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.

Some days I don’t want to be the voice of progress,
The cry into the shadows that demands we shine a light.
Some days I don’t want to be strong and silent,
Keeping my hurt hidden behind “Let’s not think of this.”
Today I don’t want to know where the bruises used to be
Or remember the moment I thought I’d climbed into bed with a murderer,
His arm locked around my neck.
Today I don’t want to be a survivor.
I just want to be okay.

I am lost in the memories
Of what my mind did to me,
Trying to take an accounting,
So I can unravel the mystery.
I am searching for answers,
So I am not a casualty,
Hoping that this heart will keep beating
In a body that once tried to **** me,
Demanding that there's a different ending
To this accursed story.

I am terrified of what I may do to myself if I let my guard down.
It's not that I don't want to be happy.
It's that at my core,
I do not trust myself.

The Highs taste like Lemon Heads
Before burning my mouth like Cinnamon Red Hots.
The Lows go down like soup of ash and cold water.
I am forever trying to find a balance between the flavors of mania
And the blandness of depression.
Often, I find myself hungry in the wee hours,
Dismayed by both options.

If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that blood speaks in run on sentences,
Slick syllables flow out of damaged veins like rabid speech
And end in ellipses promising that more will be forthcoming.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that antibacterial soap could never wash the sins out
Enough to make me the saint they always hoped I'd be,
And I am steeped in "nice girl" expectations that never came to fruition.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that my brain went to battle with my body at the age of 12,
And now my eyes have seen more than my heart can hold,
So I keep my emotions locked up like prisoners of war,
Hoping that solitary confinement will lessen their ability to contuse my soul.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that guitar strings leave calluses but release heartache,
That music and poetry are borne of the same cloth and stitch the same wounds.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that I've been trying to stitch my own wounds
Since I was a little girl,
Confused and afraid in a world that tried to **** all that was beautiful and different about her.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that this body loves to twirl and flap and rock, and shimmy,
That I am a perpetual motion machine designed to move with the tune of my own feet.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you I've made some ugly scars and beautiful art,
That the line between the two is proportional to my pain threshold.
Sometimes suffering demands that my hands commit crimes against my skin,
But I've learned that I can bleed ink instead of blood.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that I am often overwhelmed by the darkness of the night sky,
The way the blackness encroaches on the moonlight,
But there's no eloquent speech to convey the way the stars ignite hope in my chest,
Kindle optimism in my heart.
I am desperate to hold on to it.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that I am sometimes so human it cuts me,
But I am learning how to exist within that humanity.
If my hands could talk,
They'd end this poem in a semi colon
Because there's still so much they have to say;

I write to stay alive,
To release the words that tear my flesh
In their efforts to be born into this world.
I write to leave my mark on the universe
Rather than leaving marks on my skin.
I write to prevent the silence from strangling me
In its utter oppressiveness.
I write to wash the sins out of my body
And the stains off of my hands.
I bleed ink rather than blood
And wax poetic to avoid coveting new scars.
I write because it's the only way I've ever learned
To externalize the humanity that cuts me so deeply.
I write because language saves me from myself.
I write because my very existence depends on it.

I am so lost
In a world that demands I always know
What path my feet pound.
I am seeing ghosts in the mirror,
Memories that follow me
Like I am some sort of light leader.
My face no longer looks the same.
It's shadowed by this sadness,
And I am so tired of feeling like the undead,
Wishing the "un" had never existed in the first place.
I am so lost in a dream I cannot wake up from,
Floating through the air in a twisted mesh of unreality.
I am so lost.
I am so lost.

I've got the January blues,
The Monday heaviness,
A kind of Tuesday Sadness.
I've got the Wednesday empties,
The Thursday lonelies,
And a Friday full of Madness.
Saturdays are cold and grey
While Sundays seem to slip away,
And the week recycles into blandness.

In remembrance of you today,
That you existed and touched this Earth
With loving hands.
Now, we've lost another in a similar way.
Keep him safe as he passes on.
You matter.
You are loved.
In remembrance of you today,
The joy you brought
And the kindness you bestowed.
My grief comes in waves,
But I never regret knowing you.
In remembrance of you today.
I miss you from Earth.

