.

My body is a padded room
And I feel like an alien inside of it
Set up with a small window,
Buttons and levers.
I don't know what any of them mean.
My skin feels like someone else's
And my limbs are too small for this oversized shell filled with human bones.
Where am I supposed to sit comfortably when I feel like every inch I exhale,
is taking up too much space.

I was born a clean slate. An empty house. I watched everyone around me decorate my walls as they wanted to see them. They filled my cupboards and organized my closet for me, filling it with words and feelings I never understood. It got to the point where I felt more confused than comfortable, and so empty - even with all of these things that life had filled me with. So I got angry. I tried over, and over again to redecorate. I put up new wallpaper everyday, I burned rooms to the ground. I locked doors, I broke windows.

And then I found my people, and they told me that I was lovable even as this filthy, dark house. With paint peeling, and cobwebs in every corner.

I started to rebuild, I put up art that made me feel things. And wrote poetry on my walls. Every moment I spent with my new people, and myself, I was sent home with a new piece of my house to put together.

And now Im here. The floors need to be redone, and it still smells of smoke, but its mine. And who I am is not a ***** word, I wear all of my labels as a full, connected human being.

I used to walk around
With a tornado of filth
Constantly in my head.
I was made up entirely of
***** words
Like "Addict",
"Victim",
"Mentally ill",
"Emotional",
"Sinner",
"Broken".
Now I walk around as the tornado,
Labelled as
Addict
Victim
Mentally ill
Emotional
Sinner
Broken.
And its ******* beautiful.

The waves crash and the birds fly
Farther and farther away from me.
The wind softly sings;
"Follow them".

I will never use
"Im so lucky"
As a reason for my success
Ever again.
My only reason now is,
Because I wanted to.

My organs twist and turn until they settle into one big knot, blocking any chance I had at comfort.

15 days until the death of my ego and I can feel her clawing up my insides, desperately hoping I will choke her up, and back out my throat.

I have a little girl inside of me named shame.
She was raised by people who didn't understand how to love.

When she gets loud - I hold her, and tell her that her bad days and hurt aren't what make her whole. It is all about us and our heart, and nurturing it while we grow.

The dark parts of me always come out at night, they haunt my sleep and make it impossible to soak up the rest I desperately need.
I don't even believe in ghosts.
And yet whenever I start to feel safe
These things, they sense it.
And they wrap themselves around me
So tight.

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.

I wonder who taught me that the way to deal with the
Emptiness
Is by pouring more of myself out.
When I hate myself the most
Is when I spend the most time handing my body
Mind
And insides
Out to whoever will destroy them the hardest.

When Im in a crowd of people
Ive always felt like
I take up too much space.
That I am a woman,
So I should speak in hushed tones
And soft glances.
Never be bigger than those who
Surround you.
Be the laugh track put in so people around you feel that they are funny.
Be kissed,
Get ******,
Keep your body covered,
Agree to their brilliant ideas,
Offer up yourself as
Reward,
Apology,
Validation.

Now when I feel large,
I say "Hello"

If there was any one memory
I hope to hold onto forever,
Its how it feels to have the babies
I created with love
Grew with every nurturing,
Womanly,
Mothering,
Love filled corner
Inside of me -
How it feels to have them
Breathe
Beside me.
Its never a gentle, or subtle involvement.
They crawl into my space and
Force their way into my skin
Like they are trying to become
A part of me again.
And I live for it.

Sometimes I spend too much time
Writing lists
Hoping it will help my brain
Organize all of these thoughts
That never seem to stay in one place
For very long.
Sometimes I don't eat, so I can feel
That familiar empty
Hollow
Space
Inside of me
That reminds me of when I had
So much focus and only one thought.
"Stay in control".
Sometimes I eat everything
That makes me feel sick.
So I can remember that I am
A waste
Out of control
Disgusting.
Every word I write screams
"LOOK AT ME"
And its just
Too loud.
So if I direct the letters into words that dont resemble the hurt then maybe it will quiet down and I can get back to the routine I have so lovingly crafted
From day one.

It is not my job to prove who I am
To people who misunderstand me.
Removing myself from what hurts me
Is a solution, not running away.
I get to choose my family now.

I found you in a hand lotion today.
This is the first year since you've been gone and the first year that Ive been present in this life that Ive had such a strong moment, seeing your face in my mind. I forgot all about it, and you. The garden, the pool, the twinkle in your eyes, your beautiful jewellery that always made me feel excited to be feminine, and one day all grown up. With my own lipstick and perfectly curled hair, sitting on my couch, one leg over the other, hands on my lap.
Like a lady.

How can anyone look at all of the
Things that have made me into this
Dark, broken, human
And think
She is beautiful
Loveable
Or any other word that describes those kinds of people you want to collect into your life.

I want to throw myself into something that will consume and destroy me.

Tomorrow it will be 9 months.
9 months without them.
Without injesting whatever chemical
Would make me feel the most
Invisible.
Everyone keeps saying things like
"You must be so proud!"
And "You are working so hard".
But the only words I can hear is
"You are not worthy of this clean life"

I will never shrink myself
To a size that makes
You
More comfortable.
In fact,
I will continue to grow
Loudly.

You always know when I am
At my lowest
And most vulnerable.
You crawl in so delicately
With the most peaceful offerings
Of comfort.

I wish you would stop.

Tell me why you think Im interesting and why it draws you to me. Laugh at my stupid jokes. Listen to the words I say. Listen to the words I dont say. Tell me you dont feel that way about me. Tell me you could never love someone like me. Tell me you just want to ****. Remind me that I am merely a prop to be put out on display, for you to stare at and imagine me doing all of the things you could never get your wife to do. I can be that dream girl, the one whos body feels like all of the feelings but never speaks of them.
What did she call it?
Manic pixie dream girl...
I set you up for a good story, that you look back on every now and then when you're up late or lonely or bored. I can be that story about that girl you once held next to you and escaped with. The one who wasnt anything to you, who listened to you talk about the sadness and heaviness that has taken over your life as you slowly made all the proper decisions in the right order.
How you're empty,
And men can't be empty.
So just like its up to you to care for your family and be a responsible adult
It is up to me to fill you up with what
I have left.
Thats what Im here for, I guess.

I am light and love
I am sickness and health
I am scars and scabs and holes
I am hollow and as soft as a feather
I am sweet and I am distant
I am ups and I am downs
I am moonlight and intense heat
I am the biggest, burning star
On this stretched out skin
With these fingertips full of life
And this voice dripping with
Insecurity
Curiosity
And the power to heal
Herself.

The scars
The disconnect
The freckles
The past
The love
The life
The hurt
The addict .

I am the official family wound doctor.
Call on me when you want to
Be validated
Feel powerful
Or have someone acknowledge
Your heart with an -
"Oh you poor thing"
Or
"That is so unfair to you!".
Sometimes I'll throw in a
"You're so strong"
Just to add a little zest.
I have the fastest stitching hands,
I can hook up an IV without you even noticing the poke of the needle.
Cant vocalize your symptoms?
No problem, Im great at riddles
And deciphering cryptic messages.
You don't want to feel like you're the only one? Thats fine too.
I will remind you of all of my darkest corners and how hollow I am, so we can suffer and be poetic in our trauma together.