My bones were broken when you found me-
spent time trying to revert this body
into something that looked good in a mirror
or sounded pretty to doubtful ears.  

My smile was on sideways
and my chest was too small
so these breaths became shallow
following suit, so did I.

Someone turned me into a shell
an outline
a well-versed idea of what they wanted.
Written in brail and felt upon my skin,
everyone could read the way he changed me
but the only thing I saw was silence.
My subconscious warned me about it
wanted love so bad I never listened.
That was never what I wanted.

When my mind was numb
on the idea of happiness
you showed me differently.

My smile grew with you
and everyone could see it but me.
You saw my chest was small
and helped me breath in deep-
helped me expand.

The jokes I sputtered
were your lighthouse
and the only thing
that mattered to me
was finding you
so I could finally come home.

You rebuilt my insides
before I even knew
you were capable of it-
before I even knew
that love was an option.
Helped me send out a search party
for who I used to be
before love had shattered me.

You recreated me into songs
and molded me into a melody
something that sounded like me
like the person I was before
the chaos and calamity.

The soundtrack
of who we have became
reminds me of where we started
and I dance in what it feels like
and I sway with the shimmering vocals
and I bask in the bass line
loving what it sounds like
to be with you
and not so scratched CD
that eventually became
too shattered in bits
too broken to read.

We picked up the pieces
we made artwork out of it
and laughed at the progress
and laughed until we both lost it
until we both found ourselves
and built these records back together-
orchestrated a love
out of the imprints
and my life was no longer silence.

I was the spitting image
of a buzzfeed article titled-
"how to tell if you're in an
emotionally abusive relationship."
But it took me years
to stumble upon it.

Three years to realize
the words you spoke to me
were rotting inside my ears
until everything else I heard
was void of life.

I didn't listen to my mom when she told me-
or my friends when they tried to paint out a picture
hoping that because you are an artist
seeing it that what would make more sense.
It never did.

Someone doesn't have to hit you
to abuse you.
Repeat this.

You drank-
texted away my love for you
and gave yours away to an ex.
Everyday I feel like it's my fault.
You made it feel like
the alcohol running through your blood
and hiding behind your eyes
was a good excuse.
It wasn't, still isn't.
But I stayed.

Every moment with you
felt like a point I was trying to prove.
Like I was trying to eradicate
the images of the words you said to her
out of my mind.
I wanted to be the winner
in a fight I wasn't even sure
was worth all the ******* scars.

There were actual scars,
self-inflicted across my thighs
because worthy was not something you made me feel.
But you never noticed
and I liked it that way.

Every conversation made my bones ache.
But the good days,
the ones where I felt worthy
were the reason why
one year turned to two
and then almost three.

But my eyes became clear
before we could hit that milestone.

You told me you didn't try-
told me you could've tried harder.
Well it shouldn't take so much ******* effort
I shouldn't feel like so much ******* work.
When I told you change needed to be had
in order to hold me, you agreed.
You never thought I would leave-
even if your hands stayed stagnate
and everything else just rotted away.

You assumed my heart was too big
and my love was too much to leave you.
But now you're the one who is broken
now you're the one who knows how it felt
when you left me last,
and how it felt
every single day with you after.

Then the clarity came,
well-dressed and with a crooked smile.

Saw the way it was supposed to be.
Felt something I wasn't supposed to
for someone you threatened to end.
The violent tendencies
you spoke to me were the last straw.
Your bones are aching with resentment
and I never wanted to be the ever after
the morning after
or the excuse after.

So I'm staying your before,
your never again.
Left you in the morning
and you never saw it coming.
Left you in the morning
and since then I've never stopped running.
Left you in the morning
and I'm not ever looking back.

Little blue pills down the hatch,
I follow in the footsteps of my mother.
Pondering if this is what repetition feels like
whether this is what consistency looks like
tablets made up of milligrams I pay no attention to.

The irritation stems from my hands-
it's hard to feel things when numbing the pain
is all you have ever seem to do.

I mask this urgent sense of complacency
with illness that doesn't exist
to avoid any sense of responsibility that comes my way.
Pretty sure they call this mush-faking.
Just another part of an endless discourse
that I would love to see myself separate from
but it is etched into the lining of my genes
and it seems I have been losing a lot of weight
so these genes are the only that fit now.
Now destined to follow suit of my parents.

They are, as I am-
two people who make up what becomes of me
I am scared I am too much like them both
and not enough like me-
because these hands reach out to substance
the abuse part comes after.

