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.

I try to count my breaths again
as my throat begins to close-
my eyes become a shade of haze
that is now so familiar to me.
I try not to break again
keep my feet firmly planted
in a place where I can stand up straight
but these knees are weak
and I keep falling over myself.
The breaths I take become shorter
the senses around me wither in number
and the only thing I hold focus on
is the fact I can't breath anymore.
I want to make it stop
the tightening of my esophagus
and the revenge my stomach
has been plotting against me
for what seems like a while now.
The bile hits my lips
a victim to the toilet-
to the images in my mind
that begin to mimic my every fear.
My head is prison get me out of here-
but all I keep feeling is the lack of oxygen
and all that I see is this morning's breakfast.
Repetition isn't always such a good thing
you can find it in more than just my poetry-
you can find it in my memory.
Hollow me out and put someone else inside
this body holds too much destruction
that I no longer want to be the cause of.
Blueprints have become of me-
etched inside this skin
I seek refuge in.
I have mapped out ways
to make myself feel better
but they're only just an outline.
Just an idea I get before everything
becomes too wrecking ball
and not enough rebuild.
These walls are tainted now
you couldn't keep the spray paint away
and this building is nothing like the blueprints.
I am just the wreckage-
not anything like what comes after.
My structure is flawed
and the only way to fix me
is to destroy and rebuild-
and I've already done most of the destroying.
I take another breath
it feels like my lungs are in need of more
in need of something I can't give to them.
They give me life and I cannot return the favor
so I choke on the guilt of the games my mind plays.
It seems I'm not the only one suffering-
so silence has become my only savior.
Everything is fine on the outside
but the structure is flawed
and it's about to crumble soon.
If I were built right in the first place-
I wouldn't be so easy to break.

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.

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.

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.

the waves wash over me as the momentum of the minute consoles me
but there is no consolation, no consolidation
I am alone with only my irrationality that leads to sedation.
and when I sleep, dreams don't mean a thing
except lucidity and restlessness and trauma of being.  
But being me is more than just waves and sunsets,
sorry to upset, but I am no daisy or garden
I am uneasy eyes, where everyone is a suspect.
So respect my wishes when I tell you no
Because I know, that no never means yes to me
it means satisfaction to some, sorrow to most
and i'm done being buttered up like your morning toast
with that perfect crunch that you finish like it's your last meal..
My smile is my *** appeal.

So slither your tongue with verbs etched with sin,
and i'll let you paint your picture across my skin.
But this is no love poem, or rhyme scheme rendition
this is what satisfaction looks like when it's written
and I've watched myself die inside a mirror
found myself drowning in a ocean much clearer
but the salt kissed my wounds and my bruises
and reminded me, no one ever loses.
Chances are like a fine wine
followed by slow dancing and slowed time.
& I get confused sometimes with the way
you say my name and then sigh.
Don't say you will leave me
Just say you will love me.
Don't say you will touch me
Just say you will trust me.

because i've never known home until i heard your voices tone,
and I condone most things like kissing your insecurities
and falling in love with your tragedy but baby,
there's so much more to me.
I can see only with one eye because in the other i'm half blind,
but i will never turn a blind eye to the tides of your rise
and even your fall but baby, this is my kryptonite
and my light at the end of this dark dingy dim tunnel,
this all so ******* fundamental, the way you make me mental.
I'm so ******* metal.
Hard as ****, and I **** like I'm hard - to love
but I'm easy - like sunday morning  not easy like,
hormonal and *****, you can take my layers of lust and peel-
My smile is my *** appeal.

I feel so broken-
not in the I'm-falling-apart type of way
but more so like I-can't-functionally-normally.
Some people try to fix me
whether it's tightening a ***** that's lose in my head
or making me stand up straighter
and breathe a little deeper,
I always end up in the corner alone
because no one wants something that's broken.
Something that probably could be fixed
if someone tried hard enough
but no one is willing to try hard enough.
I can't fix myself,
because every time I ask
someone to reach out a hand to help me
or maybe just support me so I don't fall apart
they look at my brokenness and realize-
they just don't have the time anymore.
I'm starting to think I am beyond repair
because all I seem to do is fall apart nowadays.
Everyone around me is watching
but they just pretend they don't see.
No one wants to be the blame for my downfall
and I guess they aren't.
I guess it was just the way I was originally constructed
that made me turn out this way
so unable to receive help
so incapable of fixing.
It was just a matter of time before I broke down
and I finally did.
Alone with only these four walls to comfort me
and a shadow that reminds me I'm still here-
still looking as broken as I was when it first started.
There's only a few who come around and repair
what is left of me-
and then all the others just seem to have left me.
They only want me when I appear fixed,
when I am at their beck and call
and they can get good use out of me.
I guess I'll never be kept around
because I'll never actually be fully functional.
Look at all my pieces lying before you-
build me like Ikea furniture
prop me up, wear me down
then throw me away like the rest of them.
I'll be fine here on my own.
My shadow likes to keep me company.

when the skies get gray and the sun burns out-
I will always take you with me.
when the smile from your face fades
and your life is nothing but a hollowed out memory-
I will always take you with me.
Maybe indecision is still a decision
but this body yearns for your touch-
and I can't shake the feeling.
when I'm with you every inch of my being
feels whole again, and I am who I've always wanted to be.
you never hold back, or tell me half truths-
so I will always take you with me.
when the sun reignites and the sky is a lighter shade of blue-
I will always have you
whether next to me or in the back of my mind
I will always take you with me.
I still look at you like you're the only one in the room-
even if you're too busy with insecurity to see
but I will always take you with me.

But you-
you seem to look at the other-side and don't realize-
these words are not just words
they are everything I feel for you-
since the first day I knew.
I hope you realize this
and I hope you never forget
I have and always will-
love you.

She wore her heart on her sleeve like the latest fashion.
But he didn't believe in designer clothing.
Never checked the price tag because he never seemed to see her worth.
At least not for what it was.
She was always looking for the boy who was half-off his rocker and she clung to the kind she could save.
But sometimes you forget to look closely before you choose and just end up with damage in places you never expected.

She wore her heart on her sleeve-
It seems he made a mockery of the style she wore so proudly.
Too profound for him to handle.
Heart always guarded closely to his chest.
The price on his head was worth more than he would like to admit.
He never took the security tag off, didn't trust anyone enough to.
She tried to steal him away but the alarms sounded and everything went to **** again.

She wore her heart on her sleeve and she was once so proud.
Now she wears jeans, and sweaters that cover her skin because she is not proud of what she wears or who she is.
He made her feel like she needed to cover up in order to find the right kind of love.
Her mindset changed along with her style and you didn't see her heart much anymore.
He stole it away because she didn't think it needed the security.

