I tried to write about you
but couldn't convince myself to
because repression has always been the forefront of my emotions
and I would rather not admit to myself that I love you again-
but I do.
I feel as if it is the only thing I've ever known
but when I start to convince myself it's true
I end up mimicking my irrational, inane tendencies
ten times over until the blood dripping from my bottom lip
paints your outline on my thigh.
I'm beginning to wonder why
this writers block
is causing me to only write about you
to watch as my lips venture inward
and taste the inside of my mouth
only to find you there
only to trace my tongue on the outline of you.
I cannot feel you in the same way
or see you in the same light anymore
it must have burned out
it must have made way for this darkness
inside of me that keeps wishing upon
any living star that you will still be here at the end of the day
but stars aren't living, they're dead.
They're just a faint glow in an ever burning atmosphere
like the sun has to hand out an apology letter
to us when it has to set again and again
so it leaves us stars and awe struck.
Reminding us of the destruction we can cause ourselves.
I never make much sense anymore.
Waking at 3am of dreams
that hold no relation to my state of sanity
that crush inside of my body and leave me empty.
I'm tired of this fuckery
of my hands gripping my head
to stop my mind from spinning out of control.
Why does bipolar have to mean no self control
why does it have to mean tracing my own legs
to remind myself I am still alive
why the **** does it have to mean thinking about death.
I am never in control of myself
so how can I ever be in control of the way I love you.
It will always be messy-
it will always be missed phone calls
and repeated text messages.
It will always be always wanting to be with you
because I can never actually convince myself
you need me as much as I need you.
But all I need is me and sometimes
I close people out so they know it
so they realize this mind is always on the brink of destruction
and then it is followed by a redemption so beautiful
that the sky opens up and I can finally see again.
I want to ******* see again
but outside it's night
the stars are dead
and I am reminded why.
again and again
night after night
I am reminded why love is never simple
why nothing ever really is.
We are a product of our environment
mine in laced in red and has fallen from grace.
Encase a scarlet letter upon my blouse
I'm not trying to apologize anymore.

The pain has control again-
like usual, there is no known cause for this chaos
no reason you can find in between my fingers
why the regurgitation inside of my throat
escapes like it's a secret barely kept.
The way I am currently is no secret-
though the reasoning behind it is one.
I am a smoking gun
and the only thing I ever aim at
is myself.
Some days I miss-
and the gun does not smoke
everything around me is clear
so I can see myself so much better.
But on most days the smoke
encases my lungs and steals
away every inch of oxygen
from the air around me
and I feel like I cannot breathe
my lungs inflate but I cannot breathe.
I am running around chasing air
that I am not sure even exists anymore
but I know it does,
I can see it all around me
as the breathing of others make me tick
as the rising and falling of chests
makes me feel so ******* nostalgic.
I run as fast as I can in their direction-
but we don't share the same air anymore.
See I am light years away just longing for their lungs.
The trigger finger has stopped pulling
and the smoke seems to fade.
But somehow I still can't breath.
Everything is fine-
but somehow I still can't breath
why the **** can't I breath anymore?
Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.
Why are things not changing for me
why are my lungs still crushed under the weight
of all this pressure on top of my shoulders.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.
Why am I crying over nothing again
why does life have it's hands around my throat
why can't I swallow these pills meant to fix me
and when I do why don't they work for me.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.
Why is this gun I hold still shooting if the barrel is empty-
why has this smoking gun left me empty
why are my lungs just decoration for a chest that is now empty.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.
Why am I sitting here crying over a vacant phone screen
and convincing myself of things that aren't even happening.
My shadow has ran away-
it is not capable of keeping up with me
it has found that we no longer share the same outline anymore
for I am just a skeleton, hollowed out and shedding skin
and it is a shape I used to find comfort in-
one I used to know well before my breathing stopped.
Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.
The words I no longer need-
who needs breathing with a chest full of nothing.

