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 have no vices,
no advice for anyone who doesn't either.
I don't smoke cigarettes or even drink coffee.
I'm not much of a drinker anymore
and marijuana gives me anxiety.
So on days when the world is crushing me
one foot into my throat at a time
I wonder what my vice could be.
Pills have found themselves into the throats of many,
and when they found the empathy in my esophagus
They won.
And then the blade found it's way to my wrist
and I wondered how I got like this.
So ever since then, no vices for me.
No way out, no mask or hiding behind lies
or behind the counter counterfeits
Just my own demons staring right back at me
like gazing at my reflection in broken mirrors.
I have understood the beauty of a sunset
and known what it's like to cling to the darkness shortly after.
I have felt the sinister euphoria behind broken drywall
and broken noses.
But all of it led me to the same place I was before.
Clinging onto drunken nights and drunken lips,
with every cigarette lit I reminded myself-
this wasn't who I am and I liked it that way.

Now those drunken nights turn to dark ones
and those drunken lips have turned to friendships
so ever since then I remind myself that nothing is permanent
and as I realize the only thing that could save me in the end,
was knowing that I've done ****** things and
the world that surrounds me has been ****** since I entered it
but I am no cowered.
I will love more than I have been loved
which isn't a hard thing to do
because people, printers and partying came first-
I have always been a secretary to secondary.
But I will fear no man, or take no one's ****
I will live this life how I envisioned it,
and love more than I have witnessed.

I let my eyes screams the words,
my lack of guts never give
the wounded heart I carry
permission to.
Then I looked to you.

I carry on my shoulders,
the burdens of an entire lifetime
and a broken family.
all the while,
tip-toeing around circumstance
and on top of eggshells.
Somehow I grew.  

I have been held down
by unfortunate upbringing
and misconstrued judgments.
Brought up by books
and words painted across
a troubled canvas
making sense to only me.
Then I found you.

All that once made life
unbearable and unworthy,
transformed into
something worth saving.
Fearful became fearless,
and I knew of the one thing
I was sure didn’t exist.

I couldn’t see light.
Then I looked to you.
I knew not who I was,
Somehow I grew.
I didn’t know love,
Then I found you.

I would like to explain to you
how my insides burn down the cities within myself
I have spent days and weeks and months trying to rebuild
from the last time I set myself ablaze
but I cannot.
These hands cannot grasp yours and guide you into my dark mind
all the while still trying to hold onto any sanity I have left-
these knuckles are bruising and you can see the scabs
but you don't seem to realize how they got there..
This heart is aching and you stare and wonder-
how the **** it got so exhausted..
I could try to show you exactly how I feel
but your eyes would be blinded by naivety
and your desire to act like everything is okay
when it's not, when I'm not-
I'm not ******* okay.
And I can continue to write it down
until my fingers wither away
and become one with this keyboard
until my pencil fades and all that's left
are the marks from where I tried to erase everything-
these feelings are not made out of ink.
I can't just put them on a page and show you
I can't pour out the ink and make something beautiful
you will never know what it's like..
I was never really good at explaining things-
like the way you make me feel
or the color of your eyes when the light hits them just right
but I think I'm getting pretty **** close.
And you see this mind of mine
is more like a maze nowadays
because I can't get through to other-side
to find where the **** my happiness lays
and I think it's ******* hiding
because it's afraid of what I am capable of.
Because the last time I found it
I sat on top of my roof at 2am
looking at the stars and laughing hysterically
at every single passing car
because it reminded me of my life.
The last time I found it-
I tried to take it and fall in love with someone else's lonely
but you see that **** nearly destroyed me and my happy
so now I think my happiness is afraid of me-
and I think I'm afraid of my happy...
Because without my sadness and this pain in my gut
that causes me to sit here and have to explain to you
that I can't make this **** go away-
**** even the FDA can't make this **** go away...
it keeps me thriving and hoping and clinging
to this pain in my gut and these thoughts in my head
reminding me that at any moment I can die-
wither away like I don't give a **** about my life
but what good is that
when it feels so ******* lovely to be alive?

