It’s a funny thing
a single song
can send me
back into
my memory.

Somewhere
out there
a melody
from a movie
I saw as a kid,

I hear that song
and feel
a tinge of sadness
as tears
threaten
to make
an unwanted
cameo appearance.

The first time
I heard this
I was with
my mother
in a small house
for abused women.

Somewhere
out there
in the past
before
things got
really bad,

they were bad
for her,
but I was ok.
I did not have a clue
what we were
going through.

Later,
the pain
that jaded her
would become
my shadow cloak
to wear,
as I looked
for somewhere
out there
where
I would be free,
from her rage.

I never really
found that place,
but when I hear
that song,
I can recall
my mother
before the fall.

Even at
a cynical
thirty-seven
a small part
of my heart
longs for
the loving mother
that was
somewhere out there
before those bad days.

I awaken to find my mind either a complete blur, a fuzzy, foggy place, or a place of a maelstrom of thoughts, ideas, and emotions, some from the previous day, some from even before that. Electrifying anxiety, paralyzing fear, crippling doubt and depression are the orders of the day, when I fully awaken. I eat, then take my pills, to get my thoughts in some semblence of order. I go through the day, feeling trapped by problems my medications cannot control. I find myself either blaming everything and everyone else for said problems, or ripping out my own entrails as I blame myself - one extreme or another. I have visions, dreams, hopes of success, but then my depression, or whatever it is, kicks in, and wipes out those dreams, reducing me to a mess of shattered hopes and dreams. This is why I spend most of my days on tumblr, where people see me for who I am, but even there, people judge and discriminate against me, for whatever I have. On tumblr, I have friends that I roleplay out various characters with, different personalities, sometimes variations of myself take shape. Tumblr is the only place where I can seemingly have a reality in which I have control. The Internet is my portal to reality, my line of defense against what could be described as agoraphobia. But I still desire the company of people my own age, physically, rather than electronically, but I do not have the same interests of most of them, and am scared to death of doing so. The very thought of meeting a large group, or even an individual, sends me into a panic attack-like state, then I fall quickly into a state of depression because of that. I hate myself for that anxiety, the awkwardness I have. Loathe is the correct word. This is why I hide behind a computer screen. It may not be perfect, but I find it easier to interact online. I do not know how to translate how my characters act to my own actions, as some have suggested for me to do. I have been told that I need to choose to get out of this hole in which I am trapped. It is a struggle every day to even get enough energy to care, much less try to get out of the hole. The only way out is by climbing a steep cliff, covered by snow and ice, cut by the howling, bone-chilling wind, with only two hooks, in my hands, to claw my way out, fighting the falling snow and ice, occasional rock and hail, sleet too. There seems to be no place to make a camp, where I may rest, only the long, arduous, grueling climb, my vertical trek, my seemingly Sisyphean task that awaits me. A choice that may seemingly **** me. People have suggested that I turn to the supernatural, but that is a fool’s bet, a folly of hope, a wish of the people who build their castles in the sky.

Debris litter the floor
The remains of what was my heart
Black and charred
I look upon the carnage with surpisingly little emotion
Stabbed, torn, broken, beaten, burnt, used
Tear-stained face, blood red eyes
Pain in some many different forms
When will it end?
Only I have the power to stop this torture
But that "power" is an illusion
The addictions I serve won't let me leave
Stuck here, suffering, needing to know for sure
Riding this roller coaster, up and down, then back up again
I have to see where it ends,
I have to see what's around the next bend
Perpetually stuck
The good moments are heaven on earth
The bad ones are **** near hell
Which ones will there be more of?
Have to finish the ride to find out

it began with eye contact,
it proceeded with a kiss.

turned into a mouth shut tight.
and a hand that didn’t want to write.
drowning in  d e n i a l.
knowing very well it could only spew the truth:

the you i painted in poems,
a truth that would never exist.

it eventually resurfaced with pain.
piercing sadness masked with a burning anger.

it continued with pain.

it ended with only more poems.
but not of you,
of hope.
of love for myself.
for my strength.
for rescuing myself.
and for finally realizing
that you never could.    

--

and yet here i am:
post-pain,
post-hatred,
post-you.
still writing poems about it.
just so that i can be free to feel something else.
there is still anger—
but only such that is reflected unto myself.
for trusting someone who never even earned it.
for loving someone who never even did.

i know now:
the poems i wrote about you
are better than you ever will be.
gave me more than you ever could.
a monster i painted as a savior.
one poem. at a time.

my words are pure,
& you could never take that away from me.
my words,
they only saw the best in you.
the small, minuscule sliver that shined brighter than the rest of you.
insignificant in theory.
but something my words could turn into beauty.

…painting you as everything i wanted you to be.
ignoring the thorns.
and the poison.
that you stuck me with.
which only grew stronger
and more prominent with time.
only to ultimately destroy me.
quieted my words.
because the sliver of you was now gone.
the thorns and the poison were all that were.
existing only to ultimately subdue me.
the savior finally revealed as a monster.
but i could not get out.

for three years you poisoned me.
dug your thorns into me deeper and deeper.
i was stuck and pricked so many times
my skin was permanently blood red,
covered in scars.
squeezing my bones
that could take no more.
shackled to a love that was never a love,
a person that was never a person.
a form of exile.
******* the beauty out of my name.
a voice that could only make my skin crawl.
my sense of trust ripped to shreds.  
a trust that will never be the same.

but from horror,
from trauma,
from violence,
from pain,
i gave birth to strength.
manifested a jail cell
into intoxicating
freedom.