I walked on my hands
a while after you left.
Not knowing
what the ground felt like
underneath my feet,
they needed a break.
I've always walked on eggshells.

My palms are bruised
so still I sit-
trying to prove myself to you.

Am I not worthy still?
Seems my mind is fixated
on proving this simple notion.

You hated most things about me,
so I started to despise myself.

Clothes unworn
would hang in my closet
and I would wish
that they would swallow me whole
on the way to your home
but you would've choked
on the effort of comfort.
You would've gone numb
at my self-expression.

I morphed myself into her-
into them
into the bubble
you were drowning in.  
So I became a victim too.
I knew how to swim
but I needed my hands to walk with
and they were too sore
from trying to bend over backwards
while keeping balance.

I still haven't made sense-
not about what has become of us.

The wound is still there
and I would like to expose you to it.
Show you the holes inside my heart
that you punctured one year at a time.

Life without you feels void.
Life without you feels better.
Life without feels like me-
so why am I still crying?

He likes the hoop in my nose
and the dying of my hair-
he loves the fact I'm a mess,
and everything you were never fond of.
He loves the parts of me you forgot were there.

This love reminds me
I should forgive you.
But when the pain in my heart flinches
and his words poke at the scars
I know why I shouldn't.

How your love tore me into bits
and now every time his love comes my way I flinch.
I'm supposed to be getting better-
but the thought of you still won't let me.
Even in the aftermath you still control what's left.
I sulk in the thoughts of you-
becoming bereaved.

The ambivalence
   trickles down my throat,
I feel it settling
   inside of my stomach.
Indecision makes it's way into
   every part of me.

I'm whimpering
from the devastation.

Painstakingly
stagnant.

Taking the necessary
measure so I can breathe.

Still it sits
   like acid
   inside of my stomach.
Awaiting the moment
   I regurgitate it all back to you.

Memorizing the pain
like warning signs-
   sketchy shadows
   in a parking lot
so I kept my doors locked.
Turned the radio down
so I could prepare
for anything that would
make me afraid again.

You are the locked door
and the anxiety
of not remembering
if I took the right
precautions this time.

Maybe I didn't
check my rear view
    close enough
and I have no idea
a car has been
   following me for miles-
checking my progress
   watching as I switch lanes
   making sure I'm aware
   of the imminent threat
   it poses towards my future.

You are the stove
   I can't remember if I left on.
You are the straightener
   that burned a hole
   through my carpet.
I was unaware
   of the heat-
   or the consequences
I just wanted to feel full-
   to feel pretty.

I'm always looking backwards
   at the damage
   that has been made of me.
Seems I'm always
   looking over my shoulder
expecting for you
to be standing there
   reminding me why
   there is nothing left of me.
The pieces I have
taped together have
your initials outlined
in the remains.
   I can't rid of you-
Or the inhibition
  or the hindrance
left inside of my bones.
I am a weak, frail
   skeleton of a person.

Now I always,
keep my doors locked.

Blink twice
this is nothing short
of a mid-mid-life crisis.
And you can use
  these vices
  as an oath to your past
  a signature
on your obituary.

I started writing mine
  long before I knew I died.
  long before deception
  hid in the back of lungs -
  and the reputation of my liver
  yes it proceeds itself
  and I seem to repress it all.
                                            
I'm tired of running scared
compromise holds me
  like a warm gun-
  a vice grip
  on these vices
And I feel it
starting to slip.

kiss the barrel baby
you never know
  when the safety's off
  Don't you trust me?
  just say you do.
Don't you trust me?
  I don't
well neither did you.  

Watched you lie
   (In your sins)
   And on your back
You roped me in
   and won't throw me back
Sinking ship
Abandonment.
This is where repetition
meets Russian roulette
   play it back again.

The days they blend
and bend
only to begin again.

So I take shape
  for my name sake
  to placate
  makeshift benevolence.

Where common courtesy
   meets common sense
Where your pretty penny            
   changes to a pence
   now it's worthless.

You feel the mask
   it shields your gums
   from a razor tongue
   bleeds blue
   but all you see is red.

This mockery you
   have made of me
   what a tragedy
   catastrophe.

You won now
    a trophy
in the evening hour
    take my mind
I won't be needing it

Not like I used to-
Not like us two
    got used to the abuse
Who used who?
   You used me.

Breathe me in
Wear me out.
Break me
thread by thread
Wash me scolding
watch me shrink
and burn
and wither.
Watch me
no longer fit
Come untied
And undone
Just at the press
Of a single button.

I am not here to make sense
Or to change.
Or run spin cycle
On repeat until
All my color fades
And becomes nonexistent-
I rub off on you.

Our shades mix too much
I ruin things
With my vibrance.
Never one tone
Never just pigment
Always either void
Or immense.

Drown me in hue
air dry my insides
I want to be left
And sulking
In the heaviness
I have soaked myself inside.

Too tight
Can't breath
I am unfit.

he has undone
my insides
and on the outside
I am fine.

But the little girl
underneath all of these clothes
is screaming for me to notice her.

and I don't
history repeats itself
and even I see myself
as too much to pay attention to

I can't help but feeling nostalgic.

For I have seen myself
crying alone in a mirror
too many times to count
and I have hurt myself
alone facing a mirror
more times than I can count.

I am tired of these numbers
wrapping themselves around my neck
as if age is just another death sentence
as if these years spent are the chair
kicked out from under me.

I am hanging by a thread.
washed up and worn out-
all on the idea that
things can get better
and that these problems
are not the reasons
I am drowning
like these thoughts
are not anchors to my illness.

I thought I was making progress-
but instead I was staying stagnant.
Awaiting the next tragedy
so I could pity myself again.

This is not what recovery
is supposed to look like.

His hands are all over me
on the same nights I wish to die
it sort of feels like high school again.

Curled up
using my own tears
to wipe off my makeup
I spent little time putting on
because I care just enough
but not enough.

My best friend dies-
he is there
laughing at the timeline of my progression
telling me if he could've
he would've came back a long time ago
to diminish me himself.
But he realized he has already done that
so he smiles at the thought of it.

My timeline has been thrown aside
kicked away like the chair beneath my feet.
What is holding me up anymore?

I saw her too
sitting there
all to aware of existence
so I made conversation.
The guilt struck over her eyes
like she was playing the memory
in her head when she saw me.
We talked about her hair,
and my job
and my brother.

