My agressor had my face
Ran my fingers
On my cheeks
But I was weak
My swollen eyes
Absorbed how
And I fled
I began running
I never stopped
I haven't stopped
I don't blame the world
And it doesn't blame me
I don't run from it
I run from what I've seen
Of myself
The one in the mirror
I guess I like running
The burning feeling
You get in your sides
Makes me feel alive
Even though I'm a lie
The one in the mirror
Knows & watches
And I know it's true
That I am in fact,
A lie
But the one,
In the mirror
Is the one that
Faces it

We climbed under bed sheets in our day clothes
and I remembered how soaked my moccasins were
thinking of the salt stains that would soon be there
and how pretty you looked when your eyes were closed

My eyes fought exhaustion with drooping lids
and I drank black coffee like I needed it to live
we washed away our secrets from the day in muddled whispers
and soon decided to go for a cigarette

Climbing out of bed like skeletons from coffins
Dressing for the weather in hats and jackets with boots
We ran across the street and almost slipped on the ice
six times

In the back yard of an old abandoned house
We stood facing the the water
I could swear you were changing
beneath the street lights and heavy breathing

It’s time for me to let go of this
but I don’t know if I’m strong enough
I’m worried that this won’t be good for you
I just can’t keep doing this to myself

I don't know where I'm going,
And sometimes I'm oblivious to what happens around me.

I don't know where I belong,
And as much as I try not to care,
Somehow it constantly bothers me.

I don't always know what to say,
And I convince myself that it's alright when I know that I ******* up.

Another birthday,
Another shooting star,
Another penny in the fountain,
Coin in the well.

All I can do is wish that it'll all be okay someday.

Well she's the lost little girl
With the deep blue eyes
With a current of sorrow
And an ocean of lies
Where she goes
No one knows
But me..

So in the end
when the lights are burned out
I like this
I find my comfort in disaster
For anything more than heart wrenching chaos,
would scare me anyway

If writing was a drug
I'd have a frequent-flyer card
at the rehab clinic.

The nurses would all know my street address
my middle name
and the way I take my tea.

I would have scribbles on the inside of my elbows
ink stains in my lungs,
and little letters hanging from my nose hairs

I would bribe the nurses
to sneak me pens and paper in the middle of the night,
My thoughts would be sewn in ink across my body,
and I'd have pre-ordered my tombstone to read:
"Here lies an addict"

But thank god writing isn't a drug.
Because if it was
I'd have died a long time ago.