I look at the same place
Once
Twice
A thousand times
And I still will not be sure
That it is reality

I don't always say what I mean
And I mean a lot of things I don't say
So I talk with you in my head
And you, and you, and you
I always get replies

I catch myself smiling or frowning
And then I give myself a scolding
But the worst is when I forget
Which conversations were real
And which ones were not

Sometimes
My body twitches
And I can't stop

And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.

I am the awkward treble cleft resting against your crescendo heartbeat
All the while  thinking "I don't think Mozart could have ever written anything as beautiful as your breath"
And I bet when God made you, part of the angles choir found itself nestled in your vocal chords
Comfort
Like a down blanket you wrap me in the silk strands of your forearms
And all I want to know is how you got these scars
My guess is you fell to hard for a girl who was never your favorite song
And you had to nitpick the sour notes of her broken promises from your skin

Dear Jade,

1. Your mother called you curvy. You mistook it for fat. A permanent reminder in your thigh.

2. The night he broke you. You perceived his uncontrollable lust as a result of your drunkenness. This was punishment.

3,4,5. Food. A scar for every one hundred calories you consumed that day.

6. The result of a suicide attempt. All the bleach in the world couldn't clean this mess.

7. Your plant died. When it did, a part of you died with it. I think you were just looking for a reason to fall apart.

8. Your grandmother died and you didn't cry. This was a reminder you could still feel.

9. FAT again. You gained three pounds and your jeans almost fit.

10. Probably needed stitches. You just wanted to see some blood.

11. Your scars were fading. You couldn't bear to see them go. Start over.

It would take me a lifetime to write the reasons behind every one of your scars.
Please. Let this be enough.
Let me enough. Love me.

Most people have scars that run in
perfectly
              straight
                           lines
                     but
             mine
        are
hopelessly crooked
because
I hated myself too much
to be that careful

I hacked at the paper-white skin
that was my wrist
and drew
               thin
                      red
                           lines
that didn't seem to know
where they were going
or even where they wanted to go

Today
when I touch them
the pain is still
                        so
                            raw
­                        so
                  real
I can almost feel the tears
rushing down my face
and onto my arms,
mixing with the blood
trying in vain to heal me

When my arms were open
I didn't see blood
I saw
         hurt
                hopelessness
                               ­      fear
                                           insecurity
                               despair
                      doubt
              pain
       hate
anger
The pain is hidden
underneath the layers of skin
that rushed to cover the ones
that I had pierced through
but sometimes
I think
           it
              might
                         still
                                be
                        ­              there

This is not a cry for attention,
I am not seeking your pity.
I don't want you looking at me differently.

I have chosen this path of destruction,
no outside influences, but my own.
This is my form of release.

These dark, melancholic words,
plastered everywhere, where everyone can see.
Cover up the true scars, hidden within.
In a place where no one has seen.

I do not mean to trouble you, or worry you.
You do not have to read.
These poems, these scars, these feelings bleeding out,
is just my form of release.