All I could think about
were how my insides were rotting.
How my face showed a **** good facade
because all I wanted to ******* do was crack
and break and dissipate into nothingness.

Here I am now,
standing on the edge of relapse
and sanity
thinking about how good my life was
encompassed with tragedy
before I knew how happiness felt
before I knew how good I could have it.

Take me back,
to the black in my mind
and the ignorance in my skin.

Wear me out
and spread me thin.

I am tired of taking up all of this space.
I am tired of you breaking my head.

No progression,
only stay-put
only just here
only barely floating.

Maybe,
not even that.

The ache inside of my heart
has become an open wound.
Everyone is staring at me
like nothing seems to be wrong.
like I can patch it up
and all is well.

But all is not well,
it never has been
not since you left.

I start to think about the cruelty of life.
How I lost two best friends
in the course of a month
one by death
and one by the pain staking
ambivalence of makeshift love.

I feel so lost and alone.

Sleeping next to someone
who is hurting too
so it feels like my hurt is less.
Not for lack of effort
but because of the thoughts
that consume this distraught mind.

I think less of myself
than others
so everyone else needs time
and I just need to **** it up.
Move on,
other people need you
more than you could ever need them

Straighten up,
strengthen that backbone
and don't let yourself wither away
inside the arms of tragedy.
This isn't what she would have wanted.

Don't give him the satisfaction
of knowing he has won
knowing he has made a mockery
of all the potential love in your life.
His tongue digs a sharp wound
inside of your back
and you're having trouble standing upright again.

You feel it every time
you try to move in the right direction
because he always used to be there
watching your back to dig in deeper.

But he does not control you anymore-
do not let him crawl inside of your mind.
Start fresh.
Renew yourself.

You are in love again
with a boy that
slowly closes that
cut down your back.
He makes it feel
like it was never there in the first place-
but you still feel the sting sometimes.

He will caress your body
and make a wrong move
so you flinch at the progress you've made.
you clench and feel as the past
has infected your entire future
but it's all inside of your head.

You have healed,
let yourself do as such.

She would not want you
wasting your time
dreading her lack of existence.
She would want you to live
and love again and again.
She would tell you to
never think of the wound again-
stand up straight
put on heels
and walk like you own the night
because you do.

And now so does she,
and all of my days
are spent wishing she would have stayed-
but life is sick that way.
Taking away your chance at redemption
by making it impossible to speak.
Stitches around your mouth
and between your fingers
because talking seems to hurt too much
and reaching out has never been
something I was good at
and now I can't.

Too worried about everyone else.
Too worried about this life
that buries itself inside of this body
and demands refuge.

I've always put others before myself-
and this is just another textbook
collecting dust
telling everyone how to fix me
no one wants to read it.
No one cares to read it
so here I am
collecting dust
withering away
from the outside in.

No one pick me up-
I'm staring a collection.

You work until your hands are sore,
and I am such a sore loser.
Competition is my second nature-
but I'm not fond of comparison.

I work until my mind is sore,
and we have that factor in common.
Awaiting the moment until
we can make sense of commodity.
Awaiting the moment until
we can breathe again.

I'm always writing the same things-
and for the first time
someone has made me speechless
the lining of my mouth
has been worn thin before.

But now I am building back strength,
my tongue no longer
gets stuck in my throat
I don't choke on my words anymore
my freedom of speech
comes with peace of mind
and I am able to withstand
the feelings as they come.

And we come.

and we love.

and we ****.

It feels like a waltz in my head,
the smooth jazz plays in the background
of your embrace.
I see nothing but silence when I kiss you.
The breeze runs through my thoughts
and all I ever hear is music.

And music is the only thing comparative
to this novel we are writing together
because it's not just a story between us.
It's well-versed and natural
it comes to us like routine
like years have been spent
practicing and rehearsing this love
but it's only been the hook.

Piano plays.
I smile again
and hear it in my dreams.
You were there once
dancing around my insecurities
and making dust out of all the pain.

Now you've
manifested into this life
and it doesn't feel like just mine anymore-
but ours.

The smile on my face hasn't left.
not since you've come around-
not since we basked under
architecture older than us.  
Not since we danced under-
timid lights
with the soft hint of *****
moving us across tile floor.

you are amor-
and everyday since I found you
has been bliss
and elation.

You saved me,
and continue to everyday since.
You work until your hands are sore,
but you still find time to hold me.
Competition is my second nature-
seems I've won.

I am scared of routine,
and repetition
even though my disorder
longs for it.

Makes it impossible
for me to live comfortably.
Because I want consistency
and when I get it
my other disorder takes over.

It's like a power struggle
between my mental illnesses-
and my mind is an episode
of celebrity death match
no one really wins,
we all just end up ******
and broken
and a joke.

Inconsistency
is like my consistency.

When things
smooth out
like cream cheese
on my favorite bagel-
I'm like **** this is good.

Then I start to worry
about when the bagel
will be come stale
or moldy-
and I don't wanna buy new ones
I like the ones I have ya know?

And the concern takes me over-
no longer even wanting to eat the bagels
because I'm scared they've already molded
even though they probably haven't
even though they're my favorite..

Should I be more poetical about this?
Should I outline this in a different
tone and texture to make
it sound like
I'm something other than I am.

I'm tired of doing all of that-
and I'm tired of using the word I
in all of my ******* poetry.

But it's always about me.
I am a self-involved writer
only writing from my experience
so why wouldn't it be filled
with every single part of me?

Love is something I have never been good at,
especially when it comes to myself.

Someone else tries
and all it does it make me cringe
and I wait for it get moldy and stale -
I'm not actually still talking about the bagel anymore
am I?

Am I?
Am I everything that I say am?
or am I just biting off an Eminem line.
Oh my god I've turned into
the manifestation of Jay-Z
overrated and boring
and attempting to stay relevant
via my love life.

I wish things wouldn't change,
I wish routine stayed routine
and things didn't get so complacent.
The spark always dies in the end
and I always end up becoming
a different version of myself
as soon as I fall in love.

I guess I'm always too scared
too reliant
and too worried no one will want me
when they see the real me.

But in this current scenario
I was 100% the real me first
and then we fell in love
and now I'm at like 75% and free falling.

All because I miss how things were
when friendship made us talk everyday
and we spent a good amount of time apart
so we actually had things to talk about
when we were together.
Now it's all the same again
and I worry about routine
and consistency
more than anything else.