Girl meets boy-
Together they are an item.
Apart they are just cloth
Two pieces not relevant unless put together into a bigger picture.
But times have changed-
and it seems they don't look good together anymore.

I guess they went out of style.
I guess they outgrew one another.
She decided it's time to stop selling herself short.
She decided it's time to stop looking for buyers.
An antique doesn't have to beg for buyers.
Buyers beg for it.
She never saw herself as an item alone-
But she always knew she was an artifact.
Yet to be uncovered-
She could only be discovered by someone who will work heard enough to find her.
Go find her.

The warning signs I didn't pay attention to,
because I was too busy loving you.

1. Your hands felt like tight clothes that didn't fit
and I couldn't find a return receipt.
2. My interests, to you, were like destinations-
you could drive me away from them at will.
3. My days, were etched in your palms
and you could break them, just as easy
as you could make them feel comfort.
4. You never let me feel things.
5. You always made me feel bad for loving you.
6. But you made me feel like loving you
was the only thing I could do right in the relationship.
7. Our future consisted of nothing but
the outline you wanted to draw.
You were an artist-
all you ever knew
was how to pain things
the way you desired.
8. You hated my friends
and any time spent with them
with anyone other than you.
Too green eyed
and not enough purple heart.
You did not honor who I truly was.
9. You hated my family-
Even though in 2 and a half years
you only "tolerated" them a handful of times.
But just like every other aspect of my life
they were found too inadequate.
10. You broke me down into a person
I wasn't even sure I recognized anymore
spending everyday morphing myself
into someone I thought
you would be able to love better.

But you never loved me better
and so I went backwards.

It took me a long time
to realize the abuse
that was captivating my life.
Someone doesn't have to hit you-
for it to be considered abuse.
Learn this.  
Repeat the warning signs
inside your head
until they register.

One day I will have to teach
my children to stand up straight.
Not to take anyone's ****
and to run far away when
someone else makes them
feel like their love isn't worth it.
I will be strong-
head held high
while knowing
in the same exact breath
I am a hypocrite.

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.

I tried to find myself inside you. I crept my way into your bones and implanted myself into your memory, but it was never enough to keep the thought of you not being with me, off my mind. I tried to find myself inside you, but wound up looking into the mirror at a person I had never seen. You changed me, and I'm still trying to decide if that's a good thing. See these novels, to me, become defining characteristics of who I want to be and your eyes become an outline of what I have become. A broad reflection of all the reasons I should love myself more because you happen to. Well, I love you and if I ever had an idea of what was it, it is, well- you. You're it. Like, in a game of tag when you were seven and you felt invincible, passing the torch to another and running like your feet were on fire. I am engulfed in you. You are the flames beneath my feet, you are the fire in my eyes and you are the acid reflex in my stomach.. You are the anxiety ridden nights and the sore cheeks from smiling weeks. You are the months of complete euphoria followed by days masked with madness. My seconds with you, turn to hours and the acid from your kiss corrupts my lungs and leave me breathless, aching for nothing but your touch. The insides of my eyelids see nothing but your outline and though these words are just a mere outline of how I feel- I could never actually formulate into words the way yours linger on my skin, waiting until you *** again and again and again. It's ineffable. Unfathomable. I don't want to wake up in a world without you in it. But I have before, and I'm not sure if I can go back to living in a world- without your flames to keep me warm...

I tread lightly,
hoping not to step on the land mines that surround my subconscious.
Because every step ahead is somehow in the wrong direction
and it seems to me that last thing people want from me,
is my own happiness.

And it's like everything I want to write somehow
crumbles beneath my fingers and I can't grasp
the simple concept of a pen in my hand,
and it seems like whenever I try too hard
nothing turns out the way I want
and when I don't try at all and these words
just pour from my veins
like the slits that used to form on my wrists,
and it's all so ******* beautiful and different.
But when I think, even for a split second,
about the words I want to write down
and how I want to write them
nothing, nothing at all comes out
and I'm tired of not ******* knowing,
anything, everything all the ******* time.

Am I a good writer,
or am I only a good writer in the distress
that life puts upon these shoulders
that are withered and weak
sore from the constant internal abuse,
and the lashes that leave your lips
leave bruises upon my fingertips
and my hand becomes crippled.

I can't ******* write anymore,
and maybe if I could I would feel a little better
about who I am and what I am becoming.
but these fingers, these fingers are mountains
and no one seems to want to take the chance
to climb to the top and see the beautiful view I create.
Not even myself.

I have written, probably over 200 pieces of poetry
since the time I have been 9 years old
and they all sound the ******* same.
stanza stanza stanza stanza
sorrow, mournful, love, depression, more sorrow.
and I don't know how the **** to change.

I'm sorry I don't know how to ******* change,
I wish I could open your eyes to the beauty of it all
but it's only madness and the only beauty of it
is what someone feels they interpret from it.

This love, is not easy
never has been, never will be.
but somehow I never want to lose it,
I never want to let it go.
I want to write everyday,
even when my fingers crumble
under the weight of a heavy pen
and a heavy heart.
I will prosper and write and write
and ******* write again.

This life will not lead to my destruction,
nor will this pen.
The only one who can end my story,
is me.
So get the **** out of my way.

IVE GIVEN YOU EVERYTHING. Ripped out my ******* heart and handed it to you on a silver platter and what don't you understand about that? I did, for you, the most vulnerable thing someone can do. So never treat me like I'm ordinary because you control the one thing that drives my emotions. So when you're lonely and missing me, remember that's where I am at every moment of everyday. See everyone feels things differently, but why do I feel for you a love so big it's the entire country of Russia? When you feel for me, well a love that's grand but I'm not sure how grand because you've never actually disclosed the information. Why is my love so big and so consuming that it turns me into someone I hate when we're not together? My anxiety without you is like your 8th grade best friend out to be exactly like you, but yet change everything about you so she can go behind your back and steal your boyfriend, while then making sure she ruins everything you've worked so hard for. I'm never sure if I have multiple personality because I become someone new every moment anxiety consumes my being and wears my skin as an overcoat, and uses my ego as a umbrella from the storm that is my train of thought. I DO NOT FEEL NORMAL. But does anyone, ever? What I'm trying to say is that, I love you. So don't ever take that **** for granted because I will become the Kanye West and Miley Cyrus of breakups. I will be everywhere you look even when you don't want to see me. All I ever wanted was to love someone and have them love me in return and now I have that. This feeling is the best worst thing and I'm trying to manage as I go. Loving a mentally unstable person is never easy, but ****** you try your best. I have to learn to love myself the same way you love me and I am taking small steps, but I am still moving forward.

