you don't understand.
stop telling me that you do.
you are not me, I am not you
therefore empathy-
is the only means of understanding you have.
but you are not where I am now.
you are not walking upon these eggshells like me-
not the same ones at least.
do you ******* blood inside your mouth?
do you feel your lungs cracking under the pressure.
pressure of being everything to everyone
and nothing to yourself.
who am I anyway.
I need a break.
these limbs are shaking
and these hands can't move
I'm exhausted with thinking I can function.
do you understand?
because I can't even seem to find words
to show people how I feel.
so why don't you do it.
take this pen and show me that you do
speak some sense into me.
but you can't-
so you won't.
I'm alone
and I'm broken.
say you understand but that won't help me now
say you understand but it only makes it worse.
breathe air into my lungs
and watch life breathe into me.
I'm in need of some oxygen
something to take away the smog.
my life is a blanket of lost memory
and irrationality.
Pull me out of my own head-
but don't tell me you understand.
Don't tell me.
Empathy doesn't mean you understand me.

I'm crying on the inside..

seems like the only thing I can control as of late.
I blink both eyes until I see stars
and hope I will see something worthy of myself.

My breathing has slowed...

this anxiety in my chest makes me aware
of the damage it has caused me.
Fourteen years ago I made some progress
and then repression became a warm hand gun
I liked to sleep with at night.

Someone took advantage of me...

and now my mind likes to do the same-
knows I am weak in this instant
knows I can break more times than rebuild.
knows I will sit here and makes these same analogies
until everyone tires of my poetry.

I tried to think of things differently...

but all that comes out are the same words
just in different order
and it seems my mind likes to run circles
around this idea of normalcy.
it also seems like it doesn't exist
because just when I'm on the brink of sanity
my mind likes to remind why it's never ******* possible.

Seems I'm too ****** again...

the only words my vocabulary seems to remember
are the ones people deem as less intelligent
and I start to wonder if that can be defined
by the numbers in my bank account
or in my gpa this semester-
if so, i think I'm doing aright.
if not, which is the case-
I think i'm growing stupid.


Meet in the middle again...

somewhere between empty caskets
and getaway trains
I'm not sure which way I want to go.
My mind says get me out of here
and my feet won't stop running towards the exit.
Conflict and inconsistency are bred into my family,
my genetics are lined so neatly with tragedy.
Seems I am ****** either way.


Breed me into existence
and I will breathe you empty in this instance....


These words forms paragraphs
I do not know the meaning of
and I share this to make sense of it all.
I fall into the seems of myself
and no needle can trace the mistake I have made.
The giant hole inside of my track record
cannot be redone with sharp objects-
believe me, I've tried.


End me here before the road does it for me...

I'm feeling exhausted from lack of progress
and this feeling inside of me now has no origin
no originality- it's just sitting there.
Waiting for me to understand why it is.
But I can't.
I'm not even sure why I am here
these stories are an accurate representation
of my current state of mind
and I'm not even using any metaphors-
this is just the way my mind works now.


I bred myself into bipolar
and made anxiety out of my animosity.
I start to wonder how much better
I would've felt if I had some stability-
probably a lot less crazy,
but look at all this mess I've made
and look how good it makes me feel-
look at the difference it's made them feel.

Turn this repression into progression
and watch it flip to poetry,
feed me-
I'm dying to hear your words.

It isn't always little boxes,
you can ask who put the baby in the corner
but the only thing this one could muster up is-
Why is he there?
Did someone put him there to **** with me.
Should I kick the baby?
It's not holding any substance in my life,
so what keeps me from kicking that ******* baby.
Squint, breathe, think-
no.
No no no no.
Don't think, thinking leads to thinking
and thinking leads to more thinking
and those thoughts lead to these ones.

I'm out in public again clenching my hands,
tensing my shoulders until the veins
are the only uniformity I've come to know.
All eyes are on me
even if they're staring forward.
I assess every move I make
in each person's direction
in hopes it will not be a grenade in their wake.
In hopes these hands will not break them
or these thoughts will not harm them.

Aggression followed by paranoia
paranoia followed by over self-awareness.
Nothing makes stillness seem real anymore
is it even real anymore.
Why the **** am I like this?

Sometimes I hear voices in my head not my own.
They sound more like the people I know
The people I love telling me everything I hate
and somehow they get louder than my own thoughts.
Drown me, no drown them.
The bridge is the closest way to make their downfall
and maybe they could stop hating me
long enough for me to apologize to them
for these hands I hold in front of me too often.
These arms I flex, and this face that mimics just the same.
I start to wondering why I am apologizing in the first place-

Merely because I am existing-
****,
am I actually existing?
what if everything is made up into little boxes
and none of them in order
like my thoughts they are misplaced
misused and tampered until dismemberment
I have not agreed upon these terms and conditions
now I seem to be self depricating in the fine print
that no one ever reads
what if I'm signing my life away?

It isn't always little boxes
clean bathrooms
and the 21 times you rewashed your hands.
Sometimes it's big boxes,
trapped inside darkness
hearing nothing but your open wounds
yelling at you
telling you they will never heal
but the voices sound too familiar to not believe.
You try to run towards them,
but your feet are too insecure to step forward
your hands are clenching too tightly to stop the bleeding
you feel and you feel and you feel
the wounds they never heal.
your head never seems to heal
but you deal and you deal and you deal.

Mark the calendar for a date of death you're not sure is coming-
mark it for a life you're not sure you're living.

Know that when and if tomorrow comes
I will scream at the knock of my door
or if I accidentally knock over my drink
and spill out the milk
I have spent so much time trying not to cry over.
Seems I need it for cereal.
Seems I need this for survival.
Seems these thoughts aren't so bad after all-
seems they've made me not so bad after all
seems they've made her fall in love.

Mom, I wanted to tell you I love you
but all that came out was "Have you ever thought of the world in an existential sense to where we're not really here, but we are actually here. What if it was like the Truman Show?"
and I ramble and ramble and ramble.
But know I love you
sometimes words are hard to find
and if I take the time to write them
they are a canvas of their own.
They make sense of something
to someone other than me.

She looks at him with golden hues
and looks at the mess he had made
still seeing a canvas in his wake
waiting for him to break it
waiting for it to shatter into pieces-
knowing it will be
just as beautiful.

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.