I wish that I could trust my brain
To, at the very least, remain the same,
Forever wed to depression's corner.
In the dark, growing colder.
But now Paranoia like a flower blooms,
And I hear the footsteps as he haunts my room,
Breathes down silky skin of neck
To prove he's there and away I shan't get.
His shadow lurks around every turn,
And he taints the world with smells that burn.
I am lonely in this terror
Of stalker and murderous specter.
I tell them he's coming to get me,
But alas, only I can see him.
I wish that I could trust my brain,
But it makes monsters all the same.

I am the apocalypse,
Blood red sky that hangs over muddy water.
I am the fire that makes ashes
Out of endeavors to be more and better.
I am the poison in the well,
Taint that slithers beneath your skin.
They should've warned you
That the darkest things come in the nicest packages.
Do you dare to open mine?

Sometimes I think that if my heart beats fast enough,
It could outrun this feeling,
Like if I reach a high enough BPM,
I might suddenly feel as if the world makes sense again.
I might not feel like I am drowning
In a vat of electrically charged water
Or trying to plug up the holes from which my emotions keep bleeding.
I think my heart believes that a little tachycardia might cure me,
Might purify me of this pain.
Why else would it speed onwards so?

Dear Me,
You have always been enamored of language and vocabulary,
But your words are better suited for shaking the earth at a slam
Then writing your own obituary.
Is it not true that you have been unimpressed with every suicide note you’ve ever written?
What compels you to believe you’d do it better this time?
Dear Me,
We’ve courted suicidality like an ill-fitting suitor for enough years to recognize
The red flags by now.
Isn’t it time we stopped accepting pale apologies for the bruises it has left on our psyche?
“I am sorry” means little when it’s written in your own blood.
“It’ll never happen again” is a futile phrase when uttered more than once.
You used to believe that abuse was the price of being loved,
And should we not retire that sentiment?
Dear Me,
They told me to make peace with the fact that I may always want to die,
But you always wanted sugar as a child,
And what did that give you but a bellyache?
It’s not required to indulge your every whim.
Contrary to your own belief,
The thoughts will not **** you.
The last ten years of your life are proof that you can deny this demand.
Think of it like a work order,
A request that you repair yourself.
The goal is not that you never teeter on the edge.
It’s that you know in the end,
It isn’t a viable option.
Dear Me,
I used to think that “nice girls” never wanted to **** themselves,
But I’ve met a lot of “nice girls” who’ve sought a way out.
This desire is not a commentary on your value as a person.
You can be kind and broken and worthy at the same time.
Being happy is not a contingency of being whole.
Dear Me,
You’ve borrowed time the same way some borrow clothes,
Trying on different ages to see what fits,
Wondering what 60 is going to look like on you
When you haven’t grown into your 20s yet.
Your jeans from when you were 15 no longer hang in your closet,
And that proves you can take anything to the thrift shop when you outgrow it.
Dear Me,
I know you’re tired of these seemingly endless circles,
But you were told that mental illness is like a spiral staircase.
You still spin around even as you climb.
You are not the same person as the last time you wanted to die.
This moment is proof that you have changed despite feeling stuck in the same spot.
Dear Me,
It isn’t your job to befriend every lonely being in this world.
The Reaper will be fine if you tell him to make his own acquaintances.
You do not owe him your time and affection.
It isn’t your job to answer his calls.
Let it go to voicemail.
Dear Me,
I am not angry that we’re here again.
This is a love letter to the part of you that wants to die.
It is understandable to wish for an end to this pain.
You are still mine when you’re hurting.
I love you for all the times you’ve wanted to call it quits
And still showed up for practice the next day.
I pray that one day that kind of strength is unnecessary,
But never let it be said that you weren’t strong when it counted.
Dear Me,
We are in this together,
And I am never letting you go.

I yank the tears from my chest
As if plucking them out will some how
Cure me of Depression's persistent arrhythmia.
The salt water,
Flowing from my heart's wounds,
Is bitter and jagged and hard won.
I wonder if I cry enough tears whether
I will feel lighter or simply be dehydrated.

