I get nervous when I feel happy.
Like I’m walking across a roof made of cracked glass.
I see what’s below me through the mildew stains and it seems safer than this.
Every step I take I hold my breath,
waiting for the sound of cracking glass, disappointed it’s still bearing my weight.
I’m so focused on listening, holding my breath,
I forget I’m no longer there.

But even if I am here,
I’m always there.
Whether I’m in it or above it,
I’m either there, or looking upon it.
The anticipation of falling is worse than the fall itself.

I was
different when you met me,
I had locked the other me away inside her cage
And I know you’d never met her but I’m sure you heard all of the noise she makes
Well, love, she’s out now
And I’m sorry, but she’s broken from her leash
I’ll try to tame her- but please realize
She’s still a part of me

There's no song that even comes close-
To matching the sea of loathing inside,
I'm running, seething, not verbose-
Wearing baggy clothes to hide,

The scars that I can't afford to make-
I'm breaking behind paper walls so high,
Counting cars like falling stars-
Faking it all, "I'm just fine," I lie,

I'd love to rip my throat out-
With the hands that dug my grave,
I shrug, and slip away, in doubt-
Why can't I just behave?

(read forward, then backward, line by line)

I ran.
Not knowing what else to do
There was so much blood on my hands
It was mine
The kitchen knife
Caught in my chest
Guilt
Consumed by
Fear
I was heightened by
Adrenaline
But running on
Wasn’t enough
While trying to stay calm,
Losing control
It was me that would end up
Dead. Because
He was
In front of me
The whole time
It was too late
Trapped
I found myself
Locked in chains
My fate was
Death.

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

I wanted to write,
But I don't think anyone will care,
And I think that's why-
I don't think I can share.

a world where people don't actually have hearts, the just have an ***** pumping blood and keeping them alive in which they have no feelings and walk around aimlessly without the despritiveness for another soul and in emptiness in their stomachs where butterflies should be