I would like to take a paintbrush
across your eyelids and paint for you
what it is I'm going through.
Maybe take a picture so you can remember
this battle I face everyday
as the emotions I posses weigh you down
and as the words "this is too much for me to deal with"
leave your lips and you wish you wouldn't have signed up for this-
I hope you remember what it felt like to wish you would die.
I hope you remember that everyday is a struggle for me not to-
I hope you remember loving myself isn't easy either.
I hope you remember as I carry the weight on my shoulders
the burdens you carry on yours
that my life isn't a cake walk
it's more like walking on a gravel road barefoot
and although I may not suffer as much as most
that doesn't ******* mean I don't suffer.
I have spent most of my life cradling the idea of betterment
in my arms and making sure the people around me were safe-
I have spent too many years-
taking care of who should be taking care of me.
Now it's my turn to take care of me-
So don't you dare ******* say, I'm not trying.

My hands are in fists
and the red has been painted
across the cloth once again.
I broke more than just skin in this instance-
broke more than just the wall.
I can't remember stability
can't remember consistency
but how are you to remember the things
in which you've never really been subjected to.
Taking too much time trying to see myself in the light I need
and not enough trying to fix me.
Bandage upon these hands
no remembrance of how exactly
they got to this point in the first place.
Place me upon a crowd and I will flourish
but alone is a place I no longer want to reside
because I wither and fail and break.
I need the sun to grow
but I was thrown inside darkness.
Not even five hours ago
the top of the world was just a car ride away
but eventually the sun fades and so do I
eventually I am reminded the darkness
always seems to find me here.
Trapped inside this mind
that isn't too familiar with this facade.
Trapped inside this facade
too long now to know what I look like anymore.
Wishing third person was something I could switch to
just to be able to control who I am again.
She has been withered and worn
and she will not return.
Even if I could change things-
take myself out of this equation
there would still be problems to solve.
But I don't want to be that problem anymore-
because I don't think I have an answer.

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.

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 asked him to stay-
but his hands were wrapped around my throat.
I insisted anyway.
No words I could think to formulate
other than to convince him to not leave me.
Stay.
The words crumble like weak knees amongst a dying friend.
You realize these things when you're close to the edge.
About to jump.

He didn't need my convincing-
His eyes struck me solid
Half past twelve and his five o clock shadow
was the only shade of midnight I care to remember.
You took the time to hold my hands and now they're just spinning.

Clockwise mindset.
A reminder I am set in my ways.
The alarm clock sings-
Tells me there are still things I have to remind myself to remember.
But what good is memory when it is a shell casing of a bullet
that was supposed to be lodged inside of your brain but it missed.
Left you with a hole
and now you can't remember where you came from.

I am moving on from this.
From the hands of yours stuck around my throat
keeping me from keeping him close.
You are nothing to me now-
Just a shadow not even a ghost
Not even a figure I can make out inside of my mind anymore.
You are nothing-

I realize my time is up when the clock strikes.
Father Time says to me
That not everything is set in stone
And these hands will continuing turning
even on days the watch is broken.
So watch out for yourself.

These minutes should remind me
to forget your face in the background.
Ignore the ticking when it comes
and tries to remind me why I take these pills.
Just take them.
Do not bury your hurt inside a foreign memory
that doesn't know how to speak the language of recovery.
Because these hands,
They will continuing turning
even when my watch is broken
Even on days when I am too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tell it to the people
who broke me in half.

say it again
to the boy who shattered my insides.