I trust that these hands will break-
that the crevice of your smile
will turn into a crack upon the impact
of my lips upon your cheeks
but do not cry.
For the only mark I have left in your life
is that of a scar.
Never the girl you marry,
only the one you admire
and aspire to one day acquire
but ambiance is a con artist
the way the room feels good and warm
doesn't mean there hasn't been tragedy there.
I am too hung up, to be so rung out to dry
and I hate this feeling that has been given to me.
The wind had sought my insides
and everything is a mess now.
Don't put a label on me
for that will only taint the way things are now
never deserving of more than the shadows
never in the spotlight long enough to be seen.
You are ever-changing and I am in need of consistency.
But I am no hero of this novella
this short-winded fiction novel
you write upon your lips as if it is just letters on a page
but to me, this is non-fiction
to me, this is everyday.
You wear this mask like it is a coat of armor
but I have hung it up once again
and you don't like that you see yourself in me.
Hurt is the only thing I seem to know
and they all run the other direction
when the walls come down
and my true colors are painted out instead
they realize the setting is different now-
the ambiance isn't what it was before
and this novel just had an uncharacteristic plot twist.
Now you have trouble predicting the outcome
you think too much, and don't feel enough
and that's been my entire life.
No longer the girl you put a ring upon-
just one you put a bet upon and hope you don't lose
and when you win, once you see how good it feels
you run fast in the other direction because of the obligation.
Intimidation tactics are found in the dark circles under my eyes
and trouble is etched in the curve of my smile-
I have yet to find someone who dies to keep me,
one who realizes I am a novel worth reading.
But I am only worth a few pages before they have had enough of me.
They try and try to rewrite what's inside-
but you can't taint print on paperbound.

I fear closeness.
I fear close knit and tongue tied
I fear you and I.
these days I think myself
into a coma more often times
than I am actually awake.
The thought of mere interaction
shakes me to the core
and I don't want to find myself anymore
because I'm terrified of who exactly I'll meet.

I am hanging at the edge of your lips again-
realizing what it is I have made you feel
which is less than nothing, but also everything
which is eggshells and self-preservation
and a mindset that is filtered when I am around.
I would like to know you too-
but I am afraid we will not connect
as good as we did once.
I often find myself missing where we were
even if it was disoriented, at least it had a name.

Often I fear I am too much-
too dysfunctional, too erratic
to ever find love the way I would like.
Looking into the mirror
the reflection I see reminds me I am something.
Here. Present.
That if I try hard enough I can get to where I need to be
and the sun is shining and my mind is free again.
Until the moment comes to where I am low
and I try to look at myself in the mirror
tell myself I am something- Here. Present.
but all I seem to see are the tears
and the smeared makeup-
all I seem to see
is the past that keeps repeating in my mind
the memories that my retinas like to replay.
I guess I'm not over it.

I would like to marry someday-
have kids and show them love,
show them happiness can exist
and that marriage isn't a death sentence
that love is not just a word
that it is everything.
But I find myself sitting here
on the bathroom floor
waiting for the shower water to warm
just the way I like it
and I'm afraid that's how my life will always be
waiting for things to be consistent
and manageable
just the way I like them.

But then I feel the water and it's cold-
someone used up all the hot water again
or maybe there's no propane.
Either way I'm cold,
either way I'm cold.

There will be no version of me you will ever think to admire
as your hands grasp my words and alter them as they leave
I realize this was never how I wanted this to turn out.
Your words to me are like waterproof mascara
running down and staining my cheeks-
you're the opposite of what you promised you'd be
and you make a mockery of what makes me feel so beautiful.
You showed me what it was like to actually feel something
and now I remember why I never did in the first place.
I seem to be at fault for all the faults you think you carry
and this misplaced insecurity is now our imminent demise.
I don't feel anything anymore.
Remembering what it feels like to be in your arms
seems to be a distant memory
and sometimes I want to keep it that way.
I am tired of making myself small so you feel bigger-
and I am tired of using all my strength to light your world
when you insist on living in the darkness
and never giving yourself enough light too see-
that I'm walking away slowly.
You can either run to me, or watch as I leave-
because I am more than you make me out to be
I will no longer be your nothing.

I want to feel like your warmth on my skin is enough. That every move you make is all consuming and as I wish intimacy was something I'm good at, it's not. So I sway the thoughts away in my mind like I sway my hips and I wish I could give someone some sort of bliss but the blisters on my memory keep busting and everything I never wanted to feel again pours it's way out and paints the crevices of my mind.
I want to feel special. Like every move I make is something to you. Like the waves that beg to kiss high tide like my tiger stripes beg to kiss my thighs. Maybe my mind is just poison. Maybe the pistol to my throat at a young age set in stone that I'm nothing but a grave stone amongst a growing garden of birth and new beginnings that will never be me. I am always the shell casing of who I wish to be and no matter how much I think I am pushing towards something, I am always holding myself back. I step into the spotlight only to be over shadowed by my own guilt and denial of what I should already be well aware of. I'm not sure this makes sense anymore.
And I am sure that these poems are just eulogies someone will read at my funeral or words that will paint and pour over my obituary. I haven't been the same since that February, the one when I lost my happy and gained a whole new chapter of my life I feel like I didn't even write, that feels like just an added story to make things more complicated for me and more interesting for everyone else. We all feed of off the misery and the interesting, we cling to the things that are a mystery to us because drama is in our nature and nuture never had anything to do with the way I was brought up. It was all mere circumstance because if my parents had it any other way they would've tried to raise me. But instead my father raised glasses and instead my mother raised prices and work and ***** got in the way of new gym shoes and admiration.
I'm not sure I feel anything anymore. And these doors to my future hold a lock I do not yet have a key for. But that doesn't mean I'll stop looking. That doesn't mean there's nothing behind those doors.
I'm living, to live for more.

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.

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 wait for the dust to settle-
it has stirred up into my lungs
and made a mess out of my ribcage.
I'm having trouble speaking
awaiting a breathe of fresh air to enter my lungs
but it never does
awaiting a clear thought to enter my head
but it never comes.
Time is the biggest contender
I wish this was me coming clean
you'll need more than just
a one-man crew to fix this mess.
But I don't want to be fixed
you cannot keep
what doesn't wished to be kept
and you should not fix
what works better broken.
Constantly on the brink
of being beyond repair
but nothing stays new forever
and shoes look better worn.
So walk with me
let no space enter between us
because I can't handle anymore dust
please don't go-
it will collect when you leave.
I'm only trying to empty myself out
so I can breathe again.
I choke on these words
they're all I have anymore
I spill them onto a page
and watch as they are taken away.
Passion isn't as prominent
when insecurity likes to bottle it
I'm having trouble convincing myself
to believe in anything anymore.
Trust is a four-way intersection
and no one seems to want to go.

