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Abby Jan 2014
If I could go back there,
to that day in first grade when I yanked my project (on bridges, yellow cover decorated in crayon) too fast from Allison's hands and her fingers blistered on the staples,
I would be standing there,
next to Miss A as she lined up the class,
ready with a band aid and a hug and I would say, "Be more careful next time, alright?" and Allison and I would get yelled at for skipping in the hallway to art class,
the moment of shock dissipating from my mind like so many accidents of the year.

If I could go back there,
to that night in April of eighth grade where I learned what true poetry was,
I would be there at ten twenty-four,
and I would wake the dead to keep myself from typing those fateful lines if I had to,
and I would save myself from skewing the feather-light foundation of our group of five
that later was heaped with bricks at odd angles
which came tumbling down.

If I could go back there,
to the last Monday before 9th grade began (whether it was Monday morning or Monday night I forget),
I would give myself a Mountain Dew and say, "He's fine, but go for her,"
and then as I ran down the b
to the day in fifth grade when I realized no one was laughing with me,
the day that I realized I was an outcast, and that "being different" wasn't good,
I would be waiting with my pink-haired baby sitter as I stepped off the school bus,
a Lilly Quench book in hand and a mug of hot chocolate (even though it was March) in the other,
and I would pull from my pocket the same necklace I was wearing,
a wire-wrapped amethyst on a crumby silvery chain
that was the first of many,
and there would be acceptance in the house that night.

If I could go back there,
to the moment I learned about eating disorders in health class from an over weight gym teacher who couldn't care less about the students,
I would bump the kid next to me from his seat (let him whine, he's a ****) and sit down,
a plate of chocolate cake and a spoon to eat it with making a mess of the plastic desk,
and maybe I would realize that I was already skinny enough.

If I could go back there,
to those nights when I learned the true power of words,
to the moment I skewed the foundations of a solid friendship of five,
I'd shout and scream and wake the dead to stop myself typing those fateful lines,
heaping bricks upon bricks to collapse my only bonds,
and I would give myself a mug of Theraflu to knock me out,
and whisper in my ear as I nodded off, "Stop being so **** impulsive."

If I could go back there,
to the last Monday before 9th grade started (whether it was the Monday morning or Monday night I never recall),
to the night where I should have closed my laptop for good when Joanne signed off but instead I reopened it at 12:17,
I would give myself a bottle of water and tell myself, "He's fine, but go anyway"
because it meant the world to Allison that I do so,
and as I ran out of the house in the opposite direction of our suicidal friend to meet up with her,
I would head toward's his house and tell him we were coming so he could be awake and his dad asleep when we showed up at the door at 2:23.

If I could go back there,
to March 19, 2012,
when I learned about life from Death himself,
when I learned that some things are worth living for and that isolationism doesn't work but it will have to work for me,
I would stand there at the foot of my bed,
freezing cold because I refused to turn on the heat,
I would hold my hand and be supportive because now I know that no one else will be,
that no one can be there for everyone always,
and I would stay with me for the months to come and relive the hellish months to come because no one should have to hold the world up alone,
knowing that they can't even maintain a grip on themselves.

If I could go back there,
I would save myself.
Abby Jan 2014
"What kind of nightmares?"
The kind that creep in the darkest corners of my mind, the kind where everything is grey and specters  of dreams and fears and hated things come creeping from corners in circular rooms and almost attack me.
The kind where shadowy figures depict who I was and I stab them or shoot them or they burst into flame because I can't let them live.
The kind where I know that everything I care about is dead, or the kind where I realize that I care about nothing and nothing cannot die.
"Have you no good dreams?*
A good dream is one in which there is light all around, where my setting is definite and the demons  attack.
A good dream is one in which I watch as things I love (because in these dreams I can love' dreams don't have to make sense) are whisked away by witches and creatures, in which I see the villains coming for me.
A good dream is one in which I die quickly so it can be over.
I rarely have good dreams.
Abby Jan 2014
We used to say
"good night"
to each other.
We used to know that,
come morning,
one of us,
at least,
would be ready to face the day,
would be ready
to hold the other up
through our
tireless texting
of the other,
a fifteen minute drive
and a world
away.

We don't say
"good night"
anymore.
We know that,
come morning,
at least one of us
will be even more
exhausted,
even more miserable
than the moment
we ceased
communication.
One of us
at least
will plod through the day,
head slanted towards
the same page in
a book
for hours,
support and help
a head turn of
forty-five degrees
and a world
away.
Abby Jan 2014
Water rushing down
                         arms
                         torso
                         legs
and
                         face
tracing lines I wish erased
lines of
                       purple
                       red
and
                      tan
I wish this hell never began
light by incandescent bulbs
                      sunlight
                      lamp lights
                      moonlit glow
too late to stop and now you know
pain from
                      hunger
                      knives
an­d
                      words' impressions
soon we learn our masters' lessons
rebellion 'gainst a life of sorrow
leaves a fear of new
                     tomorrow.
Abby Dec 2013
My mind is a graveyard.
There is buried
a thousand and one dreams,
one hundred friendships,
countless fantasies,
hidden beneath layers
worn smooth by the years,
marked by fading tombstones reading,
simply,
"memory."

But in the night
comes a character,
cloaked in dark fabric
and protected by solitude,
to wake the dead from their slumber,
to reanimate even
the long deceased,
blood leaking
from reopened wounds.
With blade in hand
the figure marks each memory,
carves into flesh
(living and dead alike)
lines that read out the truth:
*"eternity"
Abby Dec 2013
This weather,
this unnatural heat
is ******* the life from me.
Here, in the dead of winter,
tomorrow is Christmas and for the first time
in a week
you can tell by looking outside,
feeling the air.

With the cold comes
a new hope for sanity;
I can't stand the heat;
it feels like the summer is repeating
itself,
and by god I never want to go back to summer.
The cold
matches my mood,
frozen solid,
with nothing moving in it but the sparkling light off lonesome ice,
and if you stay out in it long enough
you turn numb.
Abby Dec 2013
It's vacation,
time for fun and games and
running around and gingerbread
cookies and presents and candy
canes.

We spin around the room,
me feeling giant,
like a monster hanging her from my
arm, and she squeals in terror and
in glee.
We dance and the music
blares and she comes to a rest just
above me, suspended in mid air on
my feet before returning to the
ground.

When did I last get my
coffee?  How long did I
sleep for last night?  Six hours?
A record of late since I stopped
liking sleep.

"You're going to drop her on
her head," says a far away voice from
the top of the stairs, and
we ignore it, falling over
laughing before leaping back up to
try a new move.

My room reeks of nail
polish (my favorite paint) and
is full of wrapping paper.  "Done," I
send with a picture of the presents, wrapped
in their pretty bows and glittery
paper, the exciting facades for the less
than thrilling contents.

iTunes picks the next song, a
Chumbawumba that matches my mood
exactly, and I feel bad because I
spin a little too fast and her
head whips around and narrowly
misses the railing of the couch.
But she grins and says to
do a different trick so
I do and it's fun.

This book is interesting but
not enough to be
entertaining.  Do I have
a headache or a caffeine
buzz or am I just too tired to
continue?  I slept two nights in a row
how is this happening?"*

"Can we dance again?"
"Sure, go find some Christmas
music."
And then we danced, her
eight year old frame spinning and
flipping and leaping and
running around the tiny room that
is our basement.
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