I wrote my thoughts on yellow paper:
blue lines,
red margin,
I found relief in the feel of the smoothness against the side of my hand--
and I was content with life for awhile

but I realized that that life was false,
some abomination of the real world--
a place of kindness where there was evil,
a utopia where there was none

and my thoughts I think have become juvenile with age--
which is to say I feel childish in my emotions:
unable to feel the things that are important
instead of those problems which are just surface level

my anxiety is a demon clawing at my shoulder,
it holds and it holds and it holds--
it is stuck into me with sharp teeth and talons,
and it reminds me everytime I move my arm that it is there--
always watching,
always whispering
gurgled words I have long since known how to fear

and it's difficult to say why I feel this way,
maybe I was cursed ,
maybe I was just born unlucky,
or maybe it's been my fault all along
letting pathetic reasoning take place

I wish I could go back to that paper--
that yellow glare of comfort,
the easiness of feeling something controlled for once
but instead I speak about petty nothingness every two weeks--
too enamored with the idea of the now,
that I am unready and unwilling to open up the past

it always ends like this :
blank pages glaring,
forced steady breathing,
with the knowledge that avoidance is the same thing as accepting

I’m scared
And I hate to say that about myself
Because I have lived in a sense of false security for so long
Reliant on others because I can’t be reliant on myself
And I’ve developed this system of ignore, persist, and repeat
And I think its slowly draining me

There are moments when I can forget that my life is the way that it is
Self-medicating to prevent the anxiety from creeping up into my throat
Turning off the big light to blind myself from all the ugly pieces of me that I am ashamed of seeing
It is my instinct to believe that something is wrong with me

And I’ve never been good at being alone
Though I crave it all the same
When I am alone I can breathe in the darkness
Veiled by the idea that running away will one day have to stop

But I still find my legs striving towards to finish line
Try as I might take my time to get there
The idea of just completing the race urging myself forward
A success where I have never had any before

I am trying
And I am healing
And I know that it is not linear
I know I have many more obstacles ahead of me
But I think the want may finally outweigh the hatred and shame

she told me setting boundaries is being kind to myself
and I've never really been good at that
being kind that is
I will cower and fade to the detriment of myself  before I will admit that this is decidedly unhealthy

but I'm trying to do better
be better I mean
as a person I call myself cruel to be kind
as I know my mind better than anyone else's
and I know that it is condescending at best

but she tells me to be gentle
treat myself with patience and grace
but I have never liked my name

I don't know if fear exists in the absence of courage or it is accompanies it with a hand on its back
leading it into the forest among all the beasts that lurk there

I don't know if forgiveness should be this contractual obligation that it is in my mind
a softness I rarely allow myself to feel
and while you cannot **** me in a way that matters
I will still feel the blade forcing itself further
the sharpness a stinging not unlike lightening
a gripping of my heart in a too tight hand

she tells me to breathe
a laboring shaky breath that allows air into my lungs once again
the hollow void of the knife leaving behind a scar I cannot be rid of
a reminder of weakness in the face of a wicked beast

she tells me to be kind
to forgive myself for something I shouldn't have to forgive
and well,
I'm not very good at that part

I watch as they have petty arguments
make up in a day
and cuddle in the other room

and I want that trivial bickering
the kind that ends in laughter and soft kisses on the forehead

I see the way they care for each other
in playful glances and the small gestures of bringing the other a drink just cause
the pausing of a game to check in on the other
the cooking from one and the washing of the dishes from the other and I realize I want that

I want to be able to wake in the arms of another
feel supported and loved
cherished in a way I haven't been before
I desire the mundane
the splitting of chores
errands run in tandem

I crave the affection that can only come from another who loves and accepts me for me
someone who supports my dreams
and gets along with my friends and family

I want to share my space with someone who feels like they don't take up much of it
yet everywhere I look there'll be a reminder of them in my eyes
and I think of the song being alive and I think I understand

I write because I cannot speak
cannot say out loud what I try to convince myself isn't true
I write and I bleed
thoughts and emotions
wet and raw and /there/
warmth slips down my face in a shaky line
I won't wipe
won't acknowledge is there
I'll look you in the eyes
splayed open
/bleeding/
     /real/
and avoid thinking about how the last time I showed these gorey parts of myself to someone else they left
/they left/
and they had /promised/
does it scare you too?
To know of the power you hold over me?
I try and I try and I try
And I still come out not knowing better
Hindsight saying I should have listened to my instinct
But I fight against it every time
I make the same mistakes again and again
Because I still have hope
Does that make me foolish?

The only steady thing in this world is the fire in yourself--
A burning, constanly flickering flame refusing against all odds to die out
You are here
You are burning

A dusty grey gritty feeling has always been in my lungs from choking back words and impulse I'd be admonished for breathing

It took years of practice to craft the smog into a milky then translucent expected response: appropriate ---Instead of one lacking tact

But with you
I falter