I'm tired of
Always being the one to respond
Within thirty seconds of
Receiving your message.

I'm tired of
Always being the one
Cut off from our nightly texts
With a swift
"I'm sleepy love, I'm going to sleep now."
We say our "good night"s and
"I love you"s
And hours later,
I'm still awake.

I'm tired of being the one
To always say "goodmorning" first
In hopes I can brighten your day.
And I'm tired of being the one
Who lies in bed even hours after
You tell me you'll be busy for a while.

Im tired of being the one
Who's always available,
Here for your beck and call--

But it's my fault,
Isn't it?
That I get so attached to people.
That I need constant companionship.
That I always want to talk.
Always want to see you.
Always need you here

But you're staring to realize
I'm too attached
Too obsessed
Too sick

I'm tired of being the one
Who makes people feel
Like they're my babysitter--
Making sure I take showers
Making sure I eat
And drink enough water
Making sure I'm not going to
Sporadically **** myself.

I'm tired.
And I'm done.

I'm still trying to figure out
What feels better--
Scribbling furiously into my journal,
Etching the pages with anger,
Or crazily pounding words out
With my keyboard.

Within my home,
I feel scars raised above
the rest of my flesh.
I feel my lungs
Breath the air
I’ve been missing
For so many months.

Within my home,
ricocheting around,
I hear my racing thoughts-
I hear my vocal cords
Finally being able to
say what I think
and say what I want.

Within my home,
I can ******* tongue
And what it has to offer
this sick and twisted world.
I taste the saltiness
of tears that my eyes
were made to hold.

Within my home,
I can smell the smoke
of my past up in flames.
I can smell ink on my skin
From drawing hearts
And leaving my body
A bruised pen tinge.

Within my home,
I can see the walls
I build around my heart.
I can see the day
When maybe I’ll believe
Someone like me
Can be okay.

Writing is oxygen-
It allows me to breathe,
Infiltrating my lungs
With life.

My body expresses itself
Through oxygen-
Walking, eating,
Sleeping.
My soul expresses itself
Through writing-
Words, phrases,
Sentences.

It is my oxygen.

I take in breaths
Easily and naturally,
My heart working with
My brain
To pump blood and air
To my body.
Just like how my brain works
With my fingers
To create prose and
Poems.

Oxygen flows through my veins
Like ink flows through my fingers
Out onto a page.

Oxygen is how I feel
Oxygen is how I live-
Writing is how I feel
Writing is how I live.

Writing is oxygen.

It's getting bad again-
All my writing is
depressing
All my nights are
induced with insomnia
All my days
are anxiety ridden-
Not being able to
get out a coherent thought
Not being able to
let myself breathe
Feeling guilty about
every breath I take
Maybe someone else
deserves
this air
Maybe someone else
should be taking in this oxygen because even the thing
we call God knows
They wouldn't want any other part
of me.
My wrists
have too many scars
My brain
has too many bruises
I can't even think straight
and I don't know what
I'm saying
or writing
or even doing-
I don't know how to breathe.

It's getting good again-
My therapist says I'm stable
enough to stop taking one of three medications I'm on
because of you.
You were toxic,
Filling my mind with all your lies.
Talking me the way you treated me
Was okay,
That it was alright
For a teacher,
A thirty year old man
To be talking to a fifteen year old girl
The way you were.

But now it's over-
You're gone.
Terminated from your job
As well as my life.
My self inflicted wounds are turning that pink sunset color,
Implying that better days lay ahead,
the scars getting ready to be just another tattoo of you.
I can sleep again,
sometimes for a whole day
I have dreams of blackness
as my body catches up on what it has lost
I can talk again-
my mind isn't shutting down around the people I love
who just want to console me.
I can breathe again,
Air filling my lungs without a care in the world.
The guilt is gone.

But it's getting bad again.

Did you hear the that goes
“Everytime I try to make a **** joke,
It just comes out a little too…
Forced.”

Did you hear the one about
The girl who had to pull her
Best friend
Drunk, crying, and vomiting,
From her best friend’s car?

They’re both pretty funny,
Aren’t they?

It’s hilarious that
A 15 year old girl
Sits in a clinic,
Waiting to see
If she is pregnant
Or if maybe she has
An STD.
She feels ***** and
Ashamed,
Feeling like it’s her fault
Because that’s what
Society tells her-
It’s her fault because
Of what she was wearing.

It’s even more funny that
She sits there alone,
Because she’s too
Ashamed to ask for help.

It’s hilarious that a
Little boy,
With tears streaming down his face,
Thinks that what she did to him
Wasn’t ****,
Because society tells him
That real men can’t be *****,
He should’ve liked it,
That he’s lucky because
She was good looking.

It’s hilarious that when you make **** jokes,
You’re almost as bad as the ******.

You’re normalizing his actions,
Making him feel proud,
And that what he did
Is just a process of life,
That what he did is normal.

So instead of asking me why I don’t find **** jokes funny,
Let me ask you
Why you do.

The reality is
He won't seal your cuts
With all his sweet kisses,
He can't excavate
All the demons from your mind.

The reality is,
HIs hugs won't put
All your broken parts back together.
His texts won't make
Your entire day brighter.

Maybe his kisses
His hugs,
His texts
And his words
Can be a temporary fix.

But the reality is,
If he really loves you,
He'll make you fix yourself.