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

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

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

I think too much on the outskirts of life,
never in tune with the waves and how they
sway back and forth like they're making a point
to give you something you are never capable of returning-
it makes me think the ocean has a sense of empathy
and a sense of humor that we will never understand.
I will never understand the way life blanks me out
the way boxes are made around our souls
and the way minds have the ability to think
way too many times a second which leaves me
empty-
not being able to picture the words I want to formulate
not being able to grip my sanity around the edges
of the skyline long enough to see the sunset-
these things are all optional
mandatory was never in my nature
and my stature has always been tall
which is why I stand in cities and see my own reflection in them.
The destruction and peace and corruption
living inside these streets of myself
but everything you need is capable to be found somehow.
Nothing is ever black and white-
which is why I see others in every rainbow
because everyone is flamboyant at best.
When the light hits their eye just right
and I see a sparkle of life in another-
I'm always reading others.
Spending time learning their pages
so I can write a synopsis out of their smile someday.
I am a writer, and on my best days a poet.
But most of the time these words are just a dishonest
depiction of what I'm feeling inside-
the things I don't really have the guts to say.
Every time I put my fingers to these keys
it's just a shade lighter of the stream of conscious
that likes to paint dark pictures in my mind.
Everything is subjective at best.
The fingers I use to touch these keys
and write these words are just machine
and I am the one holding the controls
until I lose control again
and I'm back searching for the consistency
I've never really had.
Because life doesn't tell you it's plans-
It comes to your house at 1am
and doesn't leave
not until you're hallucinating from exhaustion.
It sends you a 4am "you up" text
and expects *** after the first date.
It never asks how you're feeling
so you just have to wonder if it really gives a ****.
But life doesn't ******* give a ****-
it takes your words as a disservice
and makes promises it knows it can't keep.
I am a promise never kept-
always fleeting, always changing
mind never consistent enough for normalcy
privilege was never in my human nature
and eggshells have always been the shoes
I wear upon my feet
so I try my best on most days not to crack them-
not to worsen the shards that peg my soles.
I am wandering
constantly fleeting from the feelings
I never want to admit are there.
They are there-
somewhere in a place I haven't been in a while
where cob webs collect and the dust settles-
I have made a mess out of what remains
there is no consolation for me
just a collection of art most people don't understand
with inflection and tone that protray my words
in a way to which I hope people with grasp onto
I'm living for others-
to write the words they do not have the guts to say
to pin down the insecurities they bottle up
to let the elephant in the room
put on the best ******* show it can-
I would like to be the savior of someone's sanity
as seeing as I cannot be my own.
I will flourish and grow someday
but in the meantime I will use my light
to feed others until they feel strong again.
Alone is the dark corner feeling
the pit of your stomach anxiety ridden emotion
so burn the desire to feel it down to the ground
smother it with your blanket ray of light
and watch what grows from the ashes.
I did.

I wonder when the hurt will stop-
when the thoughts of self-inflicted pain will lift
and I realize I cling to the things that cause me pain.
It's as if self-sabotage is my second nature
and my 6th sense is anxiousness.
This is all consuming.
The thoughts in my head will never fade-
the depression living in my bones
has made a home out of my skeleton again
and my heartbeat seems to be demanding refuge.
I wonder when my heart will get tired
of trying so hard to beat through this frail chest-
I am constantly trying my best.
Attempting to turn this anxiety into art
and this hopelessness into a canvas
but my mind is blank now.
The watercolor insecurity
has mixed with my acrylic insanity
and you should never mix two types of paint
but I was never one to follow rules
so this masterpiece turns into a mess
and eventually everyone is looking at my pain-
like **** this is so pretty
how she turns her sorrow into a sonnet
of metaphors and smilies
**** I wish I had her energy
her zest for turning nothing into something
and all the bad things into good ones.
But it's never that simple-
I must bare it all
become naked with my emotions
in front of a crowded room
and that is all I seem to ever do-
release my emotions for people
who don't know my story
they only know the way I have written it
the first person viewpoint of this tragedy.
I am a broken shell casing of who I was again-
It's been a while since I've seen this place
this cage, and felt this rage inside my bones
that sends me spiraling downward.
This place feels so ******* familiar-
almost comforting...
So I cling to this sense of solitude
and familiarity
as nostalgia creeps it's way into my neckline
and makes it way to my brain stem
I am sinking into oblivion again-
Alone is how it's always been for me
and as soon as lonely left
it headed to the ******* gym
lifted weights, did some squats
and came back stronger than ever-
I am now weak so lonely can take it's toll on me
it's trained for this all year
it's won a race I didn't really prepare for
and I am left in the dust again.
My eyes are tired from fighting through the waves
and my stomach doesn't take much to fill anymore.
I am aware this strength will not re-return over night
but I'm wondering if it will ever come back...
I am fighting for strength-
but all these thoughts inside my mind
make me weak at the knees again
and these bones can't only take so much breaking.
My heart hurts-
I am trying to numb the pain
and deal with the things I can
but some things just take time.
Time heals all wounds-
but wounds tend to leave scars
to remind you of the skin you lost in the process.
You will never forget what makes you bleed.