This is what ruined me before-
comfort.
and I need to talk to someone everyday
or I will become too much into my own head
that I think myself into
thinking that everything is going wrong.

It's like I'm trying to find reasons
to not be happy
and I'm so scared of having nothing
that I end up giving myself it anyway.
That way I am safe and not worrying
about when everything will go wrong
because it already is.

I've never been so happy-
and it scares the living **** out of me.
I just want it to be like we used to,
I'm scared of you not trying anymore
because you have me-
it's happened too many times before.

Then you get comfortable
and then I don't matter
and I turn into a bagel
left stale in your bread bin.
I turn into something always there
but never paid attention to.

None of this has happened
but I feel it slowly in my bones
that history will repeat itself
and I will end up lonely
and in love
and hurting all over again.

I just want to feel like
I matter I guess.
Like even though you have me
you'll still try for me.
But we all know how this goes,
and history repeats itself again
and I end up a moldy bagel
waiting to go stale
waiting to be thrown away.

I'm mad at myself again-
so **** forgiving to everyone else

What did I do so wrong to me?
Why can't I let **** go.

Get it together.
You're all you have.

I heard the news of your broken bones-
but you have always been so heavy heart
and so hard head
it seemed like nothing more
than another scratch
nothing more than
another obstacle
you would move through.

Jump through the hoops
like you've always done
so resilient in nature
and unrelenting in stature.

Invincibility was apart of your genetic makeup-
ran through your bloodstream
even when I first met you.
But I never thought it would come to this.

Just another picture on the wall-
another memory
that keeps me clinging to this pain
that is withering inside my chest
and I am sinking
and sinking and sinking.

I can't stop thinking
and thinking and thinking
about the distance that grew between us.
Miles made it hard to be there for you
and that's all I ever knew how to do.
You didn't listen to orders
and took your own advice.
You're strong and ambitious
and it was built inside of your bones
from so young
so innocent
and then you grew-
grew to be something different.

You changed me
and from how it seems
you changed everyone else to.

I'm in a world without you now
but I can't be sad
I don't have a right to be sad
because you wouldn't want that.
You would tell me
"*****, you know I'm gonna haunt your ***"
and you would throw your head back
and laugh and laugh and laugh.

But I still cry at the thought
and I still cry at the lack there of.

Your bones broke inside of your chest
and I wish I would've tried harder
to keep you inside of mine.

Now everything is broken inside of me.
and I can't seem to place my head on correctly
or even formulate it into poetry
this just feels like ice-ridden insanity
a chill down my spine
that will never disappear
a constant reminder of the cruelty of life.

I don't feel real as of late,
just a dream
a figment of my own imagination.
I spend more days out of my body
than in it lately.
This world isn't a place I like to be.

You were always
my little sister
my biggest supporter
and a giant pain in my ***.
I cared too much
sometimes I think it pushed us apart.

I'm taking a plane alone tomorrow
so I can attend your funeral.
If it wasn't these circumstances
the plane would leave without me
because my anxiety would
stick me to this city I live.
But you're still pushing me
even after you're gone-
to leave my comfort zone.

The scar above your eye
comes with a memory.  

And I was always taking pictures,
every moment-
all the time.
I loved the limelight.

I'm glad for that-
because I have a plethora
of memories to look into.
A recollection of events
that my mind would be-
too numb to remember.

But even so,
I will always remember.

sorry this is ****,
I haven't been able to write since you left.

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.

your critique mimics
the chills down my spinal chord.
I've had an ache for weeks now-
seems there's not enough stretching myself thin
to rid of the pain in my neck now.  
your lips form lashes around my tongue
and it seems I have acid sores
encompassing my lips
because everything you say to me is so toxic.
Your mouth is a battery,
you won't stop running it-
seems it recharges itself.
Seems I cannot throw it away-
it would harm too many others.

Standing in front of you I feel weak,
a version of myself I do not recognize.
Seems I was never strong enough to stand up to you-
so I backed down.
Time and time again
hiding how I feel for your benefit.

It's a shame whenever someone comes around
I wince, afraid you will use your acid tongue
to weather them down
and form rust stains out of their smile.
Most days, I clench my fists
ready to be a shield in their wake.
Most days, that's a mistake.

The high horse
you build your house upon
has grown higher-
you built it that way.
You look down at everything
and bask in the glory of your accomplishments.
The materialistic glow of your youth
shines down upon my face-
but you are not looking at me in awe.
You do not consider me something worthy
of your appreciation.
It seems you think you owe it to yourself
to be nothing less than egotistical,
you grew yourself this way.
Built it from the ground up
so treat it as you wish.

Your way is the only value.
My words are meek inside your muddy waters-
your mindset is clouded again.
I am the rain upon your parade.

Addiction runs in your blood
without something
you fall apart.
All I ever wanted
was for you to be better-
you can never give me that.
You give me a complex instead.

Read this back again,
come back to it and realize
that us women always marry our fathers.
and I can't decide which this poem is about-
I think it's my Father,
but it could also be
every man I have ever loved.

I'm still trying to find love
in between the lines I write
but I only find the past-
the one where love didn't exist
seems it's not enough anyway.
I can't find love
when you show it to my blindside
you don't even care to move in the right direction.
Let me get over-
you.

didn't take long before the toxicity filled your mouth
and I'm not talking about all the cigarettes you smoke-
I'm not referring to the blow you once had up your nose.
The leech has reached your lips-
you said this was the last time
but I know just like all the others that was a lie.
You cannot fool the girl who analyzes for a living
who hides under her rock and watches as people **** up.
She's social but doesn't leave her head space
so she can see right through the strides you think you take
and the love you think you're making
but instead of savioring what you think is special
you are destroying your insides.
Breath it out, stop it from consuming your body-
you're aloud to run away without question
you shouldn't have to make excuses anymore.

A friend of mine clings to toxic things
and not the drink and drugs and designer clothing
but the girl with the long hair
who dresses like she owns the night
only just to ruin his.
I wish he could see right through this-
but he doesn't want to feel so alone
inside of a city so big.
He's not so sure what home feels like anymore
so he uses her for comfort
when all she's doing is making his heart fail.
And he could never even tell the difference.

Dissect me again
remind me I have a backbone
and insides that no one else sees.
Take away my ego,
and breathe life into me.
It was nice to know
what knowing felt like.
Too lacking control,
and not enough self-awareness.
Maybe that is where the cut line should start.
Right down the middle of me,
so every inch is exposed.
Seems you are staring down
who my insides have made me.
I am scared it was not what you pictured.
I am always scared that I am too much for people.
Most days, I'm too much for myself.

