I start to wonder if you're really here,
if these times you treat me nice
are because you can't do it with her.
I try to hide the fact it is ingrained inside of my retinas
and the words you painted on that screen for her-
I wish they were mine.
Subtext and undertones tell my mind
to be cautious of these nice words you feed me.
I'm afraid I'm just your comfort,
your backbone because she used to be yours
but she broke you and left you crippled
and now I'm afraid of being your crutches.
If she ever comes back,
I am worried I will not see the daylight anymore
worried your smile will be
the light at the end of my tunnel
and without it I will be wilting and withered away.

It would be nice to think it a dream,
it would be nice to pretend it's just anxiety
but I feel it in my gut when you're with me
the pangs in my stomach remind me
of words you never said to me
and feelings you've never felt for me.
It would be nice to think it a dream.

But the reality of it is
the weakness in my bones
retaliates on my strength
and my mind becomes the biggest
contender of my downfall
and then there is you
and then there is her
and somewhere in the middle there's me.
I'm never where I want to be
with you is where I want to be
but in your mind I'm the next best thing.

safe to say it's sinking in-
reality has caught up to me
and I don't think I can be this person.
Wilting and withering at the thought
of those words not being mine.
You made it up to me-
but I haven't dove in.
Seems more like I'm jumping ship,
seems like I forgot to swim.
Save me
I'm not sure I exist anymore.

I bleed from the inside out
and I was written on an already disheveled page
outlined in genetic disadvantage
and spelled out in words love never understood.
Someone ripped me apart,
crossed out the sentences drawing me together
and let the pieces wither and soak and dissolve.
You'd think there is nothing left of me-
you'd think the tree that built me is mourning for me now
looking at the empty place where I was
and wishing it's purpose was served further.
But these words can never be unwritten
and this person who bleeds ink from the inside out
cannot run out of what her body pumps full of-
these words are just inspiration for her bodies growth
and this page just encouragement to keep her lungs working.
Some days her brain cannot tell the difference between
love and affection but these words she was written from
tend to make sense of it all.

She looks into his eyes-
sees something made of acrylic paint and movie scenes.
Built from cigarette ash and bible verses.
Birthed on the back of commodity and judgmental day protocol.
But he looks at her like he's trying to show her his teeth are white-
it's as if he has a point to prove and the only way to make it known
is with his lips pressed up against hers as many times as possible.

She has never had faith in words until she heard his voice.
She had never had faith in pages until he filled them with his art.
She never had faith in herself-
until the bible verses he was molded from
gave structure to the idea that it could exist.
She was never one to believe in God or scripture,
but he could paint a canvas in ways she had never seen
and made it easy for her to believe in something bigger.
Green looks good on him-
he wears it inside of his eyes
but he never has to be envious
because hers are filled with blue and gray
but mostly the reflection of his smile-
and it never seems to go away.

Born on different pages
but their story came out the same.
She loved him,
and he loved her just the same
and look at the art they made.

On the outside looking in are hinges,
they keep together the things so willing to fall apart.
When gravity does it's best to pull away at the seems
a thread and a needle will do.
Push me in and pull me out
these games that are etched in my mind
like to play hide and seek with my emotions-
so I wear my heart stitched upon my sleeve
for everyone to see.

A scarlet letter in the shape of a sin
once more and once less
I have shown my true colors and they all bleed red.
Purple is my favorite color but my aura seems orange lately
which is to say a part of me is being washed out.
The crease between my fingers has gone cold
and sweat is the only thing I feel there most days.
Someone hold on to them
someone remind me what that feels like.
Then don't.

I am too outspoken and
not enough backbone.
Too passive agressive
and not enough passionate.
These bones are filled with oxymorons
and there's not a **** cell that can help
aside from the prison-like one inside my head.
Get me out of here.

Discourage the synapsis and spark a fire inside of me.
I am begging to be undone again.
The only thing I know in truth
is that I do not know enough-
and my hands shake on more days than just one,
more chances than just two
and more hours than just three.
I dig myself out of envy
and birth myself from accomplishments
so it is to say I'm still a kin,
still a figment hidden inside another.
This life of mine is structured out of a person
I don't know anymore.

The pills made me different,
the pills make me better
but who is this person I see now before me
and how did all this progress lead her here
to the place where she dreamed she would be
the one where she is not shaking anymore
at the thought of waking up the next day
the place where conversations can flow
and ideas can be explored-
she can finally catch her breath.

The weight that has burdened me
from the breathing inside of this chest
has been sent away to it's original owner
it seemed he went to the gym to lift it
just so he could gain strength from the struggle.
Push himself further than I ever could
but these things inside of my chest are strong now.
I can feel my heart beating again.

I stopped myself in the middle of a sentence again-
revoked my right to write and repeat the words inside of my mind.
This page has seen too much blank and not enough progress-
this mind has seen too much repression and not enough retention.
You can't wrap your brain around a memory that doesn't exist,
how are you to cope with an event that is all haze and heartache
with no face painted out for you-
it's only stench and sorrow from the wounds you opened
all because you couldn't make out a face in the dark,
so you turned your skin the same color as your memories
and everything went black
this page was left blank those days.
There's no getting back those words that were never written
and there's no getting back those memories you sent away
abandoned them like an old pair of sneakers,
too many holes and not enough support
too much stench and not enough comfort
in knowing you can wash them clean.
You were tired of the effort,
it's easier to get new shoes.
It's easier to let go,
make new memories and leave these behind.
But you'll be 21 washing your face in the bathroom
and the stench will reach your nostrils
you'll wonder why you didn't push the memory further-
further inside of your mind enough that
your nose would not recognize the smell anymore.
Must and molester-
high and mighty and something like axe body spray.
Cheap and overused, like I felt after you.
Repression was never something you can hold on to for long,
it's unreliable and forgets to pack your lunch for the day
leaves you at the bus stop waiting for a way home
eventually you find your own way
eventually you start packing your own lunch.
Nothing is worth an idea, or an imbecile taking over your life.
Seven years I spent happy, seven seconds it was taken away
and I've spent the last fourteen years reminding myself
that I am more than you have made me feel since then.

