We have choices every day
I choose now to be better
try harder
every day I am a different person
and that used to scare me
the first step is discipline
it creates stability
here--I am fighting
my demons that only I can see
every second
every minute
every hour
I am fighting now

--when I look back I hope I like what I see

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?

I am crying through the dishes
and I'm struggling so hard to get through them
you do not see my war
you percieve laziness
procrastination
this---
I tell you
-----is not laziness
this-----
I tell you
-----is sitting on my bathroom floor at 3am exhausted but unable to go to sleep until I do the dishes
this is not showering for two weeks because the place I go to get clean is murky with filth I can't bring myself to touch
this is disgust at myself and my brain for letting it get this bad again
this is crying while I scrubb with a deep anxious pressure on my chest---

doing the dishes makes me feel like I'm being held at gunpoint
the anxiety so real and heavy and demanding

I put it off
and I sit
and I wait
while it grows
and practices
and sculpts
and perfects
and becomes more menacing by the minute
and I cower

this is not as simple as doing the dishes
not as simple as getting it done
not as simple as just pushing through it
this is                   wrong

doing the dishes is wrong in a way I cannot describe
and I feel nothing but absolute fear and terror and shame

and shame

I keep waiting for the other foot to drop
waiting for someone to tell me that this
dream that I'm in is too good to be true
I know I should wake up but that would
mean facing a nightmare
I keep waiting for everything going
right in my life to laugh in my face in
disbelief that I fell for the joke that my life
could be anything worth living
I'm flicking my eyes to the corners and
shadows of rooms expecting the cameras
to come out any day now
Reality is so entertaining;
my failure and strife amusement to others
I'm waiting but nothing is coming
I haven't heard any hands on doors pounding
any car engines start running
any heavy breathing approaching to boast that this if fake
For once in my life things are going right

I am happy

I am living

I am happy that I'm living

   ---5 Years ago I wouldn't have believed you

I want someone to treat me the way I treat my poetry
With care--delibrately chosen words
I want someone to feel that rush of nostalgia and pride when they look at me,
The same way I feel when I read past font
I want someone to wonder what else I could mean to them, as if I am more than a passing fancy to be briefly admired and then forgotten
But then I think and remember
When I write my poetry I am enthralled, proud, captivated by it's words
I read it again until it's perfect and keep it close to my heart
And when it is finished it is done
Another page on my laptop
Another document to title and hide from the world
Another poem just like the rest
I go back and re read
More often than not forgetting the emotions that were once so strong I felt the need to make them physical
Forgetting what made that poem so special in that moment
Forgetting why I ever thought it was once one of my best now seeing that it was just okay
And it makes me wonder if I really want that at all

I blame it on a lot of things
The timing was wrong
We had different goals
The spark was gone
We just weren't on the same path
I blame a lot on outside forces
I should own up though
I only spoke when spoken to
Only hung out when asked
Never me being the one to iniate contact
I distanced myself
Emotionally
Physically
Mentally
I was our ruin
As with every relationship I've been in
I am my own downfall

When I write a love poem you're always in the back of my mind
But these poems aren't entirely about you
I often find myself writing from someone else's perspective
I'm trapped in someone else's mind and memories
I hope to meet her one day.

It starts here with your hand gripping the bottle too tightly
It ends with stained hands
Impulse
Mania
Change
For now this will do.
A small semblance of control back over your life.
It will satisfy for a bit until it washes out
And the stains are slowly lifted from your hands
New skin cells replacing the old
And you'll be back here again in time
Gripping a bottle too tightly
Breathing in fumes too precariously
Listing to music too loudly
Chasing a minuscule sense of control and steadiness and power and change
And change

--Dying my hair

Say less to me
Validate me with your hands on my body
Your lips on mine
Your eyelashes close enough to my neck I can hear them brush the air next to the hickey you gave me moments ago
Don't speak with words
Instead tell me  how you crave me with your legs intertwining in mine
dissertate with me your theory of how everything we did in our lives built up to us being here under these sheets sweet body
Trace your feelings over mine with your tongue on that one spot you know makes me weak
And tell me time and time again how much you love me in feather light touches and lifeline bites
Tell me how this body is addicted to the minuscule things I do
You were always an incredible artist
Indulge in me like your art
Grind your hips into mine until your moans are elevator music in my head
I can only hope that you understand my cries they way I intemperate yours

It's incomplete and distanced
Like losing an old friend
Fondness and nostalgia burrowing in this empty space you've given me
Dissociation always takes hold here
The world a still life painting I'm not very fond of
I'd rather go back to your texts
Prolonging the words
Putting off that dreaded end
Until we meet again