I tried to write about you
but couldn't convince myself to
because repression has always been the forefront of my emotions
and I would rather not admit to myself that I love you again-
but I do.
I feel as if it is the only thing I've ever known
but when I start to convince myself it's true
I end up mimicking my irrational, inane tendencies
ten times over until the blood dripping from my bottom lip
paints your outline on my thigh.
I'm beginning to wonder why
this writers block
is causing me to only write about you
to watch as my lips venture inward
and taste the inside of my mouth
only to find you there
only to trace my tongue on the outline of you.
I cannot feel you in the same way
or see you in the same light anymore
it must have burned out
it must have made way for this darkness
inside of me that keeps wishing upon
any living star that you will still be here at the end of the day
but stars aren't living, they're dead.
They're just a faint glow in an ever burning atmosphere
like the sun has to hand out an apology letter
to us when it has to set again and again
so it leaves us stars and awe struck.
Reminding us of the destruction we can cause ourselves.
I never make much sense anymore.
Waking at 3am of dreams
that hold no relation to my state of sanity
that crush inside of my body and leave me empty.
I'm tired of this fuckery
of my hands gripping my head
to stop my mind from spinning out of control.
Why does bipolar have to mean no self control
why does it have to mean tracing my own legs
to remind myself I am still alive
why the **** does it have to mean thinking about death.
I am never in control of myself
so how can I ever be in control of the way I love you.
It will always be messy-
it will always be missed phone calls
and repeated text messages.
It will always be always wanting to be with you
because I can never actually convince myself
you need me as much as I need you.
But all I need is me and sometimes
I close people out so they know it
so they realize this mind is always on the brink of destruction
and then it is followed by a redemption so beautiful
that the sky opens up and I can finally see again.
I want to ******* see again
but outside it's night
the stars are dead
and I am reminded why.
again and again
night after night
I am reminded why love is never simple
why nothing ever really is.
We are a product of our environment
mine in laced in red and has fallen from grace.
Encase a scarlet letter upon my blouse
I'm not trying to apologize anymore.

I took five steps forward and two steps back this year-
leaving me with three ways to make or break myself.
The years were painted upon my palms
but I smudged the ink-
spent too much time working with these hands
writing with these hands
breaking things with these hands
that the years just ended up on my face.
Spent too much time asleep-
so they are stained upon my pillow.
No cycle you can repeat to wash out the stains.
No cycle you can repeat to make the same mistakes as me.
One. I found a better me inside of tiny capsules that once broke me-
they just had a different face.
Two. The textbooks and the late nights became my religion
and I've been faithful to the point of redemption.
Three. You found your way back to me-
I welcomed you with open arms.
I'm still trying to decide if this is me going forward, or backwards.
But it feels like a step in the right direction.
Four. The toxic version of myself has left-
it is held in the back of my dark closet.
Lined inside of the empty bottles I once sank inside.
They are now just a keepsake for who I don't want to be.
Five. Writing has been the only savior I have ever known
I write in cursive so you can't read between these lines
they all intersect, they're all stop and go.
No one can read me now-
these windows are tinted darker than the legal limit.
I wrote it that way.
One. Relapse is okay when it's just an eminem album-
but I broke myself by blurring my vision.
Two. Relapse is only okay when it's an eminem album-
but these scabbed legs like to tell you a different story.
Three. I let myself trust someone wearing a mask-
he couldn't look in the mirror and see his own reflection
he only knows what he has become not where he has been.
Broken by the broken-
a vicious cycle I repeat over and over again.
I took five steps forward and three steps back this year-
it seems I forgot about you before.
Another part of the year written upon my hand
that will stain everything.
It was a step in the right direction-
forward isn't always a good thing
sometimes it's necessary to go backwards
because it can lead you to a better tomorrow-
I took five steps forward, two steps back
and one more to lead me to my future.
Cleaning up the stains
because he is now my bleach
my sanity and the sparkle beneath the stains.
The cycle that repeats-
but finally gets your **** clean.
I guess three is my lucky number.
I took five steps forward-
the rest is just history.