I smell you there, on the hand towel in the bathroom.
On the random guy passing me in the mall-
it doesn't hurt me anymore
to know is to be the owner of your own emotions
to feel is to be the owner of your own knowledge.
Belief and acceptance are the only hands you need to hold.
They will walk you home from the bus stop-
they will make you that lunch
they will be the new pair of shoes you wear on your feet
so you can stand up straight again.
Don't let these memories bring you down
don't let the lack there of do the same.

The best revenge to your repression is dealing
with the fact the memories may never come to you
but when you're walking through the mall and smell
the man who stole your innocence-
you'll know that memory is warm gun
that you would rather forget you have the bullets to.
Lock it away and laugh to yourself,
the best self-defense is acceptance.

I'm drying my face with a hand towel
The smell of you fills my nostrils
And I'm back in the basement again.
Not 21 drunk in her boyfriend's bathroom
But 7, alone in a musty basement.
7, alone in your room.
The smell takes me over
and I have to pretend I can function again.
Pretend the look on my face is only from exhaustion.
That wouldn't be a lie.
Your image in my mind makes me grow tired
and sleep isn't enough to cure this kind of immensity.
Inhaling through my nose
And exhaling from my mouth
I continue to breath you in.
Washing the impurities from my face
while I let you infect my body,
my mind and my entire being.
I must keep it together
Cannot break, you don't deserve this type of power.
My face is dry, so is my pride
I'm tired of wringing the despair out of my bones
and letting it soak-
only to grow roots beneath my feet
and vines on the backbone I have molded for myself
Out of tragedy and abuse and sheet metal
too hard to sink your empathy through.
But enough to let you sink your teeth into.
Break me from memory
rebuild me from the times
you have tried to smother my willpower.
You cannot do this to me anymore

I remove the towel from my face
Look at the person standing before me
Built from nothing but her own struggle.
Rising from the ashes like all the times before.
You are the only form of soldier
a uniform like your smile can wear today.
Give yourself a Purple Heart
you've fought this battle and deserve some honor.
Bruised you may be,
purple has always been your color.
Tragedy has always looked so **** good on you.

My dad tells me he is proud of me
somehow it makes the knife
he stuck into my back as a child
dig in deep enough to hit a vain-
I cannot feel my backbone anymore.

The animosity I felt towards my father
was always my fuel to this housefire he lit himself
burning all of our confidence down with it.
The resentment was always the extra leg I needed
in order to stand up to other men who shoved me down-
The strong arm I needed so I could push myself
further and further just to prove him wrong
looks like I did.

The house has been rebuilt
with no intention of being burned down
but somehow I'm still waiting for the match to strike,
for the flick of the lighter or the pouring of gasoline.
I'm waiting for everything to go up in flames-

When I get comfortable or consistent
I start to smell the fumes
and before I even have a chance to run away
I am consumed.
It's been too long since I've felt the warmth
starting to like the cold a little too much now.
The worry is worse than the outcome
and the possibility is worse than the actuality.

My dad told me he was proud of me
words I've been waiting to hear since I was four.
Makes me wonder if people actually do change-
makes me wonder if you can too.
Waiting around for the smoke to clear
is something I was never good at
couldn't take the lack of breath.

Loving you is void of the fire
but still breathing in the fumes
I hope it will end soon
but I like the way it tastes.
When it's done and the smoke clears
I can still smell it on my clothes.
A small reminder that I was once
so buried beneath a sheet of insecurity
it kept me from thinking clearly
seeing clearly
and everything just ended up ash.

All we have ever been is ash
a gust of wind away from oblivion.
Burn me down to build me up again.

I've been wreaking havoc on my head again.
Blatantly succumbing to the innocence surrounding my subconscious.
Everything sounds the same again and I'm having trouble functioning.
Everything is fleeting again.
Sand through fingers
but this fire inside my heart burns for you
so this sand just turns to shards.
Just like that sand I have been changing shape
and then hurting everyone around me.
These marks on my legs remind me-
I need oil in my car because if i don't change it soon
it will break down.
Just like me.
These scars are like race tracks upon my past
and I can't keep from going in circles.
But somehow these cuts are straight.
Like I could write poetry between them.
I need the sun to turn myself to glass
because it is stronger than sand
and it will make these scars turn golden.
I want to be golden again.
Give me sun
Give me warmth
and make me remember what it feels like to go the speed limit
I'm always in fast forward
but somehow constantly looking in the rear view.
My oil needs changing
and it's no surprise to me that I may wreck soon
Too distracted with what's behind
Too adamant on pressing the gas
when I know I shouldn't.
Taking things too far
Pushing too many limits.
Most of them speed
A lot of them my own.
None of them the things I should.
Can I go back to sand?
I want to take shape to the things around me
I want to be good at transitions.
You can't break if you are smaller than a grain.
You can break if you're always being stepped on.