When the pain starts to go away
and sanity seems formidable
achievable
something within reach-
all I have to do is find a bottle.
But pills are poison don't ya know?
So I move to the more socially acceptable addiction
the one you can find in a 12 pack at the store
or the one you can chase
with your favorite beverage
make it seem a little less toxic
because making yourself feel better
seems to be taboo.
Emotional instability is the new fab
and everyone seems to be following the trend.

Little white pills down the hatch
so I am not mimicking the behavior of my father.
To crush all the eggshells I throw out for others
so their feet don't rip upon impact.
My encounter is counter-intuitive
and also counter productive.
I try to make it less of the latter
but seems these eyes know me all too well.
They are red from over exposure
and tired from pressure they're under-
the invalidation painted upon your eyelids
with heavy words and absent thoughts.

You become defensive
I do the same.
You can't fight fire with fire
But we're both hot headed
So when all the **** goes down in flames
which one of us is to blame?

The arsonist fell in the love
with absence, absolve and absinthe
and all are ingredients
to this recipe of disaster.
You love me
I tolerate you.
That's what family means right?

I'd like to think this happiness
isn't just a dream-
isn't just these pills that make it seem that way.
Wait till you see the other side-
and everything will become a sink hole again.
I destroy everything I've ever loved
and watch as it delves
deep into oblivion
like these pills that fill my fists
and these nights I've spent alone.

Fear what I've become-
so I'm not the only one.

America.
Home of the brave land of the-
246,6660,710 white americans
living in this country,
which accounts for 77% of our population
but Black Americans
only make up 13%
and somehow in 2015
were killed at a rate 5x higher than whites.

Lovely, wonderful free land of America
Where 37% of black americas
were killed by police in the year 2015.
And out of the 102 cases
of unarmed black men being killed
only 10 police were charged
only 2 were convicted.
Only one spent jail time-
one WHOLE year of weekend come and goes.

Oh America-
Where colleges would rather
cover up a ****, than catch a ******.
Where High Schools take pity
on abusers who play sports
or have a high social standing-
Where abusers don't get charged
because the girl they *****
was "intoxicated".
Where 4/5 of assaults are committed
by someone known to the victim.
44% of victims are under 18
and every 107 seconds another PERSON
is sexually assaulted
and 68% go unreported
and 98% of rapists will never spend a day in jail.
and I know I mentioned this in the last poem
but Brock Turner, I'm looking at you.
But not in the eyes-
I don't want you to think I want it or anything.

America!
Where said white male ******
only gets two-six months in jail
and a man selling CDs in front of a gas station
gets four shots to the chest.
But instead of asking
why he got shot,
they pull up his criminal record-
because you guys, I thought you knew
committing a crime automatically
qualifies you for ******!
But the white rapists
swim record gets pulled up
his mug shot gets hidden
and his social stature gets him sympathy.
But some people see Alton Sterling's son
distraught on a TV screen and feel no remorse
I'M NOT ******* AROUND ANYMORE.

America.
Where again
the people who are supposed
to protect us-
just end up killing us.
By us I mean people
and by that I mean "All Lives Matter"
because ya know
more whites get killed by cops too!!!

America.
Where white people make up 77%
of this lovely population
and black people only make up 13%
so it would make sense
that more whites die.
Even though statistically that's inaccurate
(please see first paragraph of this poem).

America!
That reminds me
We're home of the All Lives Matter movement
because white superiority
is being called into question
and we like to think white supremacy
doesn't exist anymore!

"Why do black people
have such a chip on their shoulder all the time?"
"Can't they just like, idk- get over it?"
They will get over it
When racism doesn't exist anymore
and they can do everyday tasks
without experiencing discrimination.
They will get over it
when people don't see their skin as a threat
and use the "n-word" like it means nothing.
They will get over it
when they can receive a fair trial
They will get over it
when systematic oppression
isn't etched into their amount of melanin
They will get over it
when justice is ******* served.

America-
where the idea of blacks being inferior
is what the constitution and this country
was built off of.
Where people like Tomi Lahren
obviously don't own a history book
because she likes to think
the civil war was fought
to actually end slavery.
Instead of beefing over turf.

America-
home of the brave land of the-
Trump supporters!
& as Trump Says-
Let's Make America Great Again!
I'm sorry, I'm having trouble remembering
can you remind me-
when this country was ever actually great?
It seems like he actually means-
Let's Make America A Grave Again.