We never know the whole story-
We only see the outside
of this life we spread our minds upon
Take our hands and grasp them around anything we can reach out to.
But they always seem to slip through our fingers anyway.
Words have the power to ****
They have the power to resurrect
and save you and also leave you helpless
but the ones that puncture the worst
are your own.
Repetition inside your mind
Leads you to draw outside the lines on the skin you find yourself shadowed beneath.
Don't drown.
Come up for air sometimes.
Shed your skin and throw away the drawing pad
You don't need it anymore.
You are already a masterpiece.

I tried to write about you
but my hands became tense.
I look around to all the people who surround me currently
stuck inside their worlds and speaking of things
I will never be able to understand.
They map out their talents on computers
and blank sheets of paper.
They form monuments of talent
through just their fingers
and I would like to think I'm the same way.
I would like to think these fingers
hold a talent unique to only I.
But my fingers are frozen on the words
Cancer-
spelled out inside your skin
corrupting all the progress you had made thus far.
You beat it-
used your willpower
and by god's will you lived through it.
Many people do, many people can.
Until it happened again.
Then my bones shook
made a mockery of my belief in anything-
after years it finally ate you away inside
and your lust for life became a chore.
I tried to stay away-
to avoid the fact it was happening
avoid the fact the world was taking away what was mine.
You were mine-
now we have been left here alone again.
It's been years now since you left
but the imprint in my heart
is still the same shape as when you were taken
and I'm not sure it can be filled anymore.
That part of me is unique
and I'm beginning to think it's the only one.

I feel so broken-
not in the I'm-falling-apart type of way
but more so like I-can't-functionally-normally.
Some people try to fix me
whether it's tightening a ***** that's lose in my head
or making me stand up straighter
and breathe a little deeper,
I always end up in the corner alone
because no one wants something that's broken.
Something that probably could be fixed
if someone tried hard enough
but no one is willing to try hard enough.
I can't fix myself,
because every time I ask
someone to reach out a hand to help me
or maybe just support me so I don't fall apart
they look at my brokenness and realize-
they just don't have the time anymore.
I'm starting to think I am beyond repair
because all I seem to do is fall apart nowadays.
Everyone around me is watching
but they just pretend they don't see.
No one wants to be the blame for my downfall
and I guess they aren't.
I guess it was just the way I was originally constructed
that made me turn out this way
so unable to receive help
so incapable of fixing.
It was just a matter of time before I broke down
and I finally did.
Alone with only these four walls to comfort me
and a shadow that reminds me I'm still here-
still looking as broken as I was when it first started.
There's only a few who come around and repair
what is left of me-
and then all the others just seem to have left me.
They only want me when I appear fixed,
when I am at their beck and call
and they can get good use out of me.
I guess I'll never be kept around
because I'll never actually be fully functional.
Look at all my pieces lying before you-
build me like Ikea furniture
prop me up, wear me down
then throw me away like the rest of them.
I'll be fine here on my own.
My shadow likes to keep me company.

The poison touched my lips again
the morning after I awoke feeling more like myself
than I have in ages
and I started to realize-
this is the only version of myself I have known.
Instability etched into my genetic code
I was destined for the toxicity lining my bloodstream.
Once, I felt on top of the world-
standing amongst the people who thrived
and longed for the same passions I had.
Then I watched myself fall
third person point of view
my lifeless body had landed
where no one could reach me
I was too far gone.
So I let the sweet taste of surrender
fill my mouth and kiss my insides.
That's where I found myself again-
the only version of myself I have come to know
the one I became so familiar with.
I guess I don't know who I am anymore
without the foggy brain and the steadfast demeanor.
Passion is a *****-
especially when it seems like everyone is staring
watching as you fall to your own demise
and only a few are there to dry your tears.
They are never who you'd expect
but they live for this as much as you do.
No one understands unless this fuels them
unless their bones are aching from the lonely
that has become of me and what I tried to create.
Everyone is watching me fall
and most of them are too busy to notice
I can't hold on anymore.
The will I had to move forward with this
has been depleted by indecency.
Only a few remain-
they help pick me back up
and then hand me a pen
but when I go to grab it,
it slips through my fingertips
and falls to where I was on the ground.
So I start typing instead.
"The poison touched my lips again..."
but believe me-
none of this has ever been easy
remind me to not forget who I am again.