Stitch me up,
remind me I am okay the way I am.
Analyze me until
the self-awareness reaches my limbs
and I look in the mirror and see myself like I once used to.

You have a knack for making me feel things unknown-
tapped into a place inside I hadn't yet discovered.
Explore with me?

Insert cheesy metaphor here about how
I want all of you-
but you will not open yourself up enough
and I am too timid and insecure
so I idly sit here and wait for you to come to me.

Insert life advice here about how
the ocean can make waves
but it takes skill to swim
and once you learn
you will always know
how to beat high tide.

Now,
make the font pretty and add your watermark.
You don't want anyone stealing your work.
Maybe put it juxtapose style on a pretty piece of paper.
Make it so stereotypical people eat it up.

Helpful tips.
1) make sure it's generalized
2) try to put as much emotion as possible
but don't put any of yourself into it.
3) always write about love
4) make people think you've experienced a lot.
5) follow as many people as possible to get a lot of likes.
6) edit until it sounds like it's from a hallmark card.
7) take yourself out of the poem
8) make it hollow.
9) make yourself hollow
10) get nothing out of the experience but massive likes.

repeat until you feel better about yourself.
repeat until your fingers don't feel like
they will burn themselves off with lack of confidence
make your mind work in propaganda
and feed into the masses
because who needs creativity
when you have publicity right?
Likes, likes and more likes-
because that's poetry isn't it?
Not a true, genuine expression of ones self
just some **** on a page that sounds pretty
and probably rhymes.

I'm tired of cliche's
and rhyming-
tired of the disingenuous nature
of something that saved my life.
I'm not looking for relatable
I want to ******* feel something,
someone, anyone-
make me ******* feel
something.

Too many nights I lay awake,
staring at the marks upon my ceiling.
Seems these floor boards
have become headboards now
and I'm sleeping where I feel the most at home.

The victim screams again
trapped inside of these lines
everyone draws for her.
There is a box-
fit in it as much as you can
even if it's a tight squeeze.
We have no pity for you,
if it seems to be too small
just fit into it-
we all have to at some point.

This sympathy has become
a sinking ship to me
and ironically I've never seen the shore.
Drowning in the idea
salvation will reach my fingertips
and feel like grains of sand.

This sunshine I never seem to see
feels more like a dream,
a transfixed idea of melancholy
that is pressed against my hips
and I am feeling an ache in my spine.
Seems my backbone is being crushed too
I can't stand up even if I wanted to.
This box is locked and I am captive.
A prisoner of my own thoughts.

Jot this down-
remember yourself clearly
and all the scars painted upon yourself
every inch of bruising you have come across
a small reminder you have been here before.

These purple walls
have turned to a purple heart,
seems I've been drafted into war.
They drop these courtesy lies upon me
like they're bombs-
seems I am exploding again.
But if I do maybe I will get out of this box.
Maybe this ship will take me to the bottom
and I will feel the sand again.
Or maybe I'll see the sun-
when my back stands up straighter
and I can read my own words without cringing.
Maybe then I'll feel at home,
maybe then these bedsheets can replace floor boards
and the white of my ceiling won't be the only thing I see.


I tapped upon the transparency of myself
and seen a unrecognizable face staring back at me.
She nods her head and tells me it's okay
she is me, wrecked and scared-
with faith etch inside of her eyelids.
but why is she someone I don't know
an empty street corner of a place never been
wide eyed and painted on smile-
wish that I could know her.
Wish that I could be as good
at painting on this canvas
that is my body-
See I was never really good at art.

I imagine murals painted on this ceiling-
and my back hurts from laying here for so long
I hope to see the backs of my eyelids soon
because black would be better than nothing-
black would be better than transfixion
until delusion-
white canvas, white pills, white ceiling-
how can anyone love anything so void of color.

I haven't wrote a poem
since I could inscribe your name
inside of the stone cold outline of my cerebellum.
My movements are etched inside these lines,
but it seems you write too much in cursive
which consists of you
interweaving your thoughts around mine.
I believe these movements are meek-
that these hands can only write for so long
before they feel as if they have said too much.
Or too much of the same thing-
I cannot wrap this head around your literature
how you walk and the way you switch pages in an instant-
I didn't even get to read you.
But this comprehension is merely subjective
when it comes to your eyes under these sheets
and these hands all over your brain
trying to rack it of what is left of us.
You speak in tongues
and run in and out of me-
but somehow I still can't hear you.
Just a soft faint whisper
behind these outlines and inside of these four walls.
You encompass me
but it seems you still haven't a clue where you're going.
Time and time again
I try to rewind these words
and read another page of your insides
only to have it ripped away from these fingers.
Now all you do is collect dust
building up these leftover skin cells
because you would rather shed yourself thin
than open up.

I haven't written a poem such as this-
since your words ripped me in two
and I had to rebind this spine of mine.
Seems I am a renewed version of myself
and still a used copy all in the same two hands.
There isn't a page missing here
but somehow they are all defiled and bent
backwards they seem, lacking uniformity
just read me-
because I need you to see me
because I need you to let me see you.

I have grown too attached again
stuck inside of this dark place
I cannot seem to rid of-
it provides too much comfort for my insides.
My head repeats the devastation-
so I cling to the only thing I seem to know
the only thing that can help me breath.

I'm asleep-
but it seems these dreams get the best of me again
so I'm locked inside of this bed
it has me like a cage
and it seems I am drowning in bed sheets,
falling in love with this comfort zone
and hating what's outside of it.

Do not make me move-
I like it here too much.
It holds every inch of me
and keeps all my secrets safe.
It promises me it will be here
when I need it and it never lets me down.
I weep inside my pillow
and my insides are found here again.

Waking up to a new day
just wishing I didn't have to leave.
These bedsheets tangle me
and make promises always kept.
and I was never a promise that's been kept.

I can't compete anymore-
a picture was painted at birth
and it doesn't reflect who I am on the inside.
I try to shy away from the insecurity
but the shadow creeps up from below my gut-
reminds me I am no longer worthy
convinces me I am nothing.

Seem you are a Monet,
and I am anonymous
thinking in colors
and painting in words-
but you are the physical manifestation
of the thoughts in which encompass my mind.
My outlook is meek again,
it seems I am maureen
because of her.