I'm sorry my internal wounds,
are too damaged for your
clean subconscious,
to lay a finger on.
and i’m sorry
if my problems
are a burden,
but i have more secrets
buried beneath my mind
than you have lies
inside your throat.  
and I am sorry
that I am too much for you.
but my problems
are me.
and if you can’t accept
every part of me
you don’t deserve
any part of me.

and each time your fingers
press against my flesh
i wish i was dead
but with each moment
of intimacy
breeds a repressed memory.
so forgive me,
if i must drink
to be able to love you.
forgive me,
for cringing when I’m sober
but the last person
I gave my heart to
intentionally ****** me,
unwillingly.
just like all the men before me
the ones who are demons
of my memory,
chasing after me.

the only man I’ll ever love
goes by the name Jack,
and he can ease my troubled mind
and make me forget
in ways no actual person can,
so call me Mrs Daniel's
and put a ring upon my finger
followed by a shot class
and let me forget
about what I wish didn’t exist.
I’ve heard once
that misery loves company,
but what happens
when i’m more miserable
than you.

so no company,
would ever actually want me.
misery loves company,
but it remains unrequited.

you make me better
though I am still bitter

spending days
soothing the burns
upon my hands

I had been
holding things
too tightly.

you loosen my grip
help me hang on
remind me
this isn't solitary

remind me
I am not stationary
or stagnant
just starting

continuing this journey
just like I had done
all the days before
this one.

but I am not alone
for you are the hand
that helped me
and held me

you are the grip
that keeps me
from falling too far
back into the same patterns.

I worry if I write
about the way
you have saved me,
you won't want to anymore.

that you will feel
your work here is done
and you will move
slowly on.

the progress
will regress
and time will
wither us apart.

I will try to hold my grip
but I will be too weak
and my hands will let us go.

you make me see
the fault in that

and laugh
at the cynicism
etched inside
of my smile

you make me
want to continue.

so I will fill up this page
and write all of this poetry
for you-

and not care
what happens
if I do.

It's been seven days since the imprint stuck to my skin-
the scars still hold true to the nature of which they were born.
They were strategically placed upon spots I chose
their insides ran from my fingertips like they were proud of it.
But I was not proud of it.

It's been roughly 91 days since the pills lined my throat-
broke through the shell I hid the dependency inside
decided to try and make myself better.
It was roughly 40 days in I took regret to my skin
these pills reminded me what blurry feels like
these pills made me forget what I actually feel like
but I'm scared of what my body will do without them.
Ten days after that the cycle continued- Day 50.
I was back on the same track I was on six years, 2190 days ago.
The small shell of who I once was cradled in the corner
turned to stone and built a monument of my dysthymia
the mirror didn't recognize me, I could not see myself.
I watch myself in the reflection and try to remember who I am
the swollen eyes do not feel like the home I've built for myself
and it's been 2190 days since I've felt this exact way
the thought of nostalgia suddenly makes me sick.
I am wishing for the days to blend together again
for them not to be counted on more hands than I have time left
this isn't is an introduction or a preamble to my story  
this isn't even an epilogue anymore-
I wouldn't really call it a eulogy either.

It's been seven days since I took to my skin
the same way I did when I was just a kid
overcome with the idea of dying inside of my mind
and watching someone else die in front of my eyes.
So what is my excuse now?
Just raw emotion cutting into me like it's a slice of birthday cake
but this is no cause for celebration-
blow out the candles.
Break me down and hollow me out
disinfect these wounds so they will heal quicker.
The mania and the downward spiral are no longer holding hands-
they are jumping ship.
Dive in.

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 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.

I always write about the body
maybe that's because this is the only way
I am actually in control of my own.

I've always been the catalyst
to another's fulfillment.
Always an optimist
but treated the opposite.
this lifestyle's got me low.

So behold-
I have been holding my breath
since my skin was so delicate.
seems I haven't grown up yet.

Seems I never emotionally matured
into this body that reminds me
what loneliness tastes like-
it's diluted.

I have been biting the inside of my cheek
because the blood reminds me I am still living,

even when I feel dead inside.

Maybe taking control over myself
inside of these words
will be enough to make me sane
and will take away the mania inside of my veins-
but I still feel you crawling all over me.

