I broke for the seventh time this month-
"why are you so ******* fragile?"
I ask myself as I undress my thoughts in a mirror
as the tears stream steadily down the sides of my face
mascara stains my eyeballs and burns into my mind.
I can feel everything now.
The running of my makeup
causes a chain reaction
to me running toward the sink
to wash out what makes me feel okay.
After it is done-
and the makeup is cleared from my eyes
it seems I still don't see things clearly.
"why are you so ******* fragile?"
I saw him again today-
it seems I am seeing his face in everyone nowadays.
I don't think I'm actually over it
I don't think the experience will ever leave my mind
and every single man but a few seems to have his eyes-
the square shape of his head and the curve of his spine
that I don't think he actually has
because who needs a backbone
when you spend your youth
taking away someone else's.
Mine-
It was the seventh year of my life
and you took my backbone back then
in the black basement, blanketed with self-condemnation.
You see innocence is an antonym for guilt-
but what happens when you took away one
and caused the other?
What does that leave me with now-
Innocence means the opposite of guilt
which is to say childhood and you
do not share the same zip code
but somehow I let you invade my home
and seek out refuge inside my ribcage
now I find you in every corner,
encompassing the outline
of every male figure I encounter.
"why are you so ******* fragile?"
I saw you seven days ago-
in the face of the man at TGI friday's
then again in the face of a man waiting in line at the store
then again in the outline of a shadow
then again in the nightmares I keep waking up to.
"why are you so ******* fragile?"
I keep repeating to myself
until the sound of your voice fades to just background noise
until the soft hint of you breathing on my neck
doesn't seem familiar to me anymore
until I stop feeling ashamed of what you have made of me.

There once was a home inside of me
but now it is just a house fire-
burning down any memory of you here
you made it too hard to breath
although this smoke encases my lungs-
and these pills aren't the blanket
on the fire like I wanted them to be
they still seem to help ease the burns.
See you are nothing but ash and dust-
The lining on the inside of my throat
that keeps me from spilling your name.
Your shadow in the back of my mind
will become nothing
in the wreckage I have ensued upon my skull.
"why are you so ******* fragile?"
Haven't you learned?
The most prized possessions are.

I want you-
to want to be with me.
In all ways more than what we are.
I am tired of letting you hold me at night-
tired of feeling your arms around me
when we are not one.
Tired of the questions  inside of my life
ringing with curiosity of an answer I do not possess.
There is no future here-
I realize that now.
My expectations have led me astray
and I feel so alone again.
Deserving more than I give myself,
not enough credit
where payment is due.
I'm not your leased item-
the nice suit in the store window
you will return once you've worn it enough.
You have no intention of keeping me
you just want me to be only yours.
I can't even formulate poems properly
because I'm tired of fighting with myself
about these feelings of which I do not know.
Hope has led me nowhere again
and I am lost at the fork in the road.

It's been seven days since the imprint stuck to my skin-
the scars still hold true to the nature of which they were born.
They were strategically placed upon spots I chose
their insides ran from my fingertips like they were proud of it.
But I was not proud of it.

It's been roughly 91 days since the pills lined my throat-
broke through the shell I hid the dependency inside
decided to try and make myself better.
It was roughly 40 days in I took regret to my skin
these pills reminded me what blurry feels like
these pills made me forget what I actually feel like
but I'm scared of what my body will do without them.
Ten days after that the cycle continued- Day 50.
I was back on the same track I was on six years, 2190 days ago.
The small shell of who I once was cradled in the corner
turned to stone and built a monument of my dysthymia
the mirror didn't recognize me, I could not see myself.
I watch myself in the reflection and try to remember who I am
the swollen eyes do not feel like the home I've built for myself
and it's been 2190 days since I've felt this exact way
the thought of nostalgia suddenly makes me sick.
I am wishing for the days to blend together again
for them not to be counted on more hands than I have time left
this isn't is an introduction or a preamble to my story  
this isn't even an epilogue anymore-
I wouldn't really call it a eulogy either.

It's been seven days since I took to my skin
the same way I did when I was just a kid
overcome with the idea of dying inside of my mind
and watching someone else die in front of my eyes.
So what is my excuse now?
Just raw emotion cutting into me like it's a slice of birthday cake
but this is no cause for celebration-
blow out the candles.
Break me down and hollow me out
disinfect these wounds so they will heal quicker.
The mania and the downward spiral are no longer holding hands-
they are jumping ship.
Dive in.

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.