Being stupidly tired but being scared stupid to fall asleep.
Its so much more than falling.
Its tripping on the drugs that my sobriety has taken away from me.
Watching too many scary movies that give me the edge I think I need.

When I know the edge of the bed is more than enough for me.
My mattress is lost at sea and I'm the dammed captain.

Just let me ******* sleep.

When I went mental my mom called for reinforcement, her brother.
I called uncle but it didn't stop him.

I understand he wanted to help,
I understand he felt connected because both of our father's abandoned ship.

Just because you have four golden children doesn't mean you get to pick me to be your black sheep.
I won't let you fix me.
I'm not on board to sail the 7 seas with you and your perfect family.
You see, I am a ship wreck.

I'm good at not asking for help,

And my mattress is starting to sink.

I polish mirrors

My story is the collision of what I say
with what you hear or
something careless
That I’m here for

just a sentence
Poorly wrapped
A bow untied
    Unzipped
          Unstacked

All fallen rose petals
Under-watered
wilted pages
Roots of wounded
Periphrasis

Antlers shed
Their velvet read
With some words flown
from lips and bone
much is left      unsaid

Forensics show my story
     s-stumbled
Witnesses heard three shots fired
My story channels
Along sidewalk seams
It seems my time expired

That I was right handed
makes my writing
average
marginalized
a ricochet of plans gone awry
Life stays two paces
ahead of mine

Still this story missed it’s stop
Back to the pages of *your story again
when do I drop my polishing cloth
where does this sentence end?

When I was younger, I longed to be beautiful. To have shiny hair, soft skin, collarbones poking through my flesh.
Now that I'm older, I want to burn hearts with intelligence and warm souls with compassion. I want to boil blood with wit and spark imaginations with creativity. I want to soak up the rays of sunny praise for my artwork and poetry rather than my eyes and lips.
I am not programmed with a self destruct button, but calling me beautiful for the wrong reasons is the second best thing.

I made a god out of the way your hand fit to the small of my back.
My prayers were watching the sunlight dance on your bare skin as you slept.
My hymns were your short, heavy breaths and the way you sighed my name.
I tried in vain to be your church but your chest burned at the sound of every hallelujah.
I was a fool to think you would answer desperate prayers made on knees bent in dirt.

Aren't you tired of painting yourself black and blue
Every time words fall short of the fire burning behind your eyes?

Dissect me;
Rip me apart and examine my pieces.
Leave open the holes you cut,
Look at the gaps and claim you can only love me as a whole.
And if you ever miss me,
Look closely at the cracks in your lips,
The bottoms of your shoes,
Between your forefinger and thumb;
You'll find me right where you left me.

I feel nothing but a heartbeat in my head
When your hands are doors closing around my throat,
Trying to force your name from these lips.
Instead I bite my tongue and pretend to enjoy
The taste of the blood filling my mouth.
I much prefer the taste of it
To the lie you so desperately want me to feed you.
I'll keep my liquor lips from you,
I won't allow you to get drunk off of my kisses.
I won't allow the blood flowing through my teeth
To pass from my mouth to yours.
True love is biting your tongue
And pretending you don't mind the taste of blood.

She leaves a lump of emotion in your throat,
A string of topaz around your neck,
And a sense of wonder in her wake.
She is a collection of faults,
Sweet imperfections,
A series of dents in a smooth surface.
She smokes her cigarettes as an apology
For breathing
And loves the feeling of holding hands,
But with a wine bottle.
Her blood has been replaced with whiskey
And bad decisions
And she'll touch you like poetry,
Sweetly, making you feel like
You're not alone.
She is drenched in honey and holy water
And you want to lick it off her,
Craving the taste with every fiber of your being.
She is violently beautiful,
That honey drenched dreamer.

You have skin made out of steel
But that's a good thing, I guess,
Considering how the pressure of your hand feels on my thigh
And how it holds the weight of the entire sea.

I'm almost near the end,
been serving my time,
diligently,
religiously
on this cell block
for nearly four years.
Writing by candlelight
& with the sun,
been some good days,
happy,
sad,
even some bad ones.
Soon,
I'll be released.
I can feel it,
the morning rain.