This is a recipe for disaster
my lack luster infatuation
with a happily ever after-
you can see it in the fog of my eyes.

I am slipping into a delusion
of dissociation and depersonalization

maybe this is who I am inside
and maybe I've been wrong about me this whole time.

it's hard to know who you are
when half the time you're away from yourself.

floating idly above your chance at redemption
and recovery and autonomy.

the only thing left to cling to are these memories-
and half the time they're not correct either.

where's the ******* reset
button?

safety in my mind is a seven letter word
and you may not believe me now
as our bodies are caressing the hands of time
stopping everything in our minds
that could potentially break us both.
Or even when our heartbeats
are directly in sync with one another
redirecting the orchestra of years
that were spent misguided by the ones
who are the reason for our trust issues.
But baby it is you.

I can honestly say I've never felt this way,
because I've written a poem for about
**** near every person I know
but not as many as I've written about you
and my hands as they type for you,
are like a self-portrait for how I feel
except I can't quite get your ****** features right
even if I harnessed every aspect of your beautiful soul
bottled it up and turned it into a collage of color
it still wouldn't do you justice
and I know all poets write about love,
but see the thing is I don't know how to write about love
or if this writing is even right, or if my mind has just left-
because this feeling is far beyond any **** I've ever felt
and I am ******* scared...
but euphoric at the same **** time.

Like falling down and scraping you're knee
while you're running for the ice cream truck,
or like the monster under your bed reaching for your feet
just to give you a candy bar.
I feel like such a kid again.

And your eyes **** your eyes
warp me into a world I've never known
and whisk me off my feet faster than my ability
to even think of what to say in this next line
because I don't know how to make sense of this
and I'm not even sure I want to.
Because if I could explain it in words,
that would take away from the beauty
behind the rarity and the innocence of this madness
and everyone else would try to find it
and harness it into this little jar we call a heart
and live inside of it, never coming out again.

****, ever since my dog died
I thought I would never love again.
Ever since my first boyfriend in eighth grade
took my heart from my chest, polished it
and played hacky sack between him and my best friend
I thought I would never love again.

Looking into your eyes for the very first time
( and I think about this moment every day )
was the most scared I have ever been
mostly because I saw who I really was reflected in them.

Ever since every person of interest,
would leave me for another
I thought the idea of love was stupid.
and ever since I saw my parents
treat each other like ****,
I thought the idea of love was stupid.

But **** did you disprove it.

No one can take this away from me,
except for you.
So if you must take a piece of me
when it comes time for you to go
I ask it be the piece of myself
I saw inside of your eyes
that very first day
because the way you saw me
is the way you've always seen me
and a way that I've never actually seen myself.
I want you to keep that image of me  
because if you go you may never see it again.

Some days, I'm a hopeless romantic-
wishing someone would look at me with stars in their eyes
write me the universe in verses
and braid stardust flowers through my hair.
Other days, I'm a realist-
knowing such things only happen in my mind and in movies
and nice words are all I'll ever be accustomed to.
I guess the butterflies in my stomach have died
because I don't really feel them anymore-
I guess the light they kept running into
burned out..

I succumb to the uncertainty
as I give myself to you completely.
and when our lips creatively collide
I realize that I've always
been really good at cutting ties-
I tug on your heartstrings
and somehow it seems
i've lost the same knife
that once cut me deep,
making me believe in nothing..

I have mastered the art of invisibility again-
you don't see me the way you need to.
I don't show my emotions anymore,
hiding away this vulnerability
denying myself the ability to feel again-
you don't see this the way you need to
I don't want you to
see me.
Not like this.

I have mastered the art of hiding again-
alone in this spot I have found for myself
you're getting too close to finding me.
I don't want to be the one left looking,
I'm afraid I won't be able to find what I'm looking for.

The only truth known to me-
is the simple sense of delicacy.
The furrowed brow
and the asking how.
The not knowing when
or how to withstand
The idea of an end
only to lose some friends.

The hurt from it all
and the pain of death.
Seems I am the only thing left-
but I'm barely hanging on.
I'm barely hanging on.

This clenched fist
doesn't make any sense.
I can't reach out
somethings holding me down.
These hands are stuck stagnant
seems the darkness is stuck on me.