Death does not frighten me.
It calls to me from beyond the veil,
Beckoning with it's bony hands,
And I resist it's siren song.
I do not fear it.
What scares me is that one day I may wake up
At 60 years old and feel exactly as I do now,
Wondering what the point is,
Trudging through the days like wet cement,
Feeling like all those expectations were wasted upon me,
And I have nothing to offer for all the burrowed time they gave me
But the scars that show I toiled to be alive.
It scares me that while others grow old with grace
And pass down stories of a life well lived
That I will be keeping the same desperate, empty company
I've always kept,
That existing will still feel like hard work,
And that I will have spent the next 40 years trying to prove my worth
By maintaining a body that's been trying to **** me since I was twelve.
It's not death that frightens me.
I am terrified of a life that does not feel like living
And a world that will be so disappointed in me for never becoming
More than I am.

My soul itches for poetry,
Fingers long for the tap of keyboard or scratch of a pen.
My mouth curves around syllables,
Missing the way they slam against a microphone
As I make myself heard amongst a crowd of those
Who know what it means to be beholden to this master,
To write lines of a poem the way some breathe the air,
To be so made up of adjectives and metaphors
That I no longer know where I begin and the poetry ends.
I am simply molecules and letters masquerading as a human,
Trying to become whole again on paper.

When I was waist high,
Freckles are angels kisses,
And bedtime seemed a comeuppance
Years old,
I used to wish to grow up in effort to shed my
Child's problems.
Now that the years have raced past,
I've grown into an adult's body
Along with adult problems,
And I wish I hadn't pleaded with the fates
To hurry it onward so.

I am not made of miracles or borrowed prayers.
There is no magic in my bones or mysticism to my name.
I am made of sweat,
Of salt stains on flushed cheeks.
I am made of blood smears
And too much hand lotion.
I am made of toil and trouble,
Of mistakes and rectification.
I am composed of ink and paper,
Of ill-remembered idioms and words I've absorbed from books.
My existence is fueled by a certain brand of sock,
A teddy bear given to me at birth,
And a desire to prove that I was more than what they told me
That I could be greater than what I thought of myself.
I am made of laughter and twisted humor,
Of Murphy's law and learning to conserve energy and care.
I am made of misbehaved neurotransmitters and wild thoughts.
I have a love of the night sky and swimming in cool waters.
My soul steeped in the desire to frolic and eat sweets.
I wear scars that prove I have suffered and earn me judgement,
But I have survived a world and brain designed to be my unbecoming
Not because I'm made of miracle or magic or prayers.
I survived because I'm made of attitude, resolve, resilience,
And a thirst to prove that I can.
Most importantly,
There always seems to be a flicker of something that promises me
That even in my worst moment, I should continue to live.

The tree is dancing and flickering
Like some computer glitch,
ANd the sound of fpptstops trail me,
Doors shutting,
Chairs scraping,
Dogs barking in an otherwise empty house.
I do not know how to sav myself from this
Remix of unreal and reality,
Just hiding blasting music
Trying to drown out the sound of someone trying to **** me.
The figurine of the pink power ranger rests under my pillow while I try to sleep,
Guardian, protector,
Save me.
I do not want to listen to my thoughts.
They hurt adn conjure things,
Enamored of death or a way out of this hell.
At night I dream
Of people stealing the earrings out of mye ears
And hundreds of people chanting my name.
No matter where I run, they call me.
Even hiding amongst the frogs brings no relief
As their Ribbits shout my name from behinf the bushes.
Save me from this hell, my mind.
I don't want to listen to it.
I don't want to die.