I try not to make myself
so black and white
and green all over
but envy has become of me.
Breaking away at the seems of beauty
and making a mockery of my outsides.
But the dream is real
and it seems every male knows it too.

Just a shadow to a city street,
a raindrop to a growing garden-
the colors surround her
and I'm stuck in black and white.

Metaphors make more sense
to me then anything else ever has,
you can speak to me in clarity
but I'll still question what it means.

These friends I have
they brighten me
but I'm still so black and white,
a negative of a positive picture
their appearance trumps my attempts
and they think in zest and breathe inside life.

The beauty that behold of them
triumphs over mine-
seems I love to surround myself
with the things that make me smile
even when I'm still black and white
they are the red and gold-
they are the much needed rainbow
after the hectic rainstorm.

The fear I feel is far from here
and these hands hold close to nothing.
Yours are wrapped around my throat
so I can't leave even if I wanted to.

I think in metaphors
and write my way through cursive
I can't make out what's in front of me
too many crossed lines, and not enough clarity.

Don't teach me what it's like to feel pain
and then put me in a situation to leave you-
to inflict you with the hurt you've taught me.
My inside are too lined with gold
to turn yours into dirt again-
to sell this tragedy for something worthy.

I can't let go of this anchor
because I don't want to be held down.
Fixated in one place
so you wrap it around my throat instead
and drop it where we're planted.
This way I can never leave-
this way I can never breathe.

You push me in and pull me out-
I will never make sense of what remains.
The anger in your bones reminds me not to be.
The look inside your eyes
while your hands are wrapped around my throat
makes me remember why I'm still alive
but makes me wish I wasn't.

You make me feel dead inside again.
I'm choking on these words I wish to say
and you wouldn't let go
long enough for me to speak them anyway.
I want what has been in front of me all along
you blinded the importance of a being
and now I'm left with just fog.

I never thought you would lead me wrong
and I am wrapped up in emotions too much
to bleed myself dry of thoughtlessness.
This mess has turned into chaos
and I continue drowning.
Deeper until this anchor
cuts away my neck
and chokes me of any hope I have left.

Cut the chains
and break me free-
this sinking ship can't see the horizon anymore
I'm not sure there's life left outside these trouble waters.
Wishing I could breathe again
please just let me breathe again.


love inside of trouble waters,
these waves won't stop crashing against this sinking ship.
seems I'm destined to drown again-
I was never one to be a captain.

sticks and stones can break your bones
and words always mislead.
these sticks I stick into my skin
never seem to bleed.
my mind is sick
these hands are tied.
so I can't put on my smile.
tired is the way I've been
and something in me is broken.
I tried to fix what's in my head
but it seems it's working against me again.
How can you fix this mind so fragile
if this mind is all you have to claim.
You can fix a birds broken wings
but he'll never fly the same.

I feel sick inside-
the days feel low and the weather is bad.
Haven't seen the sun for days
and I'm hanging on messages that never come.
This buzz inside of my chest
feels like I just drank a gallon of pure sugar
and I can't stop my skin from crawling.

worse case scenarios repeat in my mind
like a maroon 5 song on the radio,
painfully they never end.

The sun is out again.
I have placed both hands on the steering wheel
and I'm driving fast on the highway.
I see a cop and my heart races,
makes me feel like I did yesterday.
So I start to feel like yesterday.
My favorite song comes on-
reminds me today is not how it was before.

Hands shaking-
blood is dripping
and I wonder why no one loves me.

It's morning again-
I spend this one hating who I was the day before.
But stay up until 4:30 am because I can't sleep.
Enthralled in the idea I'm the funniest person in the world.
Things don't feel so bad here, in this moment.

But the day comes after-
only got a couple hours of sleep
and now I am scratching at my skin.
My boyfriend hasn't texted me back in two hours
must mean I did something wrong.
Must mean he doesn't love me anymore.
Must mean he's thinking of someone else.
Breakdown.
Multiple Texts.
a fight that makes me feel dead and alive
simultaneously.
I'm emotionally abusive.
But only because my mind is,
I don't want to be.

These words are always punches-
to myself and the ones I love
I'm so used to being broken down.
So guilt trips are the only survival tactics I know.

I promise I'll be better baby.

Morning-
I slept well last night,
my heart feels filled with love
and admiration for everyone around me.
I spent $200 on clothes at the mall.
Things feel good.
My desire for sexuality grows stronger,
and I want to be tamed.
His arms gather around my waist
and kisses are placed upon my neck.
I feel the love inside of my bones.
Wrong hand placement-
my mind goes backwards
dark room, hands- hands and hands.
I smell it, that day.
Small child again.
I wince. Crying again.
He holds me in his arms, makes me feel okay.
I think about it for a week straight after that.
Not wanting anything to do with love making
or any of the sort.
Emotions aren't too good for me as of late.

I can't stop writing-
so many things I want to say
but never knowing how to say them.
Typical ******* cliche.
I stand in front of an audience.
My hands shake
but no nerves ever feel as bad
as the ones my mind likes to give me
on random, every other day.
This is where I feel okay.

Sticks and stones will break my bones
because they have before.
Words repeat
and these memories
will always be inside me.
***** floors and Dusty rooms
these hands they seem to stain me-
I will not fall victim to
this chemically imbalanced insanity.

This life is like quicksand
Seems I'm caught up and sinking again.
Trying to talk my way out of it
But it seems my mouth is covered now.
Blocked by passive aggression
and the weight of my heels dragging me down.
I can't come up for air.
The grains have taken me
And there is nothing left.
No matter the strength I try to muster
Or the screams that leave my lips.
Seems my lungs are sinking too-
Seems I'm too middle of nowhere
And not enough city streets
nature is too familiar to me
And these buildings not enough.
Throw me a rope
and watch me drag myself out of this mess
and untie it from around my neck.
I'm dreaming of ways to make it out
But all I see is black.
All I seek is black
Because it's nuetral
It's nothing and it's calm
It seems that's what I need now.
It's dark under this sheet of grain
And I wish the sun would shine
Hard enough to make it glass
Bc I've never been one to live outside of glass houses
Too inside of the box
Never beside it.
Always beside myself.
Watching everyone look into me
But they don't really see
The whole picture
Just the box they put me in.
Turn me into stained glass windows
And I will show you what a church looks like at mass.
Belief and praise and worship.
I am nothing like I said I would be.

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.

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.

