it was late one winter night
when I first realized
I was fighting a war I would never win
a fight that was fought within my own skin
skin that I realized
I would never feel comfortable in
now
I look at freckles like name tags
scars like reminders
and bruises as memories
that I wish I did not remember
I've since become accustomed to
long sleeves and blue jeans
and people asking things
like "how did you get that one?"
"oh, the door," I would quietly say,
never to tell that the door
had a name.

When I was younger I used
to think
I'd be the cheerleader
all the boys want
I used to think of
being the popular girl
with a perfect family
and no doubts about life
I used to think that
kids like me
were weird

Now I sit here
and think about life
But now I don't see much
of a future
My veins are hurting
I want to see their blood
but I don't
because I don't want to see the therapist
my father threatened me with
If you really look
the scars are still there
waitin to be broken open

Now I'm thinking
of the food I just ate
And it's lingering in the back of my throat
while I'm debating if it should come back up

Now I look in the mirror
at myself
with pity
I feel sorry for the girl
from what seems long ago
who though she would have
the perfect life
Without all these thoughts
and pain

We have this habit of making homes
out of people who tend
to burn any moment.

And we keep collecting the ashes,
putting them in jars,
hoping to save what little remains.

We made ourselves believe that other people
are remedies; prescribing—injecting ourselves with drugs
that walk and talk and breathe

And I have long since realized that we have seas inside us,
and there are a thousand shipwrecks aching for freedom,
but we hold on to every damaged piece.

i don't want you back,
but sometimes your name tumbles out when i'm searching for words

i don't want you back,
but sometimes i think of you and it hurts

i don't want you back,
i know we can't be

i don't want you back,
but i want to know you're happy

i don't want you back,
but i don't want you to hurt

no, i don't want you back,
but i don't want you with her

I never considered myself one for the books,
A pen felt clumsy in my hands,
Something too delicate to touch,

You introduced me to my first romance,
Tales of rivers and sweet words of Hughes,
Pages were my optics, my eyes danced in the light,

Nights turned into highways of jazz and beat poet longings,
Kerouac and Ginsberg whispering into my ear
of corrupted ivy manifestos,

Maya told me to sing, I did.
My love for her still echoes in her passing,
Set sail to the open waters where Neruda lies,
sonnet 17 afloat upon the tides,

You knew my addiction before I ever got high on the ink,
Drifting across the sentences in the midnight hours,
A prayer in thanks of what you gave to me