I spoke, as the words left my lips I choked.
I was drowning in my own tears
trying to keep myself afloat by telling myself to swim
but it somehow wasn't enough.

Engulfed in the flames
I had lit myself on fire just to keep this passion burning
but the flicker in the night and the sparkle in my eye
has burned out once again-
so I realize loneliness is my only friend.

I spoke, choking on the words my lips built for me
that my mind didn't have the strength to formulate
all I kept saying was no, and I couldn't breathe anymore.
My palms became like a statue-
a monument of the tragedy I had faced.
Built of stone like my current demeanor.
I spoke for the first time since you took away my voice.
Messages on Facebook encrypting sinister undertone
crawled their way into my skin and latched onto my cerebrum
and all I saw was gray, there was no black and white anymore-
the cortex turned into a vortex and my mind spun facts into theories
truth into fiction and I began to wonder if anyone would listen.

But my mother held a stone face-
though my hands were stone cold and my face sheet white
she held me like I was the only piece of artwork that ever mattered.
So I spoke, let the tears drip from my face
like I was washing away my mistakes
and everything I never had the guts to say.
The words slipped from my lips like black ice on a winter day-
the kind you stay home from school for
it was the kind of cold you never left your house for.

As I told my mother how the man who stole my voice
stole my innocence as well, she wept.
The days all started to blend together again
and once the secret I had been hiding was finally free
I wasn't sure I was worth keeping anymore.
My mother's face turned cold-
and it hasn't felt the heat since..

Soon enough we both clung to the fire in our hearts-
too passionate to let it burn out or fade away.
Though I've still been swimming in the deep end
I don't feel as if I'm drowning much anymore.
These days have become watercolors
and these nights alone have become acrylics
so I guess, I am a masterpiece
even if inside there's some tragedy.

Some days, I'm a hopeless romantic-
wishing someone would look at me with stars in their eyes
write me the universe in verses
and braid stardust flowers through my hair.
Other days, I'm a realist-
knowing such things only happen in my mind and in movies
and nice words are all I'll ever be accustomed to.
I guess the butterflies in my stomach have died
because I don't really feel them anymore-
I guess the light they kept running into
burned out..

I looked at myself in the mirror today
long and hard, I stared at my reflection in the glass-
and I realized if just enough sun hit where my eyes met
then I wouldn't see myself at all-
but I realized that wouldn't be any different
because the person staring back at me,
wasn't me at all.
I started to question when I forget myself,
lost who I was even though I was trying my hardest to look-
I guess I was never really good at hide and seek.  
Then one day I stopped in my tracks
and watched you pick apart
who I was in your eyes-
I had realized where I lost myself.
You told me I was bringing you down
held onto your leg like an anchor
I was your reason for drowning.
But I'd like to think I just kept you grounded.
See the smiles on my face keep getting replaced
by the opinions you paint across my eyes
and I realize this makeup isn't actually water proof
so you take this tragedy
and turn it into your own
destructive masterpiece upon my cheeks.
It was then I realized-
you were the one tying the anchor to your own ankle
and I was the one trying to help keep you afloat
but in all my efforts to keep you from drowning
it only brought us both closer to the bottom.
You look down on me because I am sinking,
I took the weight from your own ankle
and sunk to the bottom like I always had-
you reached out your hand to find me and got lost in the tide.
The whites of your eyes turn red,
and you blame me for your exhaustion
but you were the one who set sail
on this sea of expectations
and watched as I dangled upon a string I was born with
only to watch me fall from the grips of it
only to be torn between who I am and the nature of the sea.
I am no longer happy,
nor are you.
But time and time again, regret painted on your face
you tend to blame me for the weight-
when it was your idea to come out to sea in the first place.