I take time to remember that the things which broke me
are also the same things that rebuilt me.
I take time to look at my father
and his reaction when I told him
the hands of time which he had no control over
withered my being with a bottle and made me trust men a little less.
I take time to remind my mother
that my issues with affirmation don't come from
never being in love or being alone a little too much
they come from long work days and even longer nights
spent bickering about the child that I see across the halls
that he sees when he looks into the mirror hating himself.
I take time to remember the wall I had my back pinned against
was cold like the winter seasons I spent hiding away
from torment and never descending vocals
attempting to outshine each other
one backhanded comment at a time-
and that it was never my downfall
never what held me back as person or made me afraid.
My downfall was with each slap in the face
that was literal or figurative I figured it was my fault.
But we can't help the hells in which we face
even if those hells are stained red across our faces
I have felt the pain.
I have remembered every moment I tried so hard to repress
and knew the tragedy it had brought me.
But with each moment of sorrow is another story
another reason my fingers hit these keys
instead of letting someone else hit me
I have seen the thunderstorms and slept under dark clouds
awaiting the moment I get struck by lightening.
Death is imminent, as well as pain and happiness
without them we would never appreciate ourselves
and each of our little hells inside of heads and our bodies
that have spent years waiting for validation.
We don't come with receipts, we are non transferrable.
We are that sweater you hate to love
and those old, raggedy boots that match every outfit
that at the end of the day you couldn't throw away if you tried.
The fight isn't over, it starts inside of us with each breathe we take
and the thoughts and feelings we possess are just soldiers
on the war path to defeat whatever life tries to throw our way.
I don't believe in most things..
but I do believe in me
so why should believing in anything else matter
when you have an entire war raging inside of you
just waiting, patiently for it's moment to attack.

I have a heavy heart.
and there are days it's so hard to hold on to
that I want to just jump into a river of regret
and let it weigh me down to very bottom
so I can find peace again.
I wondered why you push away?
Why my ups and downs make you feel
like your world is being shaken upside down.
I guess, I'm just hard for other people to deal with-
it's funny because imagine actually being me.
I have a hard time dealing with myself-
dealing with the other side of me
that begs to be seen in mirrors and photos
and inside the hearts of others.
Why can't I find a good manic depression spoken word poem?
I ask myself as I search the youtube tags
and all the button poetry videos coming up with
only "The Future" to satisfy my thirst for validation.
I have a heavy heart-
some days you feel it's too hard to carry
and I begin to wonder if i can see a future with you-
but I can't even seem to see a future for myself
because I don't think I actually want one.
I don't want to die-
it's actually, I want to live
but I feel like I'm dying everyday
because my emotions take a noose
and tie it around my brain
and make a mockery of my self control-
I become a puppet to these emotions
and no matter how hard I try to pull away-
make something of myself and take over these emotions
they just push me down-
making a mockery of my heavy heart
and my control withers.
I sit alone in my room crying until 5am again-
convincing myself not to touch the razor
trying to convince myself not to take those pills
trying to reach out to someone, anyone to make it all feel okay again
but I come up empty.
So I called a hotline-
6am secrets syruping over my cellphone
into the receiver
into a complete stranger...
I had wondered when I lost everyone-
I had wondered where I lost myself.
See I sent out a search party for my self-control a long time ago-
but all they could find were empty pill bottles
and empty alcohol bottles lining inside my closet
but they never found me trapped there
underneath everything I've been hoarding inside my memory
for years now, I was buried there.
Some days I feel like I never escaped
like the old empty bottles are still weighing on top
of my heavy heart making me incapable of
seeing the light I have turned on for myself.
My manic depression
is like your favorite toy left in the basement
you get excited thinking about having that joy back again
but as soon as you try to go towards it
you're scared and panicked of what could come after you
and even when you get that courage to step foot onto
those stairs leading you to your happiness-
you stop, look at the darkness
and slowly turn and run the other way.
I will take back control eventually-
I will take this illness one step at a time
and hope someone will be there to hold my hand along the way
although I know this heart is heavy-
I am capable of carrying it alone.

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.

I saw you today,
in the mirror behind me
you were there.
Stature strong and unrelenting-
I saw my innocence flash before my eyes.
Someone looked like you at work-
he smiled at me and said table for 3
my jaw clenching and my mind went blank.
My feet took a while to move
and I don't even remember what happened next.
Flashbacks followed by panic attacks
the man who stole my childhood
flooded my eyes over and over again.
I tried not to cry.
Not to let him ruin my day.
It wasn't him. It wasn't him.
It felt like him.
I clenched my fists
and let the memories flood my mind
I let them continue their journey
like it was a bad acid trip I had to get through-
my mind was making me feel everything again
and I hadn't felt that low in a while.
Repression was in my nature
and I painted a plain-pale happy face
for everyone who came into the door.
Table for 2-
2 months of flashbacks everyday at age 16
Table for 4 please-
4 years it took to cope with what happened to me.
Table for 7-
The age you took away my innocence.
When he finally left the memories were still there
the pain in my gut still demanded to be heard-
regurgitation of memories and my breakfast
all at the same time.
You have never left me.
The memory of you is still sharp inside my mind
every single day of my life
and I hate that you did this to me.
You took away my childhood
and you ******* my future too-
but I won't let you control me
won't let these emotions take a toll on me
because I'm tired of fighting these memories.
Good days can turn so quickly
just with the thought of you near me
in the musty basement
where the dark was your only friend-
and the sunlight from the cracked door
painted out my future for me on the floor
the dust particles made a slow silhouette
and danced through the air
My child-like mind at the time
had to focus on things like that
so I wouldn't realize the cruelty.
So now every time heartache or tragedy
follows me into the dark alleys of my mind-
I am reminded that is where I will find you
ready to steal my innocence again
like it's my lunch money
and I didn't think I could ever stop you
never thought the images of you would fade away
but I know they will one day-
when the heartache stops
and the pains reaches its peek
I will no longer be weak
and you will no longer be a dark alley corner
of my own mind.
I just have to find my sanity again-
some day I will find that little girl
and teach her how to love better
the kind without flashbacks
or anxiety ridden panic attacks
no fear of abandonment-
just love and helping hand.
One day I will find the scars
and the memories so ****** beautiful.
It is then I will realize I am beautiful too
no matter how many dark things
my mind must go through-
I am worthy of happiness.