Ink to paper:
a simple thing to most,
but I struggle with more than that most days
I sit in a constant battle of wills
both of which are my own
conflicting and demanding my attention
I do not feed it
still I watch it grow--
ever encompassing, abundant
I try to move, but I still sit
stuck to the fabric of my bed sheets
my flesh becoming one with the fibers until I am truly trapped
in this battle of wills,
I do my best not to become complacent as complacency always leads to depression
and while we have been much more than strong acquaintances,
neither friend nor enemy quite seem to fit

It's difficult to describe the emotions tandem with its presence--
upsetting to say the least--
but anger and fear come close

Still, I try to leave the tangle of my bed sheets,
fibers pulling at my skin,
ink willing my hand to write, my mind to steady, and my feet to move.

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 always thought that I
was the protagonist of my story,
why then, are you trying
to make it about yourself

If I could redo my life
I would change more than I probably would be able to
I would pursue the arts
As my heart has always felt at home on the stage
I would listen to everyone who told me I was worth more
I would take more time for myself
I would stop trying to please everyone
I would read more books
I would go on more night walks
I would keep in touch with more people
I would be kinder and softer and more understanding
But most of all
I wouldn’t be me

  --Experience and Regret make a person

I feel heavy in my chest--
an anxious weight of the knowledge that it's about to be bad again;
I can feel it getting bad again

and the trigger might have been you or it could have been this impending sense of  doom I cannot seem to shake--
but it's going to be bad again

I can almost grab it--
fingers desperately trying to pull a dumbell off my lungs
my arms are too weak
and the bell is too slick
and I can't seem to grasp it quite yet but it's there;
sitting,
heavy,
holding me down while the sword of damocles is hanging above my throat--
I can see it's getting bad again

but I cannot move,
and the sun is setting quick--
the darkness almost comforting as a distraction from the cool steel of the blade taunting me--
I cannot seem to watch as the sword begins to drop

it's getting bad again,
I can feel it--
see it in the ways the world's colors tinge a subtle sepia,
hear it in the ways my favorite songs don't sound as they should,
taste it in how foods are turning repulsive to my mouth--nauseous and burning,
smell it in the smoke I use to drown out the constant ringing of alarm bells,

trust me when I say:
I'm not prepared for the worst--and well,
it's getting bad again

I like this feeling
this depleted state of consciousness
a place I can relax and forget
that being human is painful and not very rewarding
I wake in with a clear mind in the morning
and go to work for money I wont see but my landlord will
I wake and I recieve nothing that is truly my own
so I let this feeling take over
this depleted state of well being
self nurture is sometimes self torture
I'm beginning to see that

I was waiting for the other foot to drop


It stomped.

The trepidation I've felt has begun to settle somewhere other than my chest
I've been known to be reluctant with change, especially with myself
this change is good but unfamiliar
I can't decipher the medium --that steady baseline people are supposed to have with their emotions
so they are keeping me for observation
like we do with a sick fish at work
my sick is in my mind
it's harder to diagnose--
unseen and masked--
hidden and shameful;
here, I've begun to forgive myself

I always knew you would change my life for good
How foolish I was to believe it would be for the better

You know those times
at three A.M.
when you walk into the bathroom
look in the mirror
and you don't recognize the face looking back at you?

agitating and pitiful
polarizing--
bittersweet
I see the people I once knew very well become strangers
enjoy each other's time with care and honesty
a transparency I never felt I could be with them
Instead, the time is tinted in soft memories with the ghost of a past self who was timid in her own clothes
I watch as you enjoy and flourish
wings spread
already airborne
while my wax has melted, dried into a too thick clump
heavy with no clear goal in sight

I'm happy that you're doing well
that you are still friends
that you are thriving in the world you have made for yourself
but I watch
and I wither
and I weep in the garden of my own creation:
hollow and musk

to you it may look like I am merely surviving
and that may be true in some way
but I've found truer friends than you ever were to me
who don't judge
and continue to choose me again every day

it still hurts my heart to see you interacting
laughing with big smiles and jokes on your tongues
remembering a time where I could have been with you through it all
that year I left and was forgotten about still burns like incense
I've never been good at being someone people want to continue to be with
I usually push others away intended or not
but I'll still like your posts on the internet
and I'll comment on the pictures of you standing there at the wedding I never even saw an invitation for
and it feels funny for me to think I thought
one day I'd be standing there beside you all

My best friend doesn't have a physical body
I feel her more than my own skin sometimes.
She tends to come and go as she pleases--
It's always unpredicatble and univited
but I always feel obligated to cater to her needs
like a good hostess should to their guest