Error 404: Higher brain function not found
We are sorry to inform you,
But the thought machine is out of order
Please, step back and remove your quarter.
We are taking your thoughts Tough Mudding
They must now swim through wet cement to reach your consciousness,
But fear not
There are legions of them 'Worming their way through your soft tissues
In between apathy and emotional volatility.
What's that?
You say you're going crazy?
Oh, my darling,
Nothing but a case of spontaneous dyslexia
Words and numbers were made to be in motion,
Slipping through your grasp and changing location
Just a spot of fun
It hurts to think
To exist is to be locked in a dance of exhaustive hyperactive misery
There is something wrong with my thoughts
Please, I do not want to listen to myself think

I am often told that love will leave me breathless,
But I hope I never know a love so greedy as to steal the air from my chest,
For I have memories of a time when my body was oxygen starved
And my lungs unable to draw in breath,
Bogged down under soupy pneumonia that clung to my innards
With vice-like, snotty grips.
My mind is sometimes lost in the sensation of frantically
Drawing air inward,
******* it into my chest with great gasps that never alleviated the burning of my lungs
Or the way pins and needles tingled down my limbs.
My brain cells were consumed with desire to force O2 to bind with the red blood cells churning in my veins.
The air surrounding me was dense with particles that refused to aid my survival,
No matter how much effort I exerted to the contrary.
Sweat dripped off my too thin form and pallid skin
As I drowned slowly from the inside out in a room full of doctors
Until they finally placed the tube back into my throat to breathe for me.
The pain receded as oxygen raced back into my cells,
And I marveled for a moment at the fact that I could not feel myself breathing,
Couldn't feel the rise or fall of my chest.
The mark of my vitality was absent,
And yet,
I was very much alive.
I remember what it was to be truly breathless,
The blind panic that seized me before finally giving way to a wish for death.
It's because of this I hope love never empties my lungs.
I want a love that makes breathing feel safe and exciting,
A love that feels so gloriously alive that I am acutely aware of my chest rising.
Love should always make breathing feel like both a right and a privilege.
It is a privilege to love her and be in her presence.
But I hope she never leaves me breathless.

I am being suffocated by pain
That demands to be felt
But refuses to acknowledge its origin or cause.
How do I tame a beast
Whose name I do not know?
This season always brings with it emotional turmoil,
The joys of daylight's manipulation of bipolar disorder,
But this creature that weighs down my chest
Has not uttered its name.
Like all demons,
It must be named to be exorcised,
And it will not be cowed by my speaking in tongues.
Back ye foul beast
From whence you came.
By hook or crook
I will learn your name.

Night falls like a heavy blanket
As the smell of rain wafts off the pavement,
Wheels of my father’s truck carrying us homeward.
The mountains stand like shadowed specters,
Black against a cloud covered sky,
Moon too shy to peak out from behind
The curtains of leftover moisture.
I hum a choked-up rendition of
Stairway to Heaven that plays across the radio waves.
Tonight, we are driving home from celebrating my grandmother’s
90th birthday.
My soul aches with the joy of sharing this occasion with her
And the sadness of watching as age catches her in life’s race.
I count my blessings that I have been gifted this moment,
For one never knows how many lie around the corner.
She is the most amazing person I’ve had the opportunity to meet.
If I could be granted the rest of my life be spent in her company,
It would still be too short.
Love reminds me that sometimes the best things in life
Are the ones that hurt the most to lose,
Yet I would not trade a moment’s loving her
For an ounce less pain.
It is worth it to love her so completely
For as long as time will let me.

Do not conflate mortality and morality.
You can die a sinner,
Or you can die a saint,
But we all die just the same.

