All you are,
is a fellow faux
of a personality.
Please don't hurt me.

I’m not going to use 5,000 similes in this poem.
Why?
Because your bones do not tickle my throat like constellations,
Instead you abused me.
And I’m not going to make abuse into a pretty aesthetic poem.
I’m going to speak it how it is.

People assume abuse is pretty because people write about it in pretty terms.
But no, abuse is scary and messy.
It’s the forgetting your birthday and how you were born.
It’s the significant other hitting your thighs because you’re “too fat”.
It’s not getting coffee in the morning because “you’re a big girl” and can sweat out the hangover
-you didn’t ask for- off in a few hours.
And most importantly, you can’t forget how much of a **** you’d look like if you shaved your head, so you don’t.
Abuse isn’t “wrap me in your arms and put me in a choke hold so i can feel what it felt like to be mom”  
ABUSE IS NOT AESTHETIC
ABUSE IS NOT AESTHETIC
ABUSE IS NOT AESTHETIC

I can’t say it enough. I can’t phrase it different ways. I can’t say “hey dude look, abuse ain’t cool
man” BECAUSE YOU NEED TO KNOW IT AS IT IS. AT FACE VALUE.

Helpless and aware and helpless and aware.
Time consumes all flagrant attempts at creating a ******* care.
Without use, you are clung, to the space in between,
the arch of your back and your bedsheet.
The walls eradicate the stasis you have built as your basis that smirks in a ******* CONDESCENDING way. The biggest lie you've been told, in your life, is that your thoughts are the only way.
Wise up to the reality.
Your voice is a mere formality.
But, when it comes back, who is the one you love?
You're stuck between you and what is above.
We worship what is beyond us in these times.
And we blame ourselves for our crimes?
Stand tall,
maybe someday you will be able to crawl
out of this pit.
But you'll still be ****.
You'll stare back at the ceiling,
through it, reality will be revealing.
You are a child,
the world is worthwhile.
But you're scared that what is above.
Will be the hopelessness of what you love.

Hold this monument on a pedestal and watch it mock you.
You are
transparent.
You are
helpless.

Endless ropes tangle and grab
each individual omnipotent thought
of pleasure, denied gravity.
Slowed down, brought to frivolous
thoughts of relapse.
Speeding through the flimsy nature
of the ropes final stance.
A noose of the future.
A pivotal moment in comprehending,
all of this temporary fixation of
tragic dead-weight.
I am nothing but god’s will, contrary
to the greater good.
The ropes rip through themselves and idealize
Mistakes.
Pleasures.
Fixations themselves, alone and without
a viewable malice.
Distance is a deliberate blemish.
I don’t need to view myself.
I am falling through the ground and reaching
a turning point. Again. And again.
Faces and voices alike mean nothing until
I beg for forgiveness of myself.
Drifting between pressure tantamount to
torture in solitude.
Anyway, anytime,
I am succeeding in being alone.
Where is the recognition?
This pleasure, is it faux?
Grandiose indeed, a desperate attempt
at reaching a point where days
that exist and have existed are
superficial.
This recovery is relapse.
I will fall back, the ropes
still begging to hold me.
They speak my name.
My name is everything to them.
They are in abundance, but
I am obsequious.
It is all fake.
It is a testament to the reality of it all.
I will grab myself,
pulling as hard as I can until the ropes
snap and I return to a brooding state.
I ruminate.
The rumination expands and breaks my body.
Will I ever return to bliss?
Or was I never there?
Blemished and weak,
always there. I bloom.
Grandiosity returns,
the ropes rekindle their romance in twos.
It all ends.
I have failed my reckoning.
This is reality.
A twist of fate that can only be seen,
by god himself.
Whomever he may be.
I would like to meet him.
He sounds like I would like him.
I love him.
He is eternity, is he not?
The journey is dreadful,
but the return is remorse.
Nothing is right and nothing is wrong.
Either way, I am hanged by ropes I
have obliterated in a haste.