It gets old so quickly
I don't even want to get up and cook breakfast for her anymore
so we starting eating out
until its too hard to even leave the house
so she tells me that we can stay in bed and have sleepovers like the good old times
I don't remember those times

She likes to play with my hair
she's not very good at it though
it always ends up in tangles and knots that take
hours and days to brush out once she leaves
because undoing her handiwork would make her sad

I try to tell her sometimes that her being here is too much
it starts to affect my job
my life
my health

I try to get her to leave
I've been here so long she says
just a little longer she says
what would you do without me she says
I'll just move in she says

She's my best friend but--
she wont pay rent
she has never been a friend to hygiene
she doesn't know how to do laundry
or cook
or clean
she'd rather lay around all day than hold down a job

I want her to go
I want her to go
Why won't she go

I dont claim to know a lot
Like I still dont understand what it means when people say to lift with your legs instead of your back
Believe me I've tried many times and it's always my back doing the lifting. My legs can take it too. My thunder thighs arent running from a challenge but somehow they can never manage to be the ones doing the lifting
So I'm a little lost on things like that
But one thing I am absolutely certain about is you.

--Headspace

Do you know how hard it was to turn
away from your kiss
How hard it was to not throw
my face into your shoulder like
I have so many times before
Instead my saltwater threatened
my lips trembling with choked back words
I smiled and told you that I didn't want to push--
but this space between us right now
this increasing distance
You are the shore my sea-lost body craves
I long to sandwich my bare toes in your sands
and sink into your dry land
Instead I am floating aimlessly, helplessly
in a raft makeshift, broken bottles, vine
drifting further and further away
and my hands are scooping up the water with prayer hands
begging,
pleading with aching muscles
to let me paddle my way back to you
but every time I seem to be pushed
further and further from my goal
I need answers
You said that it wouldn't take
you long to formulate your response
and now a week has lapsed
and I'm still here
in this purgatory
wondering what it is that I could have done
what it is that I can do
to bring you to your senses again

There are letters behind my name
not ones earned with prestige and degrees but ones that follow nonetheless
MDD, GAD, BPDII, ADHD, OCD, hEDS
defining traits of my mental
and while they label they don't add any value to my life
in fact they do the opposite
they hinder every moment
every thought
every action
every task it takes a village

---I hate asking for help

I didn’t call out of work today
I didn’t answer the voicemails from concerned coworkers asking if I was alright
I didn’t go into work late with a half-assed excuse of traffic or a mixed up schedule
Instead I went home and slept
Deleting any texts or history of calls as some illusion to myself that they never happened

I laid in my bed confused
This unfeeling-ness not new or unfamiliar just unwelcome and abrupt
Like housing an old friend I once knew too well
I’m unprepared for the visit though
Unsure of how to handle a guest without plans or food in the house to entertain with
It’s been a while since I’ve had to deal with her

     --I moved to the mountains and got stuck in a valley

I've always been a liar. Compulsively, reluctantly, neededly, jokingly, egotistically a liar. Yet, the one I've told the most lies to is myself. I believe sometimes if you say a lie enough that sometimes it becomes the truth. I believed that if I said I'm fine enough that eventually it would come to pass. But it doesn't work. I can fool every other person on this earth, but the one person who can see through my lies is the only one I wish could believe them.

I’ve had strings on my
wrists and ankles from
the moment I stepped
foot on this stage
    true they are not
metal chains but they
    hold me the same way
    
    --I belong somewhere unattainable

I have a bad habit of holding on to things I no longer need
I hold onto people the same way
believe in them---
try to build them up while they break themselves down
But I'm not a contractor
I don't have a permit for this operation
I can't keep avoiding the inevitable
I hate this part
This part always comes with a goodbye

I stitched for years
Pricking my fingertips until they bled
A slow steady bead of red rising to the surface
Reminding me I'm human time again
But still I stitched
Thread into thread
Feather into feather
These wings supposed to make me fly
Taking much longer than I estimated
How large they needed to be to support me
To carry me into a place where I could break apart the universe and understand it better
But when that time came to jump I couldn't
The fear of falling so much more terrifying than the prospect of rising
And I guess if Icarus can walk then so can I

When I find a word I do not know the
Meaning of
I run it over the ever-changing terrain of
my mouth
repeat it with its jagged motions and soft
slopes until it becomes meaningless and
familiar on its roller costar ride of my
tongue
The supervisor releases its safety bar at
my teeth and the word slowly makes his
way out of the vehicle with wobbling legs
over my lips
I hum in pleasure
A new word is a new mystery
A dessert waiting for its purpose of sweet
indulgence to be discovered beneath that
picture perfect guise
My mouth is a fork scooping it up into my
vocal chords making itself known to my
body in a burst of flavor I have never
known before.
And I am in awe of how the linguist like
chefs craft such masterpieces.
When I find a new word I grab a can of
spray paint and graffiti the closest brick
wall in my mind with its shape.
How incredible it is to bring such beauty
to a blank canvas
I learned cursive in the third grade
And I am thankful that these human
hands have the ability to scribe new
vocabulary in more form than one.
To see its beauty in a different font.