At 7 years old, I told my mother,
"You're not my real mom.
You're my Earth mom,
And at night when I'm asleep,
I go back to my home planet."
As the years sped onwards,
I conceptualized myself as a three headed alien,
A Poet From Another Planet,
Acutely aware of my innate differences.
No explanation had I other than being extraterrestrial.
Those around me, too, seemed to sense I was "other."
Playground insults supported by adults who floated labels like
"Lazy," "Difficult," "Rude," "Deliberately Obtuse"
Over my head as if they were a crown,
Signifying I was queen of kingdom "Unlike Us."
No one looked deeper at the poor social skills ,
The rigidity, sensory difficulties, challenges with executive dysfunction.
It was easier to pretend I was in control,
Choosing the route of difficulty and belittlement.
It was only after I nearly succeeded in killing myself
That someone assembled the whole picture.
My story is not unique among women
Born into bodies and brains whose operating system is Autism.
We are the forgotten, the alienated, and plastered with assumptions,
Lost under the blind eye of those who spin tall tales of
"Only straight, white little boys can possibly be autistic!"
Generations of autistic women have known not a name for their difference,
Bogged down under self-loathing, eating disorders, and suicides,
Anything to cope with a world designed to break them
For the differences everyone noticed but no one could see.
Now that women are finally coming onto the scene,
A subtle shift in the awareness that the clinicians, teachers, doctors
Were missing a whole population of autistic people,
Answers are gate kept behind assessments that are thousands of dollars
And diagnosticians who've yet to see the error of their ways.
Peace of mind seems to be a right only of white autistic men
Who are lucky enough to have the "profile" of autism modeled after them.
It took 19 years, two suicide attempts, including 10 days in a coma
For someone to finally "see me,"
And I'm one of the lucky ones.
Answers were finally mine,
But understanding one's own brain should be a human right.
I think we can all agree:
The price of a diagnosis should not be your life.

The neighbors seem so vivacious
As they mull about outside my window,
Sun kissing their skin.
The mothers cling to their children,
And sweat clings to the aching muscles of workers
As they bustle,
Hustling mattresses out of the house
And building supplies in.
We exchange cautious smiles
As I sit here in the staleness of my room,
The monotony of this routine.
They are so alive.
I wish I was too.

My soul is afraid
Of when love used to be dangerous,
When home was not synonymous with protection,
And when I wasn't safe
Even from myself.
Memories contuse my heart
And leave bitter embers on my brain.
I wonder when I will be able to let go
Of a past that should not hold so much power
Over a future I've worked so hard for.

Academic conversations about consent are a pure form of agony,
Listening to students and Professor toss around the word like it's a hypothetical commodity,
As if there is question that autonomy and dignity belong to every living thing in that room.
We are asked to dissect the most intimate of physical safeties as if this is a lesson in biology,
Solve 'consent' like a particularly challenging calculus problem,
Pretend as if this didn't happen in the confines of my body.
It's excruciating to have to take an equation,
We'll start with y=mx+b,
And calculate which variables determine basic human decency.
I was young, female, gay, autistic, bipolar,
Clinging to his professions of love like they could stitch the gaping emotional wounds,
And somehow that didn't make me human when he did the math.
I don't know how to argue, Professor, with which philosophical tools,
Professor, that I was a person, Professor,
When he decided to **** me.

My jaw has welded itself shut in an iron grip,
Teeth straining under the load as they are compressed
And ground together,
Aching joint failing to remind me to unclench.
What little sleep I have gotten has also sought to seal my mouth,
Until morning brings with it the sharp pain and popping I am now accustomed to.
Sores line my inner lip,
Pale, stinging pits reminding me how close I am teetering on the edge,
Body clinging to its composure amidst sleepless nights
And adrenaline baths.
A feeling like fire alternately surges up my sternum and over my shoulder,
The taste of stomach acid hot on my burning tongue.
I wonder how long I can keep this up
Until the shoulders , taut with paranoia and effort to keep me safe
Pull my very bones apart with aching muscles.
Perhaps I will be consumed from the inside,
Cracking open the same way my chest already feels.
What am I doing here,
Amongst the memories, the mournings, borrowed time?
I am trying desperately to save her from her certain fate
With love and worry and prayers to her God, the one I don't believe in.
I am also trying to save me, the little girl I used to be,
From the torment I know she will experience anyway,
Wishing fervently I could pull her through time and space
Into a world that isn't trying so hard to **** her for who she is,
The space she occupies unknowingly.
I'm haunted by the mouths of children, the words and hands of grown adults
Who did a thorough job of reducing her to mere mud and human filth.
That girl, young, wide-eyed, desperately lonely and confused,
Burning with self-loathing and pain no one will admit to causing,
Haunts me, climbs into bed and warms her frigid form with my body heat.
I can't save her,
The same way I can't save dying grandmothers or dead friends,
Yet my body is tormented because my mind is tormented.
I am cracking, slowly,
Pieces at a time.
But I'm not so easily bested now.
That little girl built armor and walls and weapons to guard herself,
So I down another cup of coffee,
Pour salt into the sores,
Crack my jaw,
And get back to work.
I have to save myself, too.