No rhyme scheme
seems to fit
so the metaphors
and the meanings are split.
Something in common
with my personality.

Ups and downs
encompassing my skull
Seems I don't know
anything at all.

The hurt from it now
and the pain of goodbye
Seems I am the only one
grasping at what holds me up-
but I'm barely hanging on.
I'm barely hanging on

I find serenity in the strangest places,
comfort in the strangest faces.
I scream for sanity,
and long for something,
more..

But more is sometimes less
but less is sometimes more.
and why do we want something
and then get it,
but run from it in the same instance?

Do not give me time to think,
I will take my thoughts
and run far away with them
and you will never hear from me again.
Instead whisk me away with spontaneity
don't give me time to think,
don't give me time to analyze my path
or fixate on my past.

The only thing we can hold true
is the time we have at this instant.
Tomorrow could never come
And two weeks ago
you were in a different place
And two years ago
you lived a different life
So make due
with what's left.

Show me,
that I am worth
all you say I am
make me believe again
and again and again
until I know for sure
that fairytales don't exist
but my own twisted,
****** up, distorted reality does
and it all makes sense.
to someone, anyone
and not just me.

My hands yearn for you to hold them again
seems I have become too complacent
inside of the idea you will come back to me.

I have yet to find the proof
lined inside of your eyelids.
Seems I don't even remember,
how they look anymore

Seems I don't even remember,
the sound of your voice
that lingers inside of this autumn air.

The leaves are falling,
making death seem so beautiful.

I am falling,
making love seem so miserable.

Here I go again-
lined inside of thoughts
that will never be congruent.

Consumed in all of these memories,
I have no idea what to do with.

Guess they will follow Fall's pattern,
perish until something better comes after.

Guess they will wither away,
inside of these winter winds.

I am tired of waiting for the Spring.

it seems as if,
the only care left in the world
is the one misplaced
in hearts and heads,
and misused by hands
that are too busy
holding onto what
held them back
in the first place.

the times i've spent dreaming
are lesser than the nightmares i've lived
the times i've done right
is an abundance compared to the wrong
but somehow the only sense of acknowledgment
I get, comes from the negativity
which leads to the destruction
that is caused by me.

my hands and my head
seem to break more things
than I can manage to keep
and I keep on dreaming
half awake, half sleeping
of the ways I can fix me.

The problem is
my mind is too big
and actions too profound
for only one pair of hands to hold
so i must hold my own
and hope someone else
will help me carry the load.

I've spent all my years feeling sorry for myself
for these emotions, for the things that I have little to no control over. Honestly, i'm ******* over it.

I could build you mountains and amusement parks
out of these words I conjure up
but you would tell me you're not amused
and I shouldn't haven't wasted all my energy on you.
But love is no obligation? Or is it to you?

I would paint you sunsets and write you novels
and you would tell me I'm just wasting paper.
I told myself no one would control my feelings,
no one would make me feel like **** for them.
But here we are again
which is why these fingers press these keys
building an ocean for you with my words,
but you don't feel like getting your feet wet.

I would throw a lasso over the moon,
rap all my feelings for you up in it
and then bring it down to you with
all the reason I love you etched into the sand
and you'd reply, my efforts are just way too much.

I am willing to do almost anything within reason for you
but your eyes are so blinded by the circumstance that surrounds you
that you have trouble believing anything I say to you.

It seems as if I am too much, and not enough all in the same breath.
and I'm done trying to make you realize these metaphors are not just
metaphors and over exaggerations, they are how I feel.
So if this is too much, or somehow not enough
can't say I didn't ******* try.

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.