    --I failed out of college as an English Major

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

A few weeks ago
while in a state of mania
I wrote down a physical bucket list
and you know,
I never thought I would cross anything off
Always figured my increased motivation through increased serotonin was untouchable by my average
instead I found myself crossing two items off yesterday
I succeeded where my mania said my depression would fail
I wrote more ridiculous tasks
who knows what I'm capable of

i get in the car and its easy
seat-belt. foot. pedal. go.
see? easy
down the road, only two right turns and i'm there
everyday
not even five minutes away
it's easy to drive
easy because of muscle memory
easy enough as a piece of plastic in my wallet
but my drive
my drive is never easy
wake up
struggle out of the covers
cursing the sunlight filtering through my curtains
get up my brain yells
no my body fights back
begrudgingly I stand and get dressed for the day
this drive is always hard
the getting up part
the leaving part
and everything in between
when I'm home with no obligation other than my animals
I can afford to have the car turned off
I wish my drive was as easy as the one to work
simple with no thinking
nowhere to go but forward and two right turns

Playing this game of life with the cards I've been dealt feels like an impossible task--
but I can't draw new ones
I'm forced to play with what I've been given: broken pieces, a soggy misshapen board, weighted die
I'm playing with a losing hand
the game stacked against me

--- the house always wins

And it was an urge
An inkling of a whim
A hand between my shoulder blades lightly reassuring me
And that's all it was supposed to be
My impulsive behavior is not unusual
Many piercings and tattoos once an intrusive thought now permanently affixed on my body
You were the same
An impulse
A two year long impulse that brought me more happiness than I could have imagined and more pain than I care to admit


--Unlike my tattoos a small part of me regrets you

It has been said tears excel as makeshift
facials
How understandably then my skin is raw

    --I haven’t cried this much in years

I could breathe again in your arms
my ear directly over the mocking of your heart beat
it's fake
        it's fake
               it's fake
yet I stayed

--hindsight says I should have trusted my intinct

I am a ****** friend
a ****** person
I blow off plans I make with others
I blow off plans I make with myself
and I sit
and I dwell
and I sleep
and I miss out on people
and places
and life

I am a sitty friend
self admitted
knowledge is not enough to spark change
I want to change
I haven't changed
and I still don't have a therapist
and I still can't hold relationships
and I still want
and wait

I am a ****** friend
and person
but I'm a model employee
married to my job
chained to my bills
caged by my own mental health

I don't like letting people down
I always seem to let people down
I'm tired of letting people down
I'm tired of letting myself down
I'm tired

I am a ****** friend
and I know this
knowledge of a fact is not enough to spark change

I wish I had better coping skills
but who needs therapy when
you can just as easily cut your hair
and pierce your nose
I have seven tattoos and
ten piercings
I'm running out of room

I know there is a piece of my soul left somewhere in the discarded text messages on your phone
I know there is a trashed email from me in your inbox from years ago
and it's weird to think that the last time we spoke I was grieving something fierce
it's years later and I still grieve you

I still think about you often
worry over the ache you have instilled into me
catch myself going to say your name and letting the sounds of it get stuck in the back of my throat

I swallow

you were the person I thought I'd spend my life with
grow into the little old ladies who rock in their chairs on the porch
now I think back on those assumptions with a bitter taste in my mouth

I hear your name and panic
and I don't think it should be that way
I shouldn't fear every time something reminds me of you
but I think about the time we spent together with fondness and immense pain
you have given me nothing more than sour memories and trauma that walks beside me day after day

I hope you are doing well
I hope you are a better person than you were to me
I hope you never hurt someone as deeply as you hurt my heart
and I hope to never hear from you again

I don't think I could take it.

you used to tell me that you could never be certain if what I told you was the truth when I had never spoken anything to you without my soul open and exposed
My honesty was always laid out before you like an animal in a trap
wounded, hiding, scared, but utterly raw and open for the ****
In truth (if you can believe me) I am not the pathological liar everyone says I am

I had to take a CPR class last september.
and my instructor told us we learn this
to save lives because everyone has a reason
for living
going around the table he asked us why
we were alive
family
friends
people that anchor us to the world
all the answers you would expect
for someone who was asked why they were still
alive
but when he asked me I told him I didn't have reason
how was I supposed to say that mine is spite?