I’ve been beaten and abused
My body’s been used
My skin I scarred
My heart is left hard
My mind is weak
My outlook is bleak.

I open the windows when it rains
I watch the sky drown the earth the same way the pain of missing you drowns my soul

I smell the wet soil and think of home
             of the way the mountains smell in April
             of how the beach smells after a storm
With the waves crashing into droplets on the cities edge

I'm not religious but I pray that if I leave the windows open during the storm a droplet from Seattle will find it's way to me in the desert

One with salt from the Pacific and sap from the pines

I pray for a droplet from your home to find it's way into mine

I want to slit my veins open and watch as my life seeps into the drain. I want my body to slowly and painfully go limp and cold.
I want to stiffen up as death is finally able to grasp what little I have left.
I sit on bridges and watch trains pass bellow always wanting to jump in front of them.
I wait at crosswalks always on the look out for a semi with the perfect grill to rip me apart.
I constantly think of driving a car into the barriers of the freeway and hopefully flying out of the windshield and feeling my bones break and crumble

I'm such a ******* disappointment.

Even to myself.

Everyday I'm too cowardly to do the one thing I think about 24 ******* 7.
My blood boils with anticipation for the one time that I will finally end this miserable existence.
I dream about it.
I wake up in the night with the pain of a knife in my chest and am upset when it's not really there.

I am so sorry that I'm not dead yet, dad.

You must've misunderstood the type of women I was raised by
Because when they rose their fist and shouted
I AM EQUAL
they did not put it down to raise me
But instead lifted me by their shoulders and showed me how to raise my own

i see myself through the abstract
gentle touches of my own skin
i can never be fully enveloped in
through the periferialls
i see myself as paper thin
i am delecate
and am easily weighted by my own self
i am a reflection through glass
easily passed by
but leaves you wondering if there  is any true substance

And the scars on her wrist only faded
Never leaving her skin
Always shining through the tan
A tint of remembrance
A tint of strength
To wear forever
Her own personal Battle scars
Between existence and Extinction

She was Quaint
  And she was Quiet
But her words came in Quantity
With nothing other than Quality
She was a Quantitative Quilt of knowledge
Full of Questions and Queries
She was an ever moving Quill
Writing the book of her life

Yes she was Quaint
                   And Quiet.