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.

Sometimes shoes are hard to fill
sometimes they feel like cement
but somehow I keep walking
whether on eggshells or stained glass apologies
I wither in the aftermath of accomplishment.

I am afraid of wanting more for myself.

where do you go when defeated is all you've ever known?
how do you make peace with a half-assed apology?

I am afraid this forgiveness makes me weak
weeping inside of the idea that I can be in control
of this trauma.

but the twin sized bed in my childhood home is more of a cage
and I am stuck there wishing I could escape.

wishing I could make something more of myself.
I am too visceral and not enough visual
this anxiety taking my breath
making me sick to my stomach
why can I not remember correctly?

No one talks about it.
No one gets how it feels to miss a memory
or how the presence of one
makes you lose reality.

My mind is stuck in fragmentation.

I'm tired of not remembering days
because of what she did to me.

Manipulation a scarlet letter on the chest of everyone.
My younger self tells me they all just want something.

No one can take anything away from you
if you have absolutely nothing left.

wipe the hard-drive clean
I will become obsolete.

never break my heart,
because I will take every piece
you so harshly left
and stab your mind
with poems and prose
and you will no longer
be just a person
who came and went,
you will turn into
destruction and paper thin
apologies that you will never rid of.
I will turn you into paper cuts
barely there, but painful nonetheless,
reminding you every time you
attempt to wash away your regrets.

Do not break a writers heart, they will find beauty in your destruction and never, ever let you forget it.

These hallowed halls remind me of myself-
the way I would attempt
to see the sunlight on days
there was nothing but darkness.

I'm always writing about
how I can't breathe.
It would be nice to know
what oxygen feels like,
what living before you feels like.
But I do not live in that world-
not anymore.

You reside in the skin under my nails
and the corners of my eyelids.
Buried beneath these things
I will never notice-
but utilizing a place so important.
Nothing kept me going
not the sun or the stars
or even the idea that love exists.
Nothing has.
It only hinders my progress-
people like to run away
return their investment
for something they bought prior
or for something that seems so much better.
No one wants damaged goods.
No one sees the potential they have
to become your favorite thing.

You ruined my life,
and continue to.
Every time you are far behind me
you catch a flight and find me again.
You are the reason I cannot breathe correctly-
or love enough, or trust in someone.
You are the reason I cling to what's terrible for me.
I wish all of this was an over exaggeration for art.
I wish this wasn't my truth.
But it is.
I have to deal with it-
I wish you did too...

This time of year always breaks me again.
Skipping over these days would help me breathe
but theres no livelihood inside of me
only misandry and misery.

Just know that you have ruined me-
know you have succeeded.
Lastly, you won't find me where I'm going
so don't even try to look.

When  was young, my first word was "Momma"
because I was always reaching out for someone who was never there.
Always a little bit too infatuated with her occupation
and her husband was always too in love with the bottle
maybe that's why my second word was "doggie" instead of "daddy"
because a dog brought me more emotional security-
spent too much time trying to drink away the long work hours
and not enough time trying not to break our spirits
like the empty miller lite bottles thrown at walls and faces-
When I was seven, I first discovered ***.
A man placed his hands where he shouldn't have
and then a year later a girl did the same thing
so by nine I was feeling the urge to fornicate with everything
because I thought that intimacy was normalcy
and I could give myself to anyone who would take me.
But I was nine, so no one would take me-
and I was terrified of any arms that tried to hold me,
and I thank someone, whoever is out there, for that everyday.
By thirteen the crosses I bared began crawling their way
out of my spine and into my lungs making it hard to speak
and then into the back of my mind so I couldn't think
no more denial, or lost memory, I saw it all so ******* clearly-
The hands that turned me futile tried to end my life once
but they used me as a host
tried to **** whatever was making me sad
a bottle of vicodin down the hatch to drown the memories
that I could never ******* get away from-
Darkness.
When I was fourteen my savior became poisoned by circumstance
the edge of the hands I used to grip when I was young
turned cold and the face I had grown to admire looked sickly.
These crosses I bared didn't win, but they didn't lose.
They continued demanding refuge
and the memories kept demanding to be heard
and the denial of my grandma having cancer grew stronger-
then he moved in.
And I'm not talking about grief, although the names sound similar.
I was weak.
Prone to the demons I had been hiding-
had to face the man that took away my sanity, my sexuality
every single ******* day.
So these razor blades became a paintbrush and my body the canvas
and every time I took it to my skin I would call it a masterpiece.
At some point, around the time my mom starting listening
she heard me crying out to the demons I spent my days fighting-
Around that same time my grandmother died.
So my weakness became strength and her strength withered
and she tried to drown her pain in a bottle of morphine.
9:25 am. "ring" "ring" "ring"
hello? mom? where are you? A mental hospital?
The words "I could've tried harder" keep repeating in my mind
and kept taunting and nagging at my skin
telling me to paint one more ******* time
to make something so beautiful out of all of this ******* mess-
So I picked up a pen again. Started writing.
I was about 17 when things started getting better,
met a boy who smiled at me like I was ******* God
and found hope in the curve of his spine and the whites of his eyes.
But I wasn't looking for an escape again
and I knew that's just what he would be.
Falling victim to the hands that have seen better days
and the eyes that only needed someone to say,
"I am here for you." something I didn't want to lose.
Now I'm almost 20 and these recollections feel just like stories-
the control they once had over my mind has diminished
somewhere between the bottle masking my pain
and the friends who listened when I spoke
I ended up seeing the sunshine for the very first time
and ******* it was beautiful.

Here's the dagger
use it in the same places on my back that you always do.
It's my only form of consistency.

Every time I turn around you're there, making me feel so unworthy.

Remove you from my mind and I become nothing-
just another sick sense of normalcy I've never been accustomed to.

This anxiety shakes my ribcage,
I'm having trouble breathing the same.
Having trouble feeling this way-

I haven't in a long time.

Not since the alcohol made you confident.
Not since my turtle neck and long black jacket.

You can only make progress by trying
but I am too consumed with your timing.

See I'm either reprimanded or taken for granted  
and in my mind that's inane.

In my mind I've gone concave.

Caving in again
I am now sheet rock and monolithic.

Show someone who has always had nothing
what having something is like and they might use it against you.

Too worried about who will have the last laugh
that we never think about the satisfaction.

I will become dust in your wake and we will both
make the mistake of letting stubborn tendencies fill the void.

This tension is leaving me desperate.
Wanting nothing from you, but all of your attention.