Pain erupts in my chest
Like sadness has just cracked my sternum
With its cold, gray hammer.
I cannot touch this hurt
With tears or bandages.
I am simply bleeding internally,
Wondering why anniversaries cut so deep,
But it's not that I nearly lost myself,
Held hands with the reaper.
It's that you preceded me death,
And I wonder why in the end it was you and not me.

Memories slink like silken specters
Across my barren walls
With sticky fingers that pick pocket
My peace of mind,
Steal my sleep,
Leaving sweaty handprints across my skin
And the faint taste of a scream that died on my tongue.
I tell myself that I am safe now.  
Not a soul has breathed in this room since I examined every cranny.
Even I am existing on borrowed air,
As sleep slips so dearly missed from my grasp.
I guard my secrets in darkness while 4 am lingers heavy in this space,
Wishing unconsciousness to take me to a land
Where my heart doesn’t race in terror at every noise,
The shame of what I allowed to be done to me doesn’t echo in my mind,
And the scars are not so tender to the touch.
If only I should be so lucky.
The ghosts are restless in the way they haunt my body tonight.

I say, “I’m having a hard time with my PTSD,”
The words thick in my mouth like I am choking
Or somehow allergic to this admission,
Body, killing itself in an effort to expel the allergen.
I am stuck at a crime scene,
Whole body present for the ****** of me.
I am watching them examine my clothing,
Searching for motive and signs of a struggle,
Nobody staunching the bleeding.
I am a cadaver to them,
Mangled wreckage of what once was and could never be again.
I see the yellow ‘police line’ being rolled out over and over in my mind,
Wondering why the only one watching him break me
Was my teddy bear who’d been cast onto the floor
And the mattress on which I was the sin he committed.
Sometimes I wonder if the blood stained as it ran from me.
Did he think about the ****** when he washed the sheets,
Or was this just another day for him,
He who is lucky enough to inhabit a whole body?
What was it for him about the act of making ghosts,
Leaving me half dead every time,
How he choked the air from my body,
Just enough to separate my soul from my physical form
But never finished the job?
Now, I haunt this in-between space
A purgatory of murdered and broken pieces,
Parts too dissimilar to be reconstructed.
I wonder how they all used to fit into a whole
When their jagged edges now mar my skin,
Spilling blood that no longer runs red in my veins.
It’s blue like the sheets on his bed,
Steel gray for the threat of the sword he wedged under the mattress,
And purple like bite mark bruises up my thighs,
How he opened his mouth and somehow closed mine,
Stole the syllables off my freshly kissed lips,
The taste of morning breath and acid fear welded to my tongue.
I am left to carry my own dead body with hands that don’t feel fully mine.
They’ve left bruises of their own but none on his skin.
There’s no signs of an external struggle,
No blood stored under my fingernails,
Yet I wear the internal wounds like armor.
Closed doors don’t erase the existence of violence.
What happens in silence still leaves an echo,
Even if it’s only the drip of tears on the pillowcase.
I used to be lucky enough to inhabit a whole body,
But he struck me dead at the root of my innocence,
And now I am here telling you a ghost story.
When I say, “I am struggling with my PTSD,”
I mean I am a stuck at the crime scene of me,
But the police are not coming because I didn’t know to ask for them.
How do you tell someone that love left the bruises and you let him
Because your world was too cold to differentiate between being kept warm
And having someone light you on fire?
How do you report a ****** from beyond your own grave?
The “Police Line: Do Not Cross”
Tells me where not to touch,
What to leave alone less the remembering begin again.
It tells me not to let others too close to the scene of the crime,
Not to let them see the evidence locked in my mind.
I am so tired of carrying around my own dead body,
Trying to feel safe in the same place
I once wished he’d just killed me.
How do you escape the crime scene
When the scene of the crime is your own body?