Conviction in my confidence and conflict in my consistency.
My mind is on an endless loop.
It keeps reminding me that alone is the only four walls I need.
There's not much talking here anymore.
Just the sound of echoes bouncing off the things we wish we could say.
The silence tells more about me then I would like to admit and there are days when the sound of my own voice
is something I no loner recognize.
The lingering hope to proceed in this awakening, this coming to god moment makes my knees weak and praying isn't an option anymore
Because my hands are too preoccupied trying to dig you out of my throat-
Too busy writing down words I should be saying outloud or at least acknowledging to myself.
But even if I did they would all come out distorted and faulted and weak,
a true reflection of ones self.
They say intelligent people are more prone to being depressed
because they understand more of the harsh reality that is life.
So give me ignorance-
I don't wish to know how I want to kiss the nape of your neck forever
but I live in a world where forever is fleeting and reciprocation isn't working in my favor anymore.
I am never one to be rooted into one place, so I don't expect anyone to stay long enough to water me.
I'm half sun half shade
Both tend to work in my favor on most days.
But then there's days like today where I am awakened by the soft pinch of the reality
squeezing just hard enough to break the skin.
I don't want to bleed anymore.
I just want to be
But what happens when my mind will not let that happen.
I am a zombie in my wake
always searching for something when everyone else just ******* runs away
Don't worry, I only want to eat my own insides.
Rip them to shreds and turn me new again.
Basking the glory of what can be.
But someone cut off my head-
They did what I had been planning to do all along
And now I am alone in my solitude.
Watching as everyone around me realizes that I compared myself to a zombie and flower all in the same poem
All because I am one part beautiful
And all others destructive.
and it feels like I've been writing for hours
But I'm not sure how long it's been because time is never something I was good at keeping, kind of like you.
I am a broken wrist watch
stuck in time-
and you are a hourglass
always running out of it.

I wrote it on my wrists one year
and then again in the powder of pain pills.

and once more inside bottles
of dark whiskey that made me forget.

Since then I have not been close to a knife
without it feeling too heavy.

Since then I have not been
able to stomach medicine.

Since then the alcohol doesn’t
go down the same.
Just makes my eyes ache
and my chest feel heavy
the intoxication isn’t fun anymore.
just a warm nostalgia
of why I started it in the first place

Even upon running away
I am reminded of it.
Even upon coping
I am reminded of it.

In the steady up and down of my breathing-
I hear yours in my ear.

In the weight of cloth upon my skin I feel them there.

So what am I to do?
When you still ruin me
from the inside.

What am I to do?
When my own father
is invalidating at every corner.

What am I to ******* do
When his Facebook comments
are thrown into my face
as he uses the word “molestation” as an insult
as something I should be ashamed of
as something that doesn’t happen but only to deface men.

What am I do to do?
When around every corner
I am reminded of what they’ve done to me?

I. Keep. *******. Walking.

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 broke again today-
and then again by starting another poem this way.
I wonder when the repetition will stop
and the consistency will start.
Frozen in time-
constantly running into this art form
face-first and feet last.
I am head over heels again
but not in the romantic comedy kind of way.
In the way that my head travels faster than I can catch it
these emotions flee past me before I can process them.
Frozen in time like I am an old desktop computer
waiting for the signal to go through-
just waiting for that connection
that eventually gets lost in space
and you are defeated by technology again.
Well my mind is the processor-
it has malfunctioned for the last time
and I cannot compute really anything anymore.
I am alone-
a hard drive that only contains one component,
you could try to fit more on but there is no space left.
Nothing left to secure me
and you didn't eject me properly this time
you took me out before I was ready to disconnect.
Now I slow you down-
every time I am used for your gain.
All because your unwarranted rejection
caused a malfunction in my process
so now I am the one slowing down.
They tried to fix me.
But I just won't work anymore.

I would try to write about your eyes
and say all the sappy love **** I can muster
but you are more than that..
I would tell you how you are like a safety net
below a burning building
placed a little too close to the flames
but you are more than that..
I can't describe you exactly,
just like the universe you are ineffable
and just like life you are inexplicable.

I have witnessed my mother
brush swiftly passed never-again
as the contents of the bottle hit her palms.
I have seen the light removed
from my grandmothers eyes
as the life was taken from her lips
but it seems to me, being with you
is the closest to death I've ever been.
I have fought off death's name
with broken knuckles and battered wrists
but this time, only this time-
I think I'll let it win.

Halfway through halfway through my life I understood what it meant to be wanted by no one and not aware of anything all at the same time. I've driven miles and seen many places but they all fade to gray over the horizon. My eyelids become heavy as I think about the sleep that I need, but instead I stare at a computer screen. This life has brought me twists and turns, ups and downs and it's like roller coaster tycoon on an old desktop computer because these days I find myself trapped inside are slow and these words I am engulfed in