I try to ask you how your day is going
but the bravery slips from my lips
and I am worried those are not the right words-
all I can muster up the courage to say is whats up?
I tip-toe around your emotions like this is minesweeper
waiting for any move I make to make you explode-
but it seems the only thing I'm sweeping is my mind
in an attempt to rack yours.
Am I yours anymore?
Because these days all seem to blend together
and I try to avoid the explosions
but they seem to come anyways
always hiding behind passive aggressions
and misread text messages
because you don't like texting
so I tend to keep quiet.
Try to stay silent as long as I possibly can
but with every good thing that happens I want to turn to you
and every bad thing, I want to run to you.
Is that a crime?
Am I a nuisance for sprinting to you with my issues
and am I naive for thinking
that you would welcome them with open arms.
I feel like this is high school again-
because I think that was the last time
I was actually scared to talk to someone..
See my heart beats out of my chest for you
but it seems everyday I am struggling
more and more to keep it beating less
because I am an anxiety ridden mess already
and not telling you about it makes it worse-
trying to make you understand makes it worse-
you not believing I can't control it makes it so much worse
and these things I wish I didn't go through
I ******* do
so why should I have to keep them from you?
BOOM.
Another bomb dropped at my feet
and all I can make out is the ringing in my ears
I'm so ******* tired of not being me..
I just warily wait in the corner for another explosion these days
and you keep telling me to talk to you
but the words come out muffled and I am flustered.
I'm not sure how to explain to you
if I can't over-explain it or make it a big deal
because these things, to me, are a big deal
I'M A ******* BIG DEAL!
I am the bomb ready to explode,
I am the snake in the grass nipping at your ankles-
I am the ******* 4am phone call crying for help.
And I am worth every single ******* star
in the entire universe because I shine just as bright
and provide you with a way out of your own darkness-
so ******* treat me as such.

Remember who you were before they broke you.
As you are picking shards of them out of your skin
not able to see your reflection clearly in the broken glass-
remember yourself.
You are not the pieces they left you with
broken and bleeding for each piece of your broken heart-
You are strong
you will not give them the last pieces you have left
because you are holding out for someone special.
The edges of your fingers are cut from the shards
and you spend your days picking up pieces of yourself
from the bed where they used to lay beside you
and you somehow can't get their smell out of your bedsheets.
Every time you fall asleep the empty space cries for you to fill it
but time and time again you drown it out with tears.
You've spent your days crying oceans for someone
who wouldn't shed a raindrop for you
and the puddle you've made at the edge of your feet
is no longer shallow-
it's still more like a kiddy pool and it's deeper than it once was
and you tell yourself to wake up, stop crying and get a ******* mop!
You keep trying to tell yourself the ends of your fingers
no longer need bandaids
your nose no longer needs shirt sleeves
and those eyes of yours are finally starting to see clearly now
but you see one more shard laying in the puddle you just mopped up
you look and wonder how the ******* got here
how the wreckage in your bones feels more like home
than you ever did with someone else
and you ******* rebuild.
That shard of glass is now your lighthouse
you look down at it and laugh as you pick it up
bandage free fingers you cling to that brokenness
and you look into that glass and finally see yourself for the first time.
You were always a soldier, picking out the broken parts of yourself-
putting them into something else, someone else until you felt whole
but you didn't realize
you were drafted into a war you didn't sign up for-
until it was actually over and you were left with the affects.
But now you have more strength than you did before
and these bones are no longer wreckage, no longer weak.
They are built from muscle memory by tragedy and heartbreak.
So pump the brakes.
Don't be afraid to slow down once in a while
and know that not everything will turn into a wreck-
your world may turn upside down for a while
but that never means you can't learn to enjoy living that way.
So rebuild.

