Who am I
but a tracer at the forefront?
a direct result of pain,
so these images
are always distorted-
disfigured and misconstrued
malignancy swallowing me whole.

who am I
but my disorder
scraping away at my vision
so all I do in return
is feel everything
and witness nothing.

I am floating above these memories
with my hands reaching out
to touch, fight or throw away
whatever it is that's holding me back-
when will my sight return?

who am I but
a chaser of these wishes.
a runner after dreams
that stay that way
because my feet can't move.

how do I answer the question
when someone asks,
"what happened to you?"

who am I
but a body?
one they stole
away from me
so when I look into the mirror
I only see what they did to me.

who am I
but a mind
too in competition
with my former self
nose-diving into
self-destruction
one thought at a time.

who am I
but a girl
in a dark corner
replaying her past
until it deafens her
and she doesn't
remember the sound of her own voice.
All she hears is the silence
of what she should've spoken up for.

Who am I
but a name on a list,
a placeholder-
a speaker to other poets?

who am I
but a lost destination
no one remembers the name of.
too run-down
and has-been
just a point on a map.

Who am I
but these things I feel?
Who am I
without these things I feel?

Who am I but this trauma
caked inside of my mouth, on my teeth
and hiding underneath my tongue.
When will I be clean?

Who am I
but a survivor
telling stories
of the past
like PTSD is my calling card?

Who am I,
who am I
who am I?
but the things they have done to me?

Who am I
but a survivor?
paint the word in red across
the lines I have drawn over these years.

Hang it banner style in the offices
of the therapists who know more
about me than my father.

Tell it to the people
who broke me in half.

say it again
to the boy who shattered my insides.

scream it at the face
of doubt and insecurity
and remembrance.

Survivor.
It is not always black and white.
sometimes it is void of color-
emotionless and distinctive

But it is who I am-
speaking with this
chestful of trauma
learning how to breathe
around it as I go.

What do you do
when others become
the aftermath of what happen to you?

Is trauma better a closed door than an open window,
is silence the only thing that won't cause them pain?

How do you talk about it
when the words leaving your mouth
Are just as toxic to those you love
as the events that occurred were to you?

Is this trauma always a contest?

Does it always beg to discipline
a body demanding closure?

Will memories repressed
always lay into the place that once held your spine?
Where each moment spent remembering
chips away at your backbone-

soon enough there will be nothing left
and you will have to stand up straight on your own.

But what happen when you crumble,
and you take everyone down with you
Is their downfall now your fault?
Does this mean the trauma is now your fault?

That because you let yourself be honest-
it was nothing but a disservice to those who love you.

Is it better to struggle in seclusion
than let someone wither away
inside the hands of your abusers?
the same way you have for years.

Is the conversation
worse than the experience?

I’m still trying to find out.

Hidden between never open fingers
and vocal chords
scared shut

I have been battling
the idea of redemption.

Will those who know help me fight
or watch as I do it alone?
Either way,
I am rebuilding my backbone
from the ground up.

Chipping away at the parts of me they made a mess of
filling the gaps with concrete progress.

Structure can only be as solid
as the foundation it was built upon.

So here’s to hoping I harden.

I have become nothing
in the hands of my abusers
just skin cells
collecting dust under beds
I only remember the smell of.

Please don't look at me
I am only a fraction of a person now.
The other parts of me
linger on the bodies of those
who barely remember what they did.

Who smirk at the idea
because they got what they wanted.
I am scatter-brained and shattered
at the thought of them.

Intimacy trying to make its way
past carbon fiber memory.
Not once has it gotten through.

There are three faces I see
when someone is inside of me
Theirs, hers and his.

Each getting something they want from me
Stealing away what I once held so close and so sacred.

I never want this,
and I'm not sure I even did the first time.

Shouldn't it be special?
Why does it make my heart break?

Why do I not even remember
the way it happens half the time.
I remove myself from the idea of closeness
in hopes all of these ideations go unnoticed
and I sink into the bedsheets

Slip into the space
between the box spring
and the floor board.
My favorite hiding place.
Nothing but dust in my wake.

This form of appreciation only comes in zeros-
but the well has ran dry
and I have left empty handed.
how do I show people
the only thing I've known
when I lost it all so long ago?