The insides of my eyelids are the only idea of love I now know.
Only darkness.
and if I squeeze hard enough maybe I'll see something.
If I shut them long enough maybe I won't feel anymore.
Sleep is the only love I know.
Conscious doesn't know my name.
But the bed sheets call it like they're back from church camp.
Religion is only known in the dark.
My saving grace is blackness.
The halo is the blue inside my eyes.
The high makes it disappear.
Sobriety and love are synonymous.
Both things don't feel so good after a while.
Both make you feel too much.
Give me high,
Love makes me only feel low.
Six feet under and I guess my lack of religion led me here.
Abandonment came afterwards.
After what?
Everything.
Consistently.
Always.
Left.
Give me darkness
It's all I've ever known anyway.

1) I still have not erased the imprints your hands left all over me. These days are numbered, just like the times you tried to ruin me. I've stopped counting on you to let me down again. I've stopped counting period.
2) I compare every single guy I meet to you, so far I'm doing my best at avoidance. So far none of them have made my stomach scream outside of my throat when they kiss me.
3) These pills are taken because I want to get better now, not because I don't. Milligrams don't always equate to death. I'm learning the language of recovery and self-discovery from a bottle and a progress book.
4) I can't see your face behind me when I'm naked inside the mirror, or under the sheets of ****** desire, I do not find you there anymore.
5) You do not control me- the reigns have loosened and your voice no longer lingers upon my tongue. I am no longer afraid of big crowds without alcohol. I am my own form of stability and sobriety.
6) This face does not need to be masked by propaganda in order to leave my bedroom, confidence has accumulated into my conscious now and there is no room for criticism.
7) You have left me for dead, just weeds upon an empty field- you made me feel as if my existence was a nuisance, like it was too minute to even recognize fully. But I will not let you be my deforestation, I have spent too much time growing these roots in a place where I will flourish- you will not be my wildfire, landslide or any form of natural disaster. You are a single raindrop at best.
8) *******.
9) *******.
10) You don't even deserve to know I'm better than what you did to me. But you need to know that when my father objectifies women, it cuts a knife deep into my spine that makes me slouch a little more and when other men do the same- it makes me stand up straight again. We are not a product of those who make us, we are just a result. But with repetition those results can change. All of us are theories, not to be proven. Always changing, collecting new data. Ready to be disproven. So test yourself, push your own boundaries and don't be afraid of change.

I got out of the box someone else put my innocence in- I found my way back to it time and time again but I realized it was only to get back what I had lost. Only to find that the box was empty, only to realize they never really had a hold on me. It was just a theory, you are just a theory.

Believe in me.
Take my hand
let me lead you through this life
that has lead you through the depths of hell.
We have felt our fathers wrath of opinion
and been scored by the sharp knife in the back of siblings.
These things shook us both-
took us by the throat and caused us to stop breathing,
Now we feel as if every breath we take could be wrong
every step is in the wrong direction
nothing ever goes our way.
Discouragement is a warm gun,
we sleep with it at night
and wake up from it in the morning.
One thing can shatter our confidence,
the curse of constant critic
has left us conscientious of our conscious.
So let me lead you.
Fighting a war is better if you have an army
and we both have enough strength
to walk through the fire-tongued
judgment day protocol.
I don't want to do it alone.

The way your arm curves into you, and your hands fall over me
shows me you know your worth.
You just need reminding on some days, so do I.
The briskness of your humor glides through your lips
like it has left you exhausted from lack of laughter.
Let me be your lack there of.
Let me be your all of the above.
We don't have to walk through the flames alone,
we don't have to walk through the flames at all.
My saving grace lies within your eyes
and I see it everyday, all the time.
Holding you close to my chest
you are my favorite defense.
The best weapon one can get
is a heart full of love-
and a sword found where you rest.

My lungs are turning inside out again-
and this poem will be void of the use of I
because it is not known to me who that is anymore.
This heart is beating outside of my chest
and my eyes can not focus on one fixed point.
It is troubling to me
words cannot express how my body is handling this.
Situational irony has always been a good friend of mind
and my emotions are diminishing further and further inside of myself.
Repression is to what my mind is prone to.
Ever since the child in me grew roots
someone pulled them out as if they were weeds
so this person staring back at me in the mirror
has always been a figure unfamiliar.
Always someone who longs to go backwards
so she can feel the familiarity of childhood.
Instead she wears a face not her own
and a body who she has trouble looking at most days.
This week the discovery was made
that in order to purge herself of all of this negativity
some weight had to be lost-
seems she doesn't know what that feels like
she doesn't recognize what that looks like-
but she makes a direct correlation between
memories and loneliness.
These nights have been mistaken for sleep
and the dreams mistaken for reality.
It's no question that identity has always been misgiven.

She makes no sense of her poems
and these words she writes down like they're her last.
The shaky hands make it hard to type
and she doesn't last more than a second in self-assessing,
she knows all too well the deep cut of judgment
but clings to the idea of contrastiveness.
Hoping that comparisons will not be her downfall
and that these words somehow make sense.

Again is something she insists on typing
because repetition and consistency is what she longs for-
but it never seems to come from anything but her own mind
and a body that is too in tune with the chaos in her bones
she shakes too much, and feels nothing all at once.
Calamity and clarity are not words she knows the meaning of-
only catastrophe
she puts it on her shelf and is proud of how she ended up with it
worked too ******* the life of others
and no hard enough on herself
but she still sees it a prize.
Even if she's not the winner-
even if she doesn't reap the benefits.

It took me one minute after you soaked your words into me
that I broke down and the only thing I could muster up
any amount of courage to say is "why me?".

It took me five days to give in again-
tracing your words like I trace the scars on my wrist
an outline of memory I cannot seem to let go of.
Try to picture myself with anyone else
but it just made me sick inside
so I started to compare you to everything I love.

It took me seven days to take your sorry and wrap it around my lips.
Standing there wondering why I feel so nostalgic
why this ache inside my chest feels so ******* familiar.
The first time we kissed began replaying inside of my mind-
the memories demanding to be heard
and the flashback played as our lips collided.

It took 730 days for you to get it right-
but one night, two separate times you ******* it all up.

It took me one week to act like they didn't happen.
It took all of my strength and I've become nothing but weak now.
Basking in mistakes and self-loathing,
animosity and admiration.
It seems imitation and repetition
are more related than we thought.
I'm having trouble wrapping my head around yours
why it took repeated mistakes for you to realize they exist
realize that a future with me exists.
See, repetition can sometimes be a good thing-
but not the kind that breaks me down
not the kind that tears me apart inside.

