I used to think I felt things
but thinking about why I feel things
isn't the same as feeling them.

I used to think I knew
the ebbs and flows of my mental state
but turns out I was separating myself from my body.

This body is an island on it's own.
Disconnecting itself from my spinal column.
I have learned the art of detachment.
Going away whenever I don't want to feel a thing
and when I do, feel it all, it consumes me.

How can I live with this childlike sadness
sifting inside of me, just waiting for a
crack in my smile to seep through?
How can I live with this emptiness I carry
until I realize it was never emptiness at all-
instead it was just hidden away
in a deep pocket of my brain
waiting until the moments I discovered it.
Like a hidden treasure chest
I didn't realize I had been looking for
over the course of 29 years.

I am so close to 30 and so
far away from any semblance of adulthood
this body she is still 9 years old
begging for the attention she sought
but never got.
Screaming into pillows at night
wishing someone would really see her-
but they never even heard her muffled screams.

Between the low blows
and the secrets below-
they never knew I needed to be seen
they never knew what they didn't see.

a body full of secrets seeping at the seems
until I come undone over and over again.

emaciated by the thought of what has been done to this body
continuously checking my breath
the way it rises and falls
hypervigilant of my pulse
the way it races up and down my neck.

used to spend days inside my head
outside of this body I was trapped inside.
but now I am coming to terms
with coming home to this place
I have abandoned for so long.

feeling for the first time in my whole life
and so now I experience everything, fully.
trying to compartmentalize catastrophizing
and hypochondriasis
but they always find a way through.

these emotions are still just children
temper tantrums and attention seeking
I honor them as they speak a language
I never felt safe enough to explore.
Sensitivity ripples through me
just a blank stare on the bedroom floor
wondering how I am immobilized
by an unanswered text
by my upstairs neighbors
by a knock at the door.

she lives inside me
the little girl needing comfort and safety
and I will hold her hand every step of the way
watching as this repression
lifts
slowly.

I see the earth burning around me
in the most literal sense.
Bombs of foreign wars
we are complacent inside
heating the earth.

There is ice in Texas
there are children
and mothers
and doctors
and lawyers
and people
turned to rubble and ash,
we are complicit in their pain.

We have only two different
monopolies to choose from
and I am wondering
how to crawl out of my skin
or maybe move to Iceland.

How do you swallow this type of pain?
the kind where you are too far away?
The kind that twists your insides
and provokes a unique kind of helplessness.

I used to let my wrists run red
just to come back to my body
and now here I sit
wanting to save the world.
wanting to take away pain
I so easily caused myself.

how does helpless feel this heavy?
like the weight of the world is
resting on my psyche alone.

the united states of disarray
dysregulation and disempowerment.

this never really felt like home
but now more than ever
I am stuck settled in a reality
someone else put me in.

my nervous system is teetering
between defeat and reaction
between the joker and batman
between benzos and stimulants.
trying to course correct
a dejected conglomerate.

this can't all be for nothing,
so instead of giving up I keep fighting
for those who don't have the agency
for those who don't have autonomy.

rummaging through coping tactics
like they're a closet full of clothes,
writing is the closest thing to closure I'll ever know.

I used to know how to write about my body,
how to take this amalgamation of memory
and harness it into something beautiful
but somewhere along the lines I lost myself.

lately I have been hiccupping at the edge of a knife
nerves running rampant beneath my skin
nothing to say to this pain threating violence to this body.

I try to look grief in the eyes these days
but inside I am still that small fragile girl
wishing ripped hair follicles were the only thing
falling apart on this body.

But I have made a mess of not feeling
not writing, just running away from
the knife that begs to cut me open.

I have kept it so close to my chest
never wanting to see how this trauma
could exit so tragically
due to a single memory.

but here I sit, hand full of hair
blade to my forehead
wishing this childhood was
just a nightmare I could wake up from.

and the knife isn't real
but the memories still are
so still I sit
hands empty, chest aching
at all they have done to me.

take and take and take
this body that still after 29 years
doesn't feel like it belongs to me.

So I return
knife to paper
pen to paper
fingers to keys
wishing I could make something
beautiful
out of
my own
remembering.

You spend
most of your nights
missing her.

You steady your walk-
forcing yourself
towards a double bed
you no longer find comfort in.

The floor wraps it's
fibers around your feet
and you cling to the carpet.

It smells new like-
this isn't a house you've
spent most of your life
buried in.

Move away.

Remind yourself
what freedom feels like.
Be up early to admire
the dew again.

Let it seep
through your bones.

Soak inside of it
like moisture is your head's
only ticket to closure.

You think of her again.

Break the blades of grass
between your fingers
and convince yourself
you and precipitation
have something in common-

these tears they contribute
to your growth.  

Wake up.

Pay attention to
the fact you lived.
Don't be mad she didn't

what happens when your mothers tongue is tougher than a fist? I see more of myself in my father now than I ever did.

I don’t recall how distance came between us but in mirrors I tend to see it; in the reflection of a pint glass, the emptiness reminds me.

Stained glass vision from the intoxication. I always promised myself I would never turn into this. Pixelated morality, the lines are always blurry. I never see my smile clearly.

Funny how we always run into the things we are running away from. Where do I move forward from here?

I wrote it on my wrists one year
and then again in the powder of pain pills.

and once more inside bottles
of dark whiskey that made me forget.

Since then I have not been close to a knife
without it feeling too heavy.

Since then I have not been
able to stomach medicine.

Since then the alcohol doesn’t
go down the same.
Just makes my eyes ache
and my chest feel heavy
the intoxication isn’t fun anymore.
just a warm nostalgia
of why I started it in the first place

Even upon running away
I am reminded of it.
Even upon coping
I am reminded of it.

In the steady up and down of my breathing-
I hear yours in my ear.

In the weight of cloth upon my skin I feel them there.

So what am I to do?
When you still ruin me
from the inside.

What am I to do?
When my own father
is invalidating at every corner.

What am I to ******* do
When his Facebook comments
are thrown into my face
as he uses the word “molestation” as an insult
as something I should be ashamed of
as something that doesn’t happen but only to deface men.

What am I do to do?
When around every corner
I am reminded of what they’ve done to me?

I. Keep. *******. Walking.