You are a blur to me
I cannot remember how many times we have kissed or how often you say my name but I remember the feel of those lips and the way you sound when they are speaking words only for me. I dont know how long I have spent in your arms but I know that hours are not long enough and I know that when you laugh at something I say my heart skips at least three beats. I know that your every movement is vivid and fluorescent to me. I dont know how many times you breathe in a minute but I know that your heart sounds like steady drum and it quickens when I tell you I love you.  And I do mon amour, I do.

I don't pray anymore
The angels stopped listening
A long, long time ago.

I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.

Is that the lowest moment?
When you don't dare to wear shorts because of the scars that cover your legs.
And then you're sitting there at the dinner table with your family,
And they keep on telling you to eat,
But all you mutter is "I'm not hungry",
When you actually are.
You're starving but your image is worth more than a meal.
You eat a few bites just to shut them up,
And then run to the bathroom to rid yourself of it,
To make sure you can fit into those jeans,
The ones that could stand you losing another 5 pounds.
You get used to the lies of:
"I'm not hungry"
"I ate before I came"
And "oh yeah I'm fine, just tired".
Is that your lowest point,
When the only food you're feeding yourself is lies?

If I hold this mug of tea tight enough, it mimics your touch and the feel of your warm skin against mine. When I press it to my lips and drink it deep I can remember me breathing in the kisses and lies you poured down my throat and I'll not sip gently I will gulp it all down in the hopes that it could somehow keep you in my mouth. But I hold onto this mug that is warm like you, and I hold on for too long and find it burns my skin and my throat and tongue. It blisters my fingers and boils my lips when I try to touch it, when I try to love it. Just like you did.

There is a quiet thunder to the way she walks, and a heavy rainfall when she leaves. She treads water trying to reach islands that will house her but cannot reach the shore before her hurricane mind carries her away to new homes, homes she finds in people, and often the wrong people. But she is strong and stands like the tallest oak, letting gale force winds bend her branches so that she may feel what is to live, but never has she broken. Her voice is the sound of birds in the spring with all the melodies and lullabies of the early morning, she has a light in her that is both the sun and the fireflies and it will illuminate your heart should you ever let her in. Sometimes she is wilted but even beautiful roses have thorns and she draws blood if you try to pick her petals. She is the earth and the wind and the sky and though her roots are strong she is not always smiling, but just like a flower she grows from the ground up and all will gather to awe at her beauty when she sees it within herself.