I took five steps forward and two steps back this year-
leaving me with three ways to make or break myself.
The years were painted upon my palms
but I smudged the ink-
spent too much time working with these hands
writing with these hands
breaking things with these hands
that the years just ended up on my face.
Spent too much time asleep-
so they are stained upon my pillow.
No cycle you can repeat to wash out the stains.
No cycle you can repeat to make the same mistakes as me.
One. I found a better me inside of tiny capsules that once broke me-
they just had a different face.
Two. The textbooks and the late nights became my religion
and I've been faithful to the point of redemption.
Three. You found your way back to me-
I welcomed you with open arms.
I'm still trying to decide if this is me going forward, or backwards.
But it feels like a step in the right direction.
Four. The toxic version of myself has left-
it is held in the back of my dark closet.
Lined inside of the empty bottles I once sank inside.
They are now just a keepsake for who I don't want to be.
Five. Writing has been the only savior I have ever known
I write in cursive so you can't read between these lines
they all intersect, they're all stop and go.
No one can read me now-
these windows are tinted darker than the legal limit.
I wrote it that way.
One. Relapse is okay when it's just an eminem album-
but I broke myself by blurring my vision.
Two. Relapse is only okay when it's an eminem album-
but these scabbed legs like to tell you a different story.
Three. I let myself trust someone wearing a mask-
he couldn't look in the mirror and see his own reflection
he only knows what he has become not where he has been.
Broken by the broken-
a vicious cycle I repeat over and over again.
I took five steps forward and three steps back this year-
it seems I forgot about you before.
Another part of the year written upon my hand
that will stain everything.
It was a step in the right direction-
forward isn't always a good thing
sometimes it's necessary to go backwards
because it can lead you to a better tomorrow-
I took five steps forward, two steps back
and one more to lead me to my future.
Cleaning up the stains
because he is now my bleach
my sanity and the sparkle beneath the stains.
The cycle that repeats-
but finally gets your **** clean.
I guess three is my lucky number.
I took five steps forward-
the rest is just history.

I can't breathe
The darkness doesn't pull me in anymore.
My body is too used to this lack of lighting inside of my life.
Everything is not what it once was
and I'm trying to wrap my mind around the idea of night-
how it is a solace to me
sleep being my only form of therapy now.
It seems as if it has been ripped out from under me by my own sanity.
This is the cruelest fate, yet again.
Always my own worst enemy,
creating problems for myself even on a strictly unconscious level.
The dark has never been a friend to me.
Let me sleep.
I mutter the words over and over and over again but I still lay awake.
Still try to exhaust my brain so it will shut off-
but my eyes don't want to shut anymore.
My mind does not want complacency anymore-
I am breaking at the seems
and it seems I am the only one who is the blame for this madness inside of my mind
because I'm honestly ******* losing it.
Deprive me of oxygen
so maybe I'll rest.
But their ain't no rest for the wicked
I guess that makes me ******* evil.

I will never be yours-
not in the way I would like myself to be.
Repetition is etched inside my bones
but this isn't something I want you to repeat.
The erratic tendencies that have consumed us-
some days I wish you fearless
so nothing could matter and we could be one.
But the days blend together
and still I come with a question mark.
Labels are such a con artist
they never reveal the inside.
But neither do you-
always a mirror to others
letting their light reflect off of you
never really feeling your own.
If only we could connect-
just be for one minute more
but that is not the future I see here.
In my dreams are wishes you cannot grant me-
the one wish amongst all others
easiest to achieve, you still cannot grant me.
Why do I feel like such a black sheep to your love-
thrown to the side and hidden under covers.
I would really like to show the world
what you mean when you're inside of my arms
but it seems I cannot-
It seems I am always searching for that missing piece
of yourself inside of me, but I will never find it.
You seek it in imaginary facades and nostalgia.
You seek your happiness in time past
and things you do not even know are coming.
Stuck inside a future you don't see for yourself-
stuck inside words that others etch inside your skin.
I wish you would just give in to me
realizing this is something to you,
but this is nothing.
This was once something
but cannot be that again.
I am nothing-
to you
and now seemingly to myself.
I will rebuild from you-
the wreckage that broke me twice.