Dimes have turned to
my only form of decency
and my love only comes in currency-
how did I grow this way
following the footsteps
of a man who did the same

Why was love never my forte?
Why does it cost me everything?
and leave me broken,
fixated on reciprocation
no one knows the name of.

Struggling behind the self worth
of a coward.
He raised the stakes
And now I make his mistakes
and continue to pay the price.

Put a dollar sign on happiness
I'll buy it till I'm broke
I've done it all my life anyway.
I'm sorry
I'm not so good with words-
or feelings.
I'll pay the amount
everyone is dishing
in hopes to clear my conscious-
In hopes to show my hand.

Truth only comes in the evening for me
Anything else is found
inside a carbon copied smile
and the flick of a wrist.

I work hard to make a living
but it just ends up falling
in the place of loving.
I wish someone taught me
money doesn't buy the kind of things I want.
I guess I'll have to keep learning.

Nothing good comes from the sulking inside of my bloodstream.
And nothing good comes from writing these same lines and thinking these same thoughts.
Why am I no good at anything I do.
Why are these pills not enough to remind me who I am again.
Did I ever really know her?
Lost inside memories that never came to the surface.
Lost inside a face in a dark room that I never see-
only smell and feel
that makes this all worse.
That something was stolen by a man wearing a mask and I can't retrieve the footage.
Maybe this is where all the hurt stems from
or maybe I'm just using it as an excuse as of late.
Maybe I'm just ****** up
and maybe the blame is on me.

And maybe these lines I write will be good enough one day to remind me why I started writing in the first place.

But until then
I will wrap myself around this life and hope it helps me drown.

I will count out my breaths:
holding them in longer than I take them-

and I will wish for better days,
knowing I don't believe they will come true.

I will pray for a way outside of this life and into a new one, knowing I don't believe in God.

Missing you in pieces
Falling into the places where they lay.
Loving you in parts
because I didn't know you how I used to.

Everything is breaking
I don't have enough sticky tac or glue or medication to fix all of this.

I can't talk or write my way out of this hole.

So I'll tie myself around this life and hope it will help me drown.

But maybe I'll float

And maybe I'll never know.

I tried to call out to you
in my dream last night.
But you were lost
behind a fixation
I couldn't re-imagine.

Now I'm looking
at the way I'm coping
hoping to somehow
ghostwrite my way out
of this incessant grief.

We can't just spill loss
into a letter and hope
by some chance
they read it over our shoulder.

I am foreshadowing
someone else's demise.

I've spent a lot of time losing this year,  
and somehow this was the most difficult.

Somehow the idea
is worse than
the reality

Somehow these words
will not be enough for you.

Asking you to stay
sounds selfish,
but you leaving seems the same.

I can't tell if
this is a poem
for my best friend that died-
or to the one who tried to.

I guess it's both.
I guess I am both.

Somewhere between grieving
too late and too early
in the same breath.

Loss feels so much more
than empty,
I am a tea kettle
  with bad metaphors
left on too long
so I am just screaming.

This is an empty house-
no one can hear me.

My blood boils over
with emotions
never taken off the back burner.

This chest caves in
and I cave into
the mindset that
this scenario
isn't imagination.

This is real life
and death isn't
just a concept for me anymore.

It is object permanence.

It took time to rewrite my past
in a way that looked pretty on a page
but everything-
just eventually
turned
   uncomfortable.

It feels
like i'm always
wearing wet clothes,
sulking because I tried to drown
these memories I didn't want at the surface.

But I needed air-
so they came to catch it with me.
They demanded a home inside of my world
  and so they put me under.

Now I'm clawing my way to oxygen
but this doesn't feel like
  just water anymore
  more sheet metal than surface.

Every move made
by anyone-
  myself included
feels like a weight.  

I keep fighting my way
to sanity and
I keep fighting
  to remove this memory.

but it says with me
and it screams
every time you touch me.

How will I ever be okay
with comfort?

How do I cope
with something
so adamant about
keeping me under.

These dark images
invade the back of my head.

It's not my fault
someone
  took away my childhood.

So why am I the one-
drowning?