I'm dying to find your insides again
you lost them behind friends who never knew you.

but I still do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

These losses are never my own,
stuck inside the hands of someone else.

but I am always the person to uncover them-
make a facade out of the remains
I am always the chosen one.

and when that is the case
what am I supposed to feel now?

bereavement is not a luxury I have ever owned-
it has always been stuck in the mouths of others.

so what do I say when grief gets in the way
of my ability to empathize.

what happens when I am too broken up
to put into words
the way I would like to dropkick
this world
in the nuts
and walk the **** away.

the deeper I travel inside of my own head
the harder these things get.

it was his,
they were theirs,
she was hers
and his
and it's
and never mine.

This sorrow is never only mine
because the weight is more heavy
upon those who have lifted this burden.

every single thing
in life makes an impact.

and I have always been
the airbag.

my savior is myself
and I am swallowing solitude whole.

once again I am sitting inside
all of this dissatisfaction
awaiting the perfect storm
awaiting to be reborn.

but this trauma lingers in the shadows
it always seems to follow me
while everyone is shouting,
why can't you make it leave?

so I'm stuck in explantion
surrounded by those
who will never understand
this severity.

I sink.
I sulk.
I'm dirt,
I'm mulch.

The thing that makes others grow,
but they seem to always toss aside.

I am scuff on shoes,
and chips in paint
and no one will look at me
as anything but.

still I sit
idly awaiting the instructions
on how to rid of this weight.

clinging to this hope
inside of my chest
but chagrin finds me
charges me a fee of suffering
and reminds me I am nothing.

just the supplement
to a walking monument
of something I will never beat.

this trauma it lives with me
it stands in my silhouette -

maybe I'm just the shadow to it.

I try to speak through the silence
try to make a sonnet out of all the eulogized soliloquies
but all that I can seem to muster are endless apologies
and I keep asking myself what I could've done better
to make you want to stay longer
but I can't give myself an answer when I am choking
because the air in the room is being harnessed
by the elephant in the room
that's weighing on everyone's chest-
I want to say this is for the best
that those words you spoke to those you love
were just a cry for help and not an earth shattering insult-
I want to be sure
that the body you have made for yourself isn't empty
that you didn't spend your days trying to hollow yourself out
with full bottles that you made empty because they seemed like home
because you thought they resembled who you were
until they were all down the hatch and you realized
this is who you are now, empty empty empty.
******* why didn't I do something?
why didn't I wrap my hands around this insanity
and use all my strength and give it to you
because I would rather be empty
than have you laying helpless and alone
to where you feel like the wrists you possess
are your only logical way out of this ******* mess.
Please, don't leave me here.
Lord knows I have spent my days writing my own obituary
thinking about the things my mother would say about me
and maybe even my friends would write about me
when they were done hating me for leaving them
but I never thought the script would flip
and I would be sitting here writing this
and thank god this isn't your obituary
because we've all made mistakes
we live, and we learn from everything we do
and this has taught me what a precious gift life is.
How you can be hanging by a thread-
wishing in the dead of the night
you were dead like that night
and how it all comes full circle again.
My mother tried to **** herself once-
end her life like it was a shirt string you didn't care for anymore
but little did she know that string connect to a bigger picture
and when it was pulled everything else just fell apart..
You are a delicate piece of cloth
wash in cold water on the days you feel low
so you don't shrink yourself any lower.
There will be days when the spin cycles
you find yourself accustomed too
will become tornados and hurricanes-
but even at the coldest of times
you will find warmth again.
There will be warmth again.

Died a thousand times
to watch you live inside of me
But with each house fire burned
We became nothing
but a cemetery.

Ashes became of bones
and I lost my place of comfort
but you conform to coincidence

and say it didn't happen
pretend it didn't happen.

Your eyes are the fire
that made this home a hell
And I'm having trouble
sleeping through this heat
when will you admit it to me?

You poured the salt
on these open wounds.
Drunken tendencies
leading you dependent
on a girl who never stayed.

Still you gave your words away
to a place that wasn't mine
and ever since
I've felt homeless.

You fueled this tragedy
with cheap beer
and desecrated the
aftermath of my remains.

and said it didn't happen
pretended it didn't happen.

Too hard to be happy
without a home
inside of my heart.
I guess it's time to start
rebuilding
But these bones ache
and this head hurts.
You're always
feeding the flames
You're always
burnt out.
I'm always
feeling the heat
Trust is a two way street
But ours was an intersection.
Too much stop and go,
Not enough direction.
So all we did ever did
was crash
And burn.

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.

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.
******.

I really ****** myself up this time-
blood dripping into the palms of my hands
I started laughing through my tears
couldn't wipe them away
too busy trying to stop the bleeding
this broken heart has made scars again Mom-
but everyone around me is too busy to notice
or maybe I've just gotten better at hiding them-
hiding them behind this smile I like to paint
but see I never thought I was a good enough artist
the silence and the solitude like to tell a different story.
I turn the page,
watch as the silhouette of the last
makes it hard to read in between the lines-
too many pages of me have been unturned
too many chapters that go unread
there's a lot more to me than just a synopsis of this facade.
I click my tongue-
I make touch each one of my fingernails
Seems I am here, cognitive.
But from the view out of my retinas
all I see is blurred vision
a skewed understanding no glasses could fix
my far-sightedness in people has made me blind
there is no side to this story that can be unseen
expose of me, decompose with me.
I would like to waste away with you
but my views are too backwards
and it seems I am lost once again.
Reality makes me feel less real than dreaming nowadays
everything feels like such a dream
but most of the time it's just a nightmare.
I sit back and wish to drink this ***
the kind that's red and has little danny speaking tongues-
this lightbulb burnt out,
the hallways are lined with red
and nothing is shinning anymore
it's no longer a diamond
it's just all Kubrick zirconium.
watch me like your favorite novel
read me like your favorite movie-
never let me disappoint
but someday soon you'll get tired
and you'll pick something else
to fill the void of convincing yourself you like change
but nothing feels as good-
and the cycle repeats.
I would like someone to never tire of me
but these eyes have made way for more tragedy
and the bags under them make way for travel.
I will paint a smile upon my face,
tie a t-shirt around the open wound
so I can maybe stop the bleeding
and I'll pick up this part of me
place it upon my shoulder right where there's a chip-
because that's where it fits
that's where my heart is.