I do not want to break
because I do not think there is anything left of me.
This baggage was left on the plane a long time ago
and she watched as everyone took off-
time and time again everyone comes and then goes
no one comes looking for her anymore,
no one even realizes she's missing.

Succumbing to the silence
has left me ill-hearted.
The head that has been placed
between these shoulders
weighs heavy on my conscious.
The only way to stay sane
is surrounding myself with noise.
This chair that has been kicked
from beneath me has a name now.
It calls out mine when I sleep
and it repeats in my head
until I understand why it's there.
It's purpose is to make me feel alone-
so far it is winning.
So far, I do nothing to stop it.

This ache inside my chest
has left me concave-
I used to be so convex.
Used to fall outside of everyone else's angles
and now I'm closed off
so inside myself that I am blind
to anything other than your smile.
I would like to talk about how the pain hurts
how I hope the air I breathe becomes poison
and I don't wake at all.

I try to scream,
no one is around to hear me anymore
they're all stuck inside of others
when no one will even stick around
to see me come outside again.
If you fall down and become a train wreck
and no one is around to hear you  
does that mean you haven't gone off the rails?
Does that make your pain irrelevant
and the mess you've made non existent?

I guess I'll never know-
because I seem to be the tree that never grows
just stays dormant until my time comes
but I don't think it ever will.
Seasons don't mean much to me
and I wish I could be happy.
But this type of soil where I try to soak my roots
is not nourishing enough to let me grow.
So I wither and no one seems to know I am here.
A flower un-bloomed I have lived unknown
and no one will see me become beautiful
because I keep getting walked all over,
no one cares unless you've blossomed
not until you've become worthy of picking.

The more people try to help me
The more it hurts.
Thought as if I was doing fine
Until everyone acted like
I was faced with a death.
I guess I was, am-
Plagued by the ruins
you left in my chest
And the more people try to help
The more it hurts.

No one knows you like I do-
So for them to make assumptions
they know nothing about
When I all want to do is defend you-
I guess all this time defending you
has become routine for me.

You took my heart and traded it in
For an older model
and I'll never understand why.
She has more miles and it seems
you ruined her too a long time ago.
But you keep hoping she will
give you what you need-
take you where you need to go
And I sit in an empty field
watching everyone drive by me.
Hoping that they stop looking at me
like I'm so broken and beyond repair-
Hoping that I can present myself
good enough to turn heads
Hoping the next time someone
tries to take a journey with me
I don't break down.
But here's to hoping
that maybe one hits me.
That way I won't have to find out.
That way I won't feel so ******* used.

Writing has become my safe haven
and my sarcophagus all in one breath-
these emotions are purged from my chest
so I end up feeling empty again.
I am tempted to write the same poem
over and over but I stop myself.
I wonder if things such as this
can be as good as they once were
but that is just an image in my head
that will never become reality.
This page has ruined me
for I was never the same before
it tainted my skin
and imprinted upon my retinas
the misconstrued intentions
of a golden thumbed wordsmith
all of which I am not.
The knife in my chest bleeds ink
but I think it's running out now-
there's not much left of what keeps me alive
and I am choking on these words you say to me.
My heart beats too often for your words
that I read on the page like eulogy
but my mind knows better
than to engrave your name next to mine just yet.
I'm not the only basket case in this equation,
not the only one addicted to the idea of
going backwards and starting anew.
Things cannot grow backwards,
flowers only bloom or die
they're only consistent if you water them
and these tears seem to have ran out
my mouth is too dry to speak
I'm having trouble keeping up with these thoughts.
They are like maps, drawn out in the back of my mind
but I'm not sure which way to read it-
my memories do not work on North or South,
not even East or West
they only know forwards and backwards.

These words don't seem to fit together
or flow in a way that they're supposed to.
The more I think too much about them,
the less they seem to make sense.

my heart hurts worse now than it ever did before.
it will be five whole years in a couple of days
and I hate how bad it still hurts me you're gone.
I still wish you were inside of that room
but not so sick anymore.
I wish it would've been me.
why couldn't it have been me.
I miss you more now than I did-
and it seems the hurt only gets worse.
I just got my heartbroken again
and I have no one to turn to anymore
you were the only one who knew me
and how I tried to hide so much from the pain
it made me miss you before you were even gone.
I want to be gone now
but I know you would be mad at me for that
so I won't
I'll stay here because you couldn't
but I would rather be up there with you.

I broke again today-
my feet fell from under me
and I wept until I bled.
Nothing has ever hurt this bad
I thought I could make things right
with my hands grasped around my own throat
I choked any words of distain out of my mouth.
But still you stood upon my chest
like you were the elephant in the room
and my heart was just as heavy.

I broke again a minute ago
the things I thought had worked themselves out
came festering up and I felt like I was drowning again
Currently I feel two hands all over me
one of them born from my childhood
the other one showing me all of my addictions.
I try not give in again.
Try to wrap my hands around my throat
even tighter so they do not swallow too many pills
so they are too preoccupied they can't take to my thighs.
I write through the tears.
It seems I can no longer use a notebook
because my tears eat through the paper
and make a mockery of my coping mechanism.
It's funny how pain can make and break you
all in the same second.

I broke again and I continue to break
because every decision feels like a bad one
and I'm tired of being this person I've become
though it is who I have always wanted.
It's not as a great as I had once hoped it would be.
I try to breath away my pain
but my hands are wrapped around my neck still
and I'm afraid of what will happen if I let go
but my lungs are empty and so is my heart now
so I have to let go-
the ring around my neck reminds me I'm still alive
and I run my fingers through my hair,
I caress my thigh where the scars are traced in white.
White lines can be two types of addictions-
I would like to think mine is the safest
but some days I'm not so sure.

I'm breaking once again-
and everything I've held down inside me
since 2007 has resurfaced
and it feels as if I have to deal with it all again.
There's different hands around my neck now
but the face doesn't look too familiar-
I don't think I have ever recognized it
somehow it still causes me pain.