I trust that these hands will break-
that the crevice of your smile
will turn into a crack upon the impact
of my lips upon your cheeks
but do not cry.
For the only mark I have left in your life
is that of a scar.
Never the girl you marry,
only the one you admire
and aspire to one day acquire
but ambiance is a con artist
the way the room feels good and warm
doesn't mean there hasn't been tragedy there.
I am too hung up, to be so rung out to dry
and I hate this feeling that has been given to me.
The wind had sought my insides
and everything is a mess now.
Don't put a label on me
for that will only taint the way things are now
never deserving of more than the shadows
never in the spotlight long enough to be seen.
You are ever-changing and I am in need of consistency.
But I am no hero of this novella
this short-winded fiction novel
you write upon your lips as if it is just letters on a page
but to me, this is non-fiction
to me, this is everyday.
You wear this mask like it is a coat of armor
but I have hung it up once again
and you don't like that you see yourself in me.
Hurt is the only thing I seem to know
and they all run the other direction
when the walls come down
and my true colors are painted out instead
they realize the setting is different now-
the ambiance isn't what it was before
and this novel just had an uncharacteristic plot twist.
Now you have trouble predicting the outcome
you think too much, and don't feel enough
and that's been my entire life.
No longer the girl you put a ring upon-
just one you put a bet upon and hope you don't lose
and when you win, once you see how good it feels
you run fast in the other direction because of the obligation.
Intimidation tactics are found in the dark circles under my eyes
and trouble is etched in the curve of my smile-
I have yet to find someone who dies to keep me,
one who realizes I am a novel worth reading.
But I am only worth a few pages before they have had enough of me.
They try and try to rewrite what's inside-
but you can't taint print on paperbound.

nothing makes these feelings hurt worse
than not acknowledging they're here.
Alone again like it is every weekend
and you speak to the scars on your wrists-
tell them to go away.
But they just end up appearing somewhere else
I'm tired of feelings.
I long for the ability to feel nothing
so I could harness what it takes be okay
and use it to my advantage
so success would be just a nod away.
Instead I am nodding off because of these pills in my hand
and this head on my shoulders-
it's been almost 9 hours since my last meal
and I can taste the acid in my stomach
demanding refuge-
it, like me is tired of being left alone.
I am here-
sitting upon this mattress broken bones
and broken mind.
Trying to think of ways to put a cast upon it
so I can stop thinking so backwards
to start writing for the future
but these hands don't know time.
It is nothing but figment to this poetry.
I wished it still helped me-
I wish standing upon a stage
or tapping at these keys was still worth something.
But these words have become devalued to me now.
Too many to count-
it's an inflation of my current insanity
so nothing is of importance anymore
we're all carrying around words like they're nothing
building monuments and meaning out of virtue-
wishing upon stars we could build homes
out of these stanzas.
But the economy *****-
turns out so does this poem.

We were always tripping on ways to make it out.
Long winding roads to backwards homes,
we never took too long.
I had a way with words
but not with speaking them too clearly-
I could only write them too be understood.
I was a little too passive aggressive and not enough passive voice-
Built upon analogies, not using enough antonyms.
Too much consonance and not enough consistency.
Always too dynamic for this static world.
We drove each other crazy.
Took words and turned them into roads always intersecting.
We never thought to stop and look at the scenery.
I never thought to ask where we were going.
You told me buckle up and I always asked you why-
The answer never left your lips.
You just gave a smile that mimicked the skyline and I let you take me there.
To the back alley of your mind and watched you race past the speed limit.
You told me to put on my seatbelt.
But you never wore yours-

You drove me to edge of insanity and left me there alone.
You drove away and watched as I tried to run after you.
But you kept driving-
and I'm still running after you.
Tracing my footprints on the pavement
Trying to match the tire tracks
I keep running back.
Even though I know you're long gone.
Insanity is a destination
I didn't want to reach
but somehow I arrived here anyway.
Somehow you drove me to it.