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Time has passed, and you’d think I’d be over it by now,
But I still blast music in the shower to drown the memories out.
Can’t stand to be clean, but I don’t want to be *****.
Healing’s been so slow, and I am in a hurry,
Trying to feel like a whole human being
Find the places on my body that you haven’t been.
This landscape’s all mountains to climb when I long for the valleys
Of hips, knees, and skin that don’t feel like dark alleys.
I wear these scars like armor, but they don’t protect me from myself
Try to box up your images and put them on a shelf.
I lay awake at night alone in the dark
With visions of the marks you left- your own kind of art.
Telling myself I wouldn’t wish it on my friends,
Thinking in the quiet spaces the name that I would give,
And it’s hard to think about how used and empty that I feel
When I remember your literal blades made of steal.
You could always take what you wanted
Knew how to override a “No” leaving me feeling haunted.
I don’t feel safe at night when I go to sleep
Because even when I was unconscious, you couldn’t keep your hands off of me.
I shudder to think what kind of man you think you are
You said everyone was out to get you as if you weren’t the one leaving marks.
I struggle to tell my story out of embarrassment and shame
Am I just a product of your own twisted game?
I’d like to think someday the nightmares will be few and far between,
And my body won’t feel so much like a crime scene.
Until that day comes I keep it all locked inside,
Trying to lay down my weapons because I’m tired of the fight
I’ve been sad so long I’m afraid of what it means
When the world isn’t weighing down on me
Don’t know what to carry when it’s not heavy.
I’m skeptical when I’m happy,
Unsure of my identity when it’s easy,
Feel suspicious when I’m breathing freely.
Who am I when the sea isn’t tumultuous?
Lost when times are prosperous?
What do I do when I can’t trust this?
I’m uncomfortable with the blank spaces empty of mental illness.
Who am I when there’s no battle to be faced?
I feel hollow and out of place
Like I am made of clay that hasn’t quite taken shape.
I want to be someone when there’s no foe to vanquish
Have a meaning beyond my aguish.
I know there’s more to me than sickness,
But I feel no strength without my weakness.
How do I become the person I am meant to be?
How do I find myself when I am happy?
Sing me a sin,
And I’ll write you a love poem.
Ask for my soul,
And I’ll trade you some bones.

Collect all my pieces
Like baseball cards.
Tell me to leave my mark,
And I’ll give you new scars.

Write me a symphony
With the sound of have nots.
I’ll bury your sorrow
Where it gives way to rot.

Tell me you’re an animal
Ready to unleash desire.
I’ll tell you I’ve been burned
And keep away from your fire.

If my innocence attracts,
You’ll be sadly disappointed,
For it’s locked in a cage,
And my pain I’ve anointed.

I’ll be in white
On my day of all days,
And if you want to be there,
You better learn how to stay.

I am not a tragedy,
But I won’t hide my scars.
If you want to bear witness,
You must view depression’s old art.

There is a door that is locked,
But if you want to make love,
You must take care not to startle
And your hands must be gloved.

Don’t keep secrets from sinners
If you haven’t been a saint.
Show me your care,
And I’ll show you my stain.
I’m sick of the sads,
The come and go blues,
Tired of depression,
It’s becoming old news.

I’ve got the melancholy
Lodged deep in my bones.
It follows me everywhere,
So I hide all alone.

I’m exhausted of existence
That demands my great strength.
I’m out of ignition
And my apathy stretches at length.

This pattern starts at the beginning of October.
It stays through the winter,
I am like the weather,
Cold, gray, and bitter.

I’m sick of the sads,
These come and go blues,
The yearly cycle of moods,
I keep falling for the ruse.

I am sick of the sads,
Tired of depression,
Clinging to my sanity
Through its brutal oppression.

I am sick of the sads
That make it difficult to respire.
I pray for the end,
Lest my body simply expire.

The come and go blues
Have ruined my desire
For anything else.
I am consumed by my internal Hell’s fire.

I am sick of the sads,
These come and go blues.
By the time spring arrives,
I’ll be battered and bruised.

I’m sick of the sads.
Someone liberate me.
Send help on high horses,
Or sad is all I will be.
I used to think that ****** was the same as *****,
And therefore I was both broken and unclean.
I have learned that you can wash the blood off
And cast out the stains of yesterday’s misfortunes
That I may kneel before you and tell you
That I am still sacred in my own skin.
It came for me again
With teeth and claws
That sunk into my flesh
With ruby red eyes that loomed in the darkness,
Mocking me as I struggled to sleep.
I was a spectator
As my mood disintegrated in front of me,
Giving way for the heavy enormity of depression
And the burning itch of restlessness
That took up residence in the wounds Bipolar tore across my mind.
It came for me again,
And I, as always,
Was left to fight it in a weary body,
Clinging to contraband hope
That the consequences would not be permanent this time.
It came for me again,
But I am still alive.
What do you want from me?
I ask my memories,
Wondering why they’ve come out to play,
Tap dancing across the wood floors of me mind,
Creating a cacophony that echoes off my skull.
What do you want from me?
I hear them when they respond, “We’re trying to make you safe.”
I know they’re attempting to prevent tumbling off the same rocks,
Trying to ensure I don’t crack bones on the same hard places.
They are telling me to avoid having pieces of me stolen again.
I couldn’t protect myself at thirteen or sixteen,
So I stumbled down the same dark alleys until I was 18
And paid a grander price in an even darker cave at 19.
I’m 22 now, and I’m still picking up the pieces out of the mouths of men,
Men who cut me down until I was a conglomerate of bite size, fuckable pieces.
I was taught not to scream when my pieces were being consumed.
Who needs to be a whole human anyway?
If tip money went into my pocket,
If he told me he loved me afterwards,
If I was alive to see the morning light,
Who was I to complain?  
And when I stopped wanting to see the sun rise,
They gazed upon my pieces
And berated me for the wreckage.
What do you want from me?
Is a question I only know how to ask myself.
I have never dared ask those who stole from me
Whether they came to me in good faith,
Never had the wisdom to lock up what was valuable.
I have never demanded of anyone what their intentions were,
So I ask again: What do you want from me?
What am I expected to provide?
Am I allowed to be a whole human here?
Or will you require I be bite size again?
I am desperate to be safe in the same flesh that once enticed those who hunted me.
What do you want from me?
I’ll tell you what I want.
I want to go home whole,
Knowing my skin is all mine.
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