I'm broken.
I can't seem to find a way
to put myself back together again
because even when I do
someone likes to make a mess
out of what remains of me
until I am just ruins.
The sun hasn't been out in days
so I forget what it even looks like
it's hard to grow when you can't feel warmth anymore.
All I am is cold
a ring reformed in the chill of the air
I don't fit like I used to.
Neither do you-
the puzzle pieces of our heart
have been trying to connect by a small thread
but you took the needle and stabbed it inside my heart instead.
You looked at it and said you needed time to practice your aim.
So I continue to be broken and ruins and remains
and try to forget everything that has a name a face
because I don't want to feel things anymore.
Separating myself from my empathy
unless emotionless I become.
It's hard to write poetry when you have nothing left.
It's hard to write poetry when you are nothing.
It's hard to keep living with a needle inside your heart
but you will die if you try to remove it-
so here's to hoping it falls out.
Here's to hoping I can breathe again.

I lace my sneakers wishing I could organize my life this way.
My therapist is late again
And I wonder if I'll ever get my life to go as planned.
Racking my brain for organization skills I do not own.
Some things are destined for chaos.
The sun was out today-
But just as it usually does the rain came again
and so did my mania.
The sun controls my mood
and so does anything relating to warmth.
Controlling my emotions was never something I was good at doing.
The watch on my wrist is ticking down the seconds
until I have to stop writing and start talking.
I'm scared of how my therapist will see me now-
Scared of letting her down.
It seems the only one I do let down is me
because I'm always so six feet beside myself
But I like it here-
no one can bug me when I'm too busy sulking in my own self pity.
I start to wonder if that's what depression is-
or if I'm battling the idea of being okay with myself.
What does confidence feel like?
because all I've ever felt is confusion.
I've gotten to the point in my life
where not one thing makes sense to me.
Even what I write.
Every thing is all stream on consciousness
and not enough consistency.
My wallet is sitting on the table
If I wouldn't have glanced over
I know I would've forgotten about it.
Sometimes all we need is a second look at something
to remind you what can be lost.
I'm tired of turning everything into a poem.
My mind is on autopilot and I can't stop thinking in metaphors.
It gets really hard to write college essays
about History and the birth of America
because all I write is poetry
Plus, I haven't even traced my past back far enough
to recollect every event.
I wish I could.
Maybe then I could remember what you look like.
Maybe then I could deal with this life that has been destined to me
Etched out of stone and formed into skull-
it's funny how your structure can protect you but your insides are what kills you.
I'm tired of oxymorons.

Currently-
I'm sitting in a room drinking coffee too hot for my mouth.
I endure the pain, it is what I'm used to by now.

Currently-
I have like 10 thoughts in my head
not one of them relating to another.

Currently-
Nothing can hurt as bad as where my mind can travel
here in this room
when I'm trying to focusing on everything else
but all I can hear are whispers in my ear
and hands on my body as a young girl.
You found me then and you've found me now.

Currently-
My Spanish exam is today and I'm tired
of thinking about conjugations and commands.
Moriremos! Let's die.
Don't worry this exam will do it for me.

Currently-
See I'm racking my brain trying to understand you
why you did what you did
and why it hurt me so much
but I can't seem to find an answer.

Currently-
I'm thinking about when I was molested
and I think about how every time I write about it
and show my boyfriend he sometimes
thinks the undertones and contexts are about him
considering I only use metaphors to explain the situation
I'm never blunt in poetry.
Why does he think they are always about him?

Currently-
Two cups of coffee deep and my hands can't stop shaking
I got inspired by my own writing
which is weird.
It never happens so I'm taking it for what it's worth.

Currently-
my mind is running on 100 mg of Lamictol
and 5 mg of busiphrone so I start to wonder
if these thoughts have become synthetic.
Configured inside a laboratory filled with people
who have no idea what I go through on a daily basis
yet they are trying to figure me out
place me inside a box I don't want to be in.
Funny, my alarm just rang.
55 milligrams of small white pills down the hatch again.
This is all becoming too unrealistic.

Currently-
I'm thinking about all the things I shouldn't know.
How the girl that's ******* around with my friend
has ****** way more guys than she says
but I lied to make him feel better, it's not my place.
Besides it's none of anyone's ******* business but her own.
I think about how my friend found a lump on her breast
and how she didn't tell me about it
probably because my grandma died this month
5 years ago. Wow. 5 whole years. It hurts.
So does the idea of losing my best friend.

Currently-
Death is always on my mind
but in this moment it's more than it has been
within in the past couple of months.
But the coffee burns my mouth and reminds
me why alive can mean pain, but it can also mean
sweet taste and warmth.
Warmth, I think about your mouth
and what it could've felt like on mine that night.
I was too hurt to think about anyone
except the heart that was cracked inside myself.
10, 9, 8....  
I'm trying not to think about it,
how turning back time would be cool just so I could know.
But I don't, and I have a boyfriend- sort of.
Can't go there right now. Trying to write a poem.

Currently-
Everyone who has ****** me over
has become or stayed my friend afterwards
and I start to think about how ****** up that is
because they didn't want me as a lover
but were fine with just my friendship
it's painful knowing they all got what they wanted
and I was left with always wondering what if.
It's funny how I know things from the moment they happen.
"She has such a weird face" was actually code for
"I'm eventually going to **** her, I just want to make you feel better and like I won't but I will"
I'm still bitter.

Currently-
How should I end this piece
now it doesn't feel at all like poetry just a bit of rambling.
I feel the lining of my gums
how they are repairing themselves from the damage
of my mouth being ripped from words I wish I could say but can't.
But here I am, saying them anyway.
I start to wondering if anyone knows
these words I speak.
and how I sometimes wonder if I'm dyslexic
because I always spell words backwards.
like backdarws or fkuced up.
Even in another language.
Too chicken to find out, so I guess I'll never know.

Currently-
there are more than 10 currently's
but I don't seem to give a **** anymore.
I think about how the pain stops when I write
how one focus can make a huge difference.
I burned my mouth again
and it made me laugh for the first time
since Sunday morning.
It's not sweet enough.
Neither am I.

Currently-
I think about how easy it is to change my clothes and my hair
and how easy it could be to pack up and just leave.
But I have this overwhelming feeling that I can't
let everyone down.
The coffee has gotten cold
and my patience has run dry.
My heart is heavy with these words
I try to make pretty,
but there is no makeup for these words
no concealer you can use to hide the blemishes.
If there were they would be metaphors
and this poetry would be the final product.
But you can put a mask on the truth
and I don't think I would ever want to.

Currently-
I'm thinking about how happy you make me
and how dysfunctional things can be between us.
But I don't know how to be with anyone else
and I don't really want to.

Currently-
I'm thinking about my Spanish exam again.
******.