Hey America-
I'm not ******* around anymore.

I'm sitting fist to chest
Chest to fist
And remembering
Every single other time
My reality has played this moment
Over and over inside of my mind
Until the ticking of my watch
Makes me throw it at the wall.

I'm tired of wasted time
I'm tired of the wasted nights
I spent wasted
Cause you took my body
And didn't care about wasting it
For what was under your waist

And then I had to wait-
Fostering the memory
Under security blankets my mind
Laid out for me so nice like.
So ******* pretty I didn't want to touch them.
But they started getting *****
I just wanted to wash them clean
But you know what happens
When you finally look under the old
Dusty ***** rug.
You find some ****
You would've rather not seen.

I saw some **** there
My mind would've rather not ******* seen.
But memory just had to pick up the **** blankets
And memory had to start a fire.
It walked away when I needed it most
and now I'm the one left
Trying to smother the flames.
Alcohol only made it grow
And the blankets I try to throw over it now
Just caught fire like everything else.

It's still burning,
But the bad weather
Followed by the good.
Helped it die down a bit.
I can manage them here and now
Still appreciating
the warmth it brings me.
Still appreciating
the strength it gave me.
But I have too many burns now
To ever trust this fire again.

memory left me scars
cuts and bruises-
Followed by a tainted liver.
It was the warm gun
and it pulled the trigger
more than once.
Every time it did
everything
went up in flames.
Except for me.
Except for me.

these hands are too small, too paper thin again
they are almost translucent, and it's a nuisance
to hang this noose around my neck-
seems the seams of this design
I have designated to myself
have withered away amongst men
who have too much malice,
they do not belong inside of my head
get me out of here, get them out of here.

It is dead-
the fuel inside of me that flickers
and burns for your embrace.
it is dead once more.
Twice more I found you-
exposing your true colors
seems three is too many chances to be given
so why is there a fourth?

Why are these paper thin hands
inclined to crumbled amongst love
and disintegrate at the mere loss of it.
I'm having trouble understanding
what it means to feel love.
It is etched inside of closet doors
and dark corners.
Painted out in broken glass
upon my kitchen floor
and masked by male privilege.

I wish I wouldn't have-
became who I am for you.
I wish I wouldn't have gone through so much
maybe then we could live in naivety together
maybe then the lines between us
wouldn't be so etched inside black
turned inside out by your lack of trauma
or my extensive experience with it.

I'm beginning to think
I am more of your problem
than solution
and maybe that is why your mind
traveled elsewhere.
Made it's way into another's home
but still somehow invaded my resting place.
I don't want to share your substance-
but I still feel in competition.

Drowning under the pressure
that you put upon my shoulders
I'm trying to be who you want me to be.
But it will never be enough for you
I'm slowly losing my sanity.
The building blocks
that make me who I am
are lost now
you hid them all behind resentment-
you can find the real me there.
Too bad you'll never go looking,
too bad I don't have to strength to either.

My teeth scratch the surface of your skin and bones,
but there is not enough quick wit to shed your exoskeleton.
You will not expose yourself to me-
too fearful of the outcome and so am I.

I try to think myself into happiness,
imagine days by your side
where we can both be skeletons-
just totally exposed
and open with one another.

But you are too afraid of my teeth-
too fond of my tongue and cheek
you do not desire whats inside of me.
Only a preconceived idea of what we should be.
I'm having trouble figuring myself out.
I was never good at anatomy.

These fingers have become chilled to the bone
but you are not sure how to handle it anymore.

This wordplay becomes daunting
and this second-hand second guessing
is too tiring to keep trying for.
Why don't you just tell me how you feel?
why don't I do the same for you?

The lack there of
has never been an issue
until I started seeing inside of you
wondering if yours matches mine
wondering if your just abiding by time-
spending it with me so you're not lonely.

Connection is subjective-
so why am I always wrong in your eyes?
You tell me you love me,
I don't believe you on most days.
I tell you I love you,
I don't believe myself on most days.

But these days, like my limbs
bend and they break
and crack under all of this pressure
all of this unknown
all of this weight I try to carry.
So I'm not sure you quite understand me.

Birthed from privilege and happy-
you have not seen what I have seen
and so our insides look a lot differently
Seems I have seen them now,
turned myself inside out
to see you from a different
point of view-
and
I don't recognize
who you are anymore.