I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry for the way fear stole the words from my mouth
And surprise bound my hands and legs to the bed.
I'm angry that my mind spun the dial and settled on freeze.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry that silence hung between us,
Thicker than the air I was struggling to breathe,
That the absence of syllables prevented me from giving name
To the violation.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I am angry that I let you,
That I convinced myself saying 'yes' after I'd already said 'no'
Meant it wasn't so bad after all.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry that others violated so many boundaries
I thought love was a race to cross the finish over every line I'd ever drawn,
That my best interest and your desires were somehow the same thing.
I am not angry that you hurt me.
I am angry I sought you as a protector to fight the demons YOU gave me,
That I thought you could save me from the fear you were causing.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I am angry that the walls are now caving in
Around the idea that I could ever be clean,
That I am alone with the thought I somehow did this to myself,
That had I listened and not been so hell bent on breaking free of the literal chains,
Not been searching for liberation from my childhood hurts ,
Or chasing my power in the line between '****' and '****',
I might still be a "gold-star lesbian" and not tainted goods.
I am not angry that you hurt me.
I am angry you might still get off to the pictures I sent you,
That my manic mental health crises were your free ticket to "play time."
I must have always reeked of angst and desperation,
Little girl playing dress up in a world she doesn't understand,
Seeking solace in a man twice her age,
But he would only seek to cage her in bars of his own making.
Meanwhile, Mother writes it off as having "bad taste in men,"
As if she was not a link in the chain of how I ended up there,
Neglecting to mention I did not consent to being manipulated by a predator.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I am angry that I thought seeing past the scars on my skin meant you loved me,
That acknowledging how others had hurt me meant you wouldn't do the same.
I am angry that when your face appeared in my nightmares
I let you tell me I was mistaken,
That when I began to hate the word **** and couldn't stand it to be mentioned,
I believed you when you said it had never happened.
I'm not angry you hurt me.
I'm ashamed it took me a year to leave
Even when you drowned me in enough red flags to make a Matador proud
Because I thought I could fix you.
Was I not broken too?
You made me feel like I owed you for loving me through the cracks,
And I am not one to skip out on debts.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry you stole the skin off my body and safety from my mind,
And I didn't fight back.
I wish you had just killed me so they can't say I was asking for it.
Was that not the purpose of the sword wedged under the mattress?
You should have finished the job when you choked me,
So I don't have to live with this.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry that I didn't stop it.
I'm not angry that you hurt me.
I'm angry that I let you.

This is to say that Storm Clouds
Are the accumulation of water in the air,
That Hate is the buildup of prejudice and fear,
That Change is when humans grow tired
Of hearing the rain fall on deaf ears,
Watching people with umbrellas wondering
Why those without are getting wet.
This is to call upon Love,
The accumulation of Compassion,
Encourager of Empathy,
The feeling of sunshine when you smile at me.
Hope is the keeper of faith,
Knowledge that tomorrow isn't always the same,
That even in the dark months, sunlight is inevitable,
And eventually we all reach the end of the tunnel,
Hope knows sometimes Change has to Rain down
Upon the lands of dry grass and wildfires,
That floods are a risk when the dirt has lost its purpose,
But new foliage grows where the ground once cried out,
So we may one day sustain ourselves on the land
We thought could never bear more life,
The world we thought could never Change.

I am not the girl you made me.
I am the woman who grew out of the decay,
The dirt and soot and open grave
You once attempted to shove me into.
I am not the girl who shook like a child,
Clutched her teddy bear after you ***** her.
I am the woman with the sword
You once wedged under the mattress.
It's mine now, along with my dignity.
I will cut you when you dare enter my nightmares.
I am a woman now.
And you're just a man on a long list of men
Who never get to touch my life anymore.
I am THE woman now,
And you're just small.

I am touched every night
By the darkness,
The twisted, pale fantasies of an unconscious mind.
I am always the great protector,
Trying to save them from the evil he inflicted upon me.
It never works.
How cruel is it that I can remove him from everywhere
But my mind?

I want so badly to be me enough
That it doesn't matter how crazy I am.