There was a time where I was sick a lot
clinging to the pains in my stomach
only there because my heart made it so.
My mind was my own demise
and the sunken chest I hid inside
caged all the resentment
I spend years trying to hide.
And each and every time a surgery came
I hoped that maybe I would go under
and see my future more clearly
or go under and never come up for air again.
But I always woke up-
I didn't dream anything
it was the most sound sleep I've ever gotten.
Each time was better than the last
and even though when I awoke
the sickness plagued my body
until I could not breathe between the aches
I was alive each and every time.
See, hard drugs never did anything for me
neither did prescription medication
but really what's the difference between the two?
The only thing that made me feel stronger
was the alcohol bleeding through my veins
as if every single secret escaped my body
just in one night.
Until I learned the sickness that came after
was worse than the hospital stays
and the pills that were supposed to take the pain away.
The aftermath was deadly-
I felt it all in my mentality and found a safe haven
in the misplaced anguish
until it turned against me.
I had to live again.
Pushing through with every ounce of strength
that I could possibly muster
because dying sounded a lot worse
than living with this beating heart
reminding me the vices I cling to
are only temporary and so is this pain .
The ache in my stomach passed,
just like after the surgeries
but this time I didn't get to go home
I was already there.
There is no place to run away from this-
no way out of the dark tunnel you find yourself in
after the anesthesia diminishes your clarity.
It will always be there and it will pass
and your body will soon feel like yours again.
These arms that carry you to the backseat of the car
will still be there to carry you home-
Just wait.

When  was young, my first word was "Momma"
because I was always reaching out for someone who was never there.
Always a little bit too infatuated with her occupation
and her husband was always too in love with the bottle
maybe that's why my second word was "doggie" instead of "daddy"
because a dog brought me more emotional security-
spent too much time trying to drink away the long work hours
and not enough time trying not to break our spirits
like the empty miller lite bottles thrown at walls and faces-
When I was seven, I first discovered ***.
A man placed his hands where he shouldn't have
and then a year later a girl did the same thing
so by nine I was feeling the urge to fornicate with everything
because I thought that intimacy was normalcy
and I could give myself to anyone who would take me.
But I was nine, so no one would take me-
and I was terrified of any arms that tried to hold me,
and I thank someone, whoever is out there, for that everyday.
By thirteen the crosses I bared began crawling their way
out of my spine and into my lungs making it hard to speak
and then into the back of my mind so I couldn't think
no more denial, or lost memory, I saw it all so ******* clearly-
The hands that turned me futile tried to end my life once
but they used me as a host
tried to **** whatever was making me sad
a bottle of vicodin down the hatch to drown the memories
that I could never ******* get away from-
Darkness.
When I was fourteen my savior became poisoned by circumstance
the edge of the hands I used to grip when I was young
turned cold and the face I had grown to admire looked sickly.
These crosses I bared didn't win, but they didn't lose.
They continued demanding refuge
and the memories kept demanding to be heard
and the denial of my grandma having cancer grew stronger-
then he moved in.
And I'm not talking about grief, although the names sound similar.
I was weak.
Prone to the demons I had been hiding-
had to face the man that took away my sanity, my sexuality
every single ******* day.
So these razor blades became a paintbrush and my body the canvas
and every time I took it to my skin I would call it a masterpiece.
At some point, around the time my mom starting listening
she heard me crying out to the demons I spent my days fighting-
Around that same time my grandmother died.
So my weakness became strength and her strength withered
and she tried to drown her pain in a bottle of morphine.
9:25 am. "ring" "ring" "ring"
hello? mom? where are you? A mental hospital?
The words "I could've tried harder" keep repeating in my mind
and kept taunting and nagging at my skin
telling me to paint one more ******* time
to make something so beautiful out of all of this ******* mess-
So I picked up a pen again. Started writing.
I was about 17 when things started getting better,
met a boy who smiled at me like I was ******* God
and found hope in the curve of his spine and the whites of his eyes.
But I wasn't looking for an escape again
and I knew that's just what he would be.
Falling victim to the hands that have seen better days
and the eyes that only needed someone to say,
"I am here for you." something I didn't want to lose.
Now I'm almost 20 and these recollections feel just like stories-
the control they once had over my mind has diminished
somewhere between the bottle masking my pain
and the friends who listened when I spoke
I ended up seeing the sunshine for the very first time
and ******* it was beautiful.