The pain has control again-
like usual, there is no known cause for this chaos
no reason you can find in between my fingers
why the regurgitation inside of my throat
escapes like it's a secret barely kept.
The way I am currently is no secret-
though the reasoning behind it is one.
I am a smoking gun
and the only thing I ever aim at
is myself.
Some days I miss-
and the gun does not smoke
everything around me is clear
so I can see myself so much better.
But on most days the smoke
encases my lungs and steals
away every inch of oxygen
from the air around me
and I feel like I cannot breathe
my lungs inflate but I cannot breathe.
I am running around chasing air
that I am not sure even exists anymore
but I know it does,
I can see it all around me
as the breathing of others make me tick
as the rising and falling of chests
makes me feel so ******* nostalgic.
I run as fast as I can in their direction-
but we don't share the same air anymore.
See I am light years away just longing for their lungs.
The trigger finger has stopped pulling
and the smoke seems to fade.
But somehow I still can't breath.
Everything is fine-
but somehow I still can't breath
why the **** can't I breath anymore?
Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.
Why are things not changing for me
why are my lungs still crushed under the weight
of all this pressure on top of my shoulders.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.
Why am I crying over nothing again
why does life have it's hands around my throat
why can't I swallow these pills meant to fix me
and when I do why don't they work for me.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.
Why is this gun I hold still shooting if the barrel is empty-
why has this smoking gun left me empty
why are my lungs just decoration for a chest that is now empty.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Repeat.
Why am I sitting here crying over a vacant phone screen
and convincing myself of things that aren't even happening.
My shadow has ran away-
it is not capable of keeping up with me
it has found that we no longer share the same outline anymore
for I am just a skeleton, hollowed out and shedding skin
and it is a shape I used to find comfort in-
one I used to know well before my breathing stopped.
Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.
The words I no longer need-
who needs breathing with a chest full of nothing.

What a sad fate
  her name so common.
So the triggers
  lined inside
  of my eardrums
play a silhouette
  of my nostalgia
and it is never symphony
  only sympathy
  and infamy.  

It's played
  mirroring the blood
that runs from my skull
  tarnished and desecrated-
  mind now too hollow.
It was ripped clean
of your memory.

My retinas aren't safe
  from a women with
  such a common name.

What a twisted fate.
I fell in love with
a lover
who didn't
  love me the same.
But loved her till
  the death of us.

He.
Loved her.
  Until it drove me insane.

1) You were always really judgmental of my friends, like there was a point behind your reasons for always being timid, there was.. I was oblivious and you told me things, the things you saw, that I should've realized a long time ago. I've been better since the alcohol left-
2) I never believed in the idea of love- always blinded by what I thought was mutual infatuation when it was really just my incessant fixation on the idea of.. You called me gorgeous the first day we hung-out and that was the first time anyone ever did. I fell for you fast and hard and that was the first and only time I ever have.
3) When you talk about the things that interest you or make you happy, your face lights up and your words become sonnets of admiration and everything you say sounds like poetry as it leaves your lips. I live for this.
4) I was kind of a child when we met, hardheaded and stubborn in my ways- never letting anyone close enough to scratch the surface but you made me realize that what was behind the surface was so so much better.
5) You made me love who I am, from my hip bones that beg to rip through my flesh to my nose and the way it sort of takes up half my face- you made me fall in love with myself again when I didn't think I ever would.
6) You give me a reason to have a lust for the life I live and I may be hard headed and stuck in my dark depths of depression but you're always there to lend a hand when needed.
7) Though you taught me only I can help myself back up, you will be there to keep me from falling down again.
8) The way you like really weird things most people wouldn't take a second glance at shows me that you find fascination in the beauty and the balance rather than just the image. You paint a bigger picture with your opinion and turn it beautiful every single time.
9) The way you get angry when someone wakes you up too early, or too aggressively- but you still find time to turn and tell me you love me.
10) This is the part where I start to cry because I was never really good with emotions and I'm spilling all of them just for you. This is the most naked I've felt even without a single piece of clothing on, but you'd still probably think I was beautiful.
11) I threw my phone across the room in a fit of rage but you held me anyway.
12) You always get more punch buggies than me- but on a good day I get more than you and can rub it in your face as long as I can, until the next time you win again.
13) I really didn't think a year could feel this short but with you I feel like my life here could last an eternity.
14) We fight sometimes and you always let me talk until I'm blue in the face which takes a while and even though you fall silent in times I wish you would scream or cry or give me something- you still find a way to calm me.
15) I love the way you're protective over me and sometimes I get overwhelmed by it but secretly it's really flattering because I've never really had someone look out for me. Ever.
16) You make me feel safe in a world that is filled with darkness and violence and tragedy, but you make it all seem so so far away when you're lying next to me.
17) When you are lying next to me, holding me close to your chest and kissing me on my head- it's almost therapy.
18) Though you tell me you love me with words, you also show me. Chivalry isn't dead ladies; yes my boyfriend opens doors for me- eat your hearts out.
19) You make everyday feel better than the last and you put up with my constant worry that someday you're gonna up and leave for no reason- but you don't.
20) I spent my 19th birthday with you and will now spend my 20th and every day since then has gotten better with you even when it seemed like everything was going to fall apart again- we kept it together.
21) You turned 21 last year but you don't really like alcohol-
22) You did what I thought was the impossible- made me believe in love.

I want to pick up the phone
and tell you I love you
shout it from the ******* rooftops
so you'll know I've felt this way all along.
I don't know how I can prove it to you
or if you doubt my every instance to try and let you know.
I'm ****** up,
I wish I could fix myself, but I can't.
The only thing I know for sure
is that I love you.
I don't know what else to do with myself,
when my lows are so completely irrationally low
you're the only one I want to talk to,
when something good happens to me
you're the one I want to run to and tell.
But instead I'm sitting here,
wishing I had some kind of backbone,
and some sort of security.
These bones are shaking from the things
my mind is capable of conjuring up.
The lower I get, the more I love you.
Save me, if it's not asking too much.