In a world full of deadlines and assignments,
I often wonder if I am getting credit for my life.
Did I pass the exam because I didn't want to die today?
Am I succeeding for inhabiting a level state of consciousness?
Will I be penalized for the fatigue or the anxious habits,
The inevitable compulsions?
Do they see below my skin where the turmoil lays?
Are my bones enough to hold me up under the weight
Of my perfectionism and pressure for success?
Am I too slow or different in a world that demands I exist in a system?
Am I enough in the course of Planet Earth?
Is who I am what they want,
And does it matter?
Is there extra credit for taking a shower and complying with medication?
Professor, did I achieve an A?

My heartbeat trips over its own feet,
Running as if towards the greatest surprise
And simultaneously from the end of the world.

"It's just a thought."
"It's just an image."
But still I make the demanded pilgrimage.
A triple lock.
A double check,
Compulsive look under the bed.
Oh, how strange!
Silly me!
Yet, I go.
I must repeat.
Therapist says I have OCD.

I dream so vividly
That reality forgets where its edges lay
And the physical sensation
Lingers on my skin.

I was not designed to be an object,
And yet a man I once loved
Tried to claim me as such,
Like my body was his
And nothing more than a carbon mass
Whose blood did not run red in my veins.
I am more than the nickname on his tongue
And the doll for *** he made me,
Not a toy to be ripped apart
Into plastic pieces,
Until all I owned was my name.
My body and mind were not free real estate
For him to occupy rent free.
I am not a parking lot for the dumpster fire
Of his problems.
I exist in this world to own myself above all else.
This girl is not an object.
I did not deserve to have my body taken from me.

Epitaph for My Depression
My depression is the dead, ugly thing in the corner,
The decaying creature whose carcass you don’t want to touch
Lest its innards, festering and bloated with the gasses of decomposition,
Explode on you.
My depression cannot be tuned up in a funeral home.
It’s wearing toe tags in the morgue.
They say, “We know you want to bury it.
For the love of God, choose a closed casket.”
My depression is lonesome.
It has no friends to attend the funeral.
It hasn’t spoken to a human being save for whispering in my ear.
You cannot maintain connections
When you’re too busy sinking into the floor
As the gravity of this sadness pulls you into Earth’s core.
My depression is unholy.
There are no biblical words to exorcise this demon,
No priest who wants to deliver this service.
They are thinking good riddance when I toss dirt into the grave.
The epitaph on the headstone reads,
“It comes when it’s not called.
It lingers where it’s unwelcome,
Yet I cry now that it’s buried.
Maybe they are tears of joy.”
Yet, depression rises from the dead like Lazarus from the tomb.
No saint is my depression.
It is more resemblant of a character in a poorly made zombie movie.
Limbs hanging from sinews and a clear desire to consume my brain
The same way it lays ruin to my life.
I have tried to **** my depression many times,
Made weapons out of diet and exercise,
Swung therapy like a sword,
Made bombs out of sheer will power
And mortar out of medications.
I have even attempted to **** my body,
To put an end to this endless circle of fire,
But this illness and I forgot
That without my physical form, we are both homeless,
And we have already spent too many hours washed up and soaking wet
In the cold December air on my mind’s street corners.
Depression has become synonymous with resurrection,
But how is it being saved?
It does not believe in a power greater than its own.
There have been many tombstones and many epitaphs.
A “Here rests depression in solemn, silent repose.”
An “Its lingering malice revives it out of spite.”
An “I’m sorry you’re hurting.”
A “Please make it stop.”
They read:
“Depression is not romantic.
Don’t play dress up in a game you don’t understand.
Depression’s persistently pretty pimpin’ is really old by now.
Please, dear grounds keeper, do not dig here!
Have you tried melatonin for your eternal sleep insomnia?
I am sorry you’re so angry that you cannot stay buried,
But I promise Satan will happily bless and keep you
If you would refrain from all future reincarnation.”
Still, I am always writing new epitaphs
When depression comes to visit.
It’s as reliable as the seasons and heavy as the world’s mass.
I no longer hate my depression.
I just am tired of sitting in a graveyard
While my depression isn’t dead.