Morphed by love
And held by hope
My body has unlearned
The hardships it has crossed

Good for now
The rest is welcome
But pray for me
If once more I must live
Through them again.

I gave you little pieces of me
Prettily packaged
In little red ribbons.

They weren’t mine to give,
Not really anyway.
But still
I presented them to you
On a polished platter.

You took them,
Discarding of the ribbons
Without even acknowledging
The time I put into
Shaping the perfect bows.

You ripped the paper,
Shredded and discarded
On the floor of your room.

You locked up the contents,
I couldn’t get them back.
So I returned to you
With more parcels
Of me.

Hoping you’d give back
The pieces you’d taken,
If I trusted you with the rest.

You never did.
And here I stand
Broken and missing.
You’re taking someone else’s
Pretty presents now.
But I have nothing left
To give.

Maybe they weren’t mine to gift to you,
But they sure as hell weren’t yours to take.

Grief is my substance of choice.
The pain
And hurting
And longing of loss
Is the most bitter sweet pill,
And I swallow it with pride.

I might not have felt the deep suffering
That sets my bones alight
For a while,
And instead of enjoying
The pleasure of peace
I inflict it instead on myself.

Little taunts that run through me
Are set as reminders.
A humbling form of dissonance
To ensure my self loathing
And agony
Remain.

I’m not quite sure why,
It doesn’t make me feel any better.
It doesn’t make me love
Or cherish
Or hope
But still, I anoint myself
The dealer
Of those little bitter sweet pills,
That put the grief in my bones.

If jealousy is a disease
Then I am sick.

My lips, chapped and bloodied,
My brain heavy and hardened,
Constantly filled with the worries
Of someone else’s wants.

The need to progressively feel
Like my doings
Are somehow
Better than yours,
Has shallowed my cheeks
And paled my skin.

My bones are brittled
With the comparison
Of somebody else’s capacity for excellence.

When I lay in bed
Body tired, lights off
But mind on
I write words in my head.

They rarely rhyme
Or have any real basis,
Ragged lines
Slipping in time.

Emotions and feelings
Jumbled and digressed
Blurred memories
Torn into segments
Of little, poorly formed
Ellipses.

And I have the nerve
To call myself a poet.
Because when the words form
They resonate
Within me.

They make me feel everything
And nothing.
And sometimes,
When you read the scattered formation
Of my
Deepest
Darkest
Brightest
Most hurtful thoughts

They spark something within you
And you can begin to feel your
Deepest
Darkest
Brightest
Most hurtful thoughts
And you too, become a poet

What made me so unlovable to the stars?
Was it the broken scars
That surrounded my broken heart?

Or the melody that ripped
From my chords
When I spoke?

Or was it the moons
Who gleamed and shined?
Did they distract you,
From my beauty beneath?

But let’s not blame others,
For the destruction we’ve caused,
And seek for ourselves  
what tore us apart.

The duller I get,
The brighter you shine.
So what made me so unlovable,
To you,
My golden star.

How do I tell my mother
That the reason I refuse
To clean my room
Is because I swore
That before I could **** myself
I would leave the place sparkling for her?

How do I explain
That every time she begs me to pick up
The ***** clothes from my floor
I refuse to do so
Because I am begging for thread

Praying for a reason to hang on
Other than my ***** room