One.
The first memory I ever have as a child-
I was looking at bars in front of my face
and trying to push myself up long enough to stand above them
but it never really worked.
I never really ever felt tall.
I was an infant, maybe even a toddler.
I remember a man coming over to me
and then everything seems to go dark after that.
Twenty.
As I was sitting in class, I hear my teacher speak
"The earliest memory most of us have is at the age of 5 or 6-
and you don't remember really anything before that and if you do
it's usually because of some type of emotional trauma"
So I began to wonder if that blank part in my mind
is just another repressed memory begging to eat away at me
when the moment is right and I am happy again.
Or will it stay etched in my mind as a blank page
that I will never even get to fill.
and I'm not even sure I want to-
I'm not sure that's something I'm willing to find out..
Seven.
It happened again-
I remember the lap of a stranger and the dark room
clouding around me making a mockery of my retrieval cues.
I'm not sure who I am in this moment.
Eight
Hyper-sexuality takes it's hold on me
and doesn't let me go until-
Thirteen.
The year the memories of that night flooding my retinas
the year my grandmother got sick-
the year who I thought he was moved in,
the year I questioned everything about myself
until I came to grips with who exactly I was
but I don't think I ever did-
because he moved out and cancer moved in
and I lost touch with who I was because
I was too busy being what everyone else wanted from me.
26 absences from school-
sorry Lakota but cancer doesn't have off days
and neither does my mother who's playing caretaker.
My grandma was never my downfall
though there are times I sometime portray it that way,
she was merely just my lighthouse
guiding me home, whenever I was ready to see the light again.
Fourteen.
I tried pills.
Flexril. Clexxa. Effexor. Protonix. Busphar. Vyvanse. Seroquil.
Etc. Etc. Etc.
I either got fat, got acne
or didn't last two months before having a mental breakdown.
The pills fueled the flames within-
they begun to burn every last shred of hope I had left
and it wasn't too long before I tried to end me.
Fifteen.
Still trying more pills.
Sixteen.
Realized the pills weren't working much anymore.
Seventeen.
Started drinking. Stopped listening.
Coping through empty bottles became routine
and I didn't want to stop for anybody.
I began to fill the hole in my heart
and the blackness in my memory with liquid courage-
I hoped something would trigger me into knowing.
I hoped that the more I would drink the more I would remember
but that was *** backwards because most people drink to forget
and somehow I was somewhere in between -
like I was on death row looking forward to my last meal-
but still hoping for some kind of pardon.
Eighteen.
Started therapy. Manic Depression she told me.
Management tactics turn into routine
though I still held a vice grip on that bottle.
Friends brought me back from the dead.
Made me someone worth loving again.
Then I met a boy.
He was awkward and I didn't really trust a thing he said to get me-
I never really trusted anyone anyway, till he kissed me-
proved to me that I was someone worth fighting for
proved to me that everything wasn't so ******* terrible after all.
I decided I didn't really need the bottle anymore-
that the memories weren't so bad because they made me
victorious-
a winner of a never ending battle I will continue to fight
but I will come out on top every single time.
Nineteen.
Went to college.
Shared holidays with a boy I loved for the very first time-
finally felt like I had a family again.
Shared my love for poetry with strangers.
Fell in love with the world again.
Twenty.
Sober. In love.
& I told myself I sure as hell wouldn't make it past eighteen.

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.

I spoke, as the words left my lips I choked.
I was drowning in my own tears
trying to keep myself afloat by telling myself to swim
but it somehow wasn't enough.

Engulfed in the flames
I had lit myself on fire just to keep this passion burning
but the flicker in the night and the sparkle in my eye
has burned out once again-
so I realize loneliness is my only friend.

I spoke, choking on the words my lips built for me
that my mind didn't have the strength to formulate
all I kept saying was no, and I couldn't breathe anymore.
My palms became like a statue-
a monument of the tragedy I had faced.
Built of stone like my current demeanor.
I spoke for the first time since you took away my voice.
Messages on Facebook encrypting sinister undertone
crawled their way into my skin and latched onto my cerebrum
and all I saw was gray, there was no black and white anymore-
the cortex turned into a vortex and my mind spun facts into theories
truth into fiction and I began to wonder if anyone would listen.

But my mother held a stone face-
though my hands were stone cold and my face sheet white
she held me like I was the only piece of artwork that ever mattered.
So I spoke, let the tears drip from my face
like I was washing away my mistakes
and everything I never had the guts to say.
The words slipped from my lips like black ice on a winter day-
the kind you stay home from school for
it was the kind of cold you never left your house for.

As I told my mother how the man who stole my voice
stole my innocence as well, she wept.
The days all started to blend together again
and once the secret I had been hiding was finally free
I wasn't sure I was worth keeping anymore.
My mother's face turned cold-
and it hasn't felt the heat since..

Soon enough we both clung to the fire in our hearts-
too passionate to let it burn out or fade away.
Though I've still been swimming in the deep end
I don't feel as if I'm drowning much anymore.
These days have become watercolors
and these nights alone have become acrylics
so I guess, I am a masterpiece
even if inside there's some tragedy.

I have never believed in the idea of love-
it once tip-toed it's way into my heart
only to be thrown from my nervous system like acid reflux
the kind that pepto bismol won't cure.
Someone once tap-danced on my heart strings,
played that **** like a violin
so passionate about the way each and every movement
across the strings made me want to scream-
because they were playing the wrong things.
I knew who I was once-
maybe I was like 4 or 5 but I sure as **** was alive,
the days when trees had their own area codes
and the backyard was Narnia.
At some point between the "heartbreaks"
I lost it.
Then in you walked-
heart upon your sleeve like the latest fashion
and you kissed me.
I felt like I was a kid again-
the butterflies in my stomach began demanding refuge
it was a different kind of feeling..
I've always sort of had anxiety,
the crippling kind that makes you wanna throw up
but this, **** this was different.
I had never experienced good anxiety?
The kind you get after winning a big game,
or being in love..
I finally found it-
the love I never knew existed
but I still questioned it's authenticity
even as it painted pictures across my lips
and the butterflies whispering affirmation into my ears.
It's been a year-
and I'm trying to imagine the next one without you
because it seems to me that's what you want
But I can't seem to muster up the courage to be without you..
everything in this life has left me.
I hear the violin faintly playing in the background
and the tap dancers are coming closer now
the acid reflux has turned into regurgitation
and my heart doesn't know what to feel.
I've never had love for anyone
like the love I have for you-
I don't think it will ever go away.
I'm stepping on the edge, and it's begging me to jump
and usually the ground isn't too far
but without you, it's yards and yards away
and I don't think I can fly anymore..

Feeling things were never easy for me-
The ticking hands of the clock without you next to me
nudged my body into something I couldn't exactly stop.
My bones shake in your embrace and sometimes not in a good way.
My presence is something that has faded into your mind,
and my heart just a page on your drawing board,
always there to give you warmth,
whenever everything else seems bleak.
This is why I am no longer your fire pit.
I should not have to blaze for you to feel my heat.
I'm tired of getting burned by my own flames
because you fail to keep it consistent.

You shook me, figuratively of course.
But your words shattered what I once saw of you,
you had been the oxygen that kept me ablaze
until you completely blew me out.
Your words turned into a windstorm and I haven't been the same since.
I'm still trying to build the walls around myself
that once kept me alive and burning,
not letting anything close enough to touch me.
But time after time you remind me that wreckage can always be rebuilt-
but there's no promises all the progress you made rebuilding
won't come crashing down again and again and again
demanding refuge, demanding attention.
you are the wreckage in my bones,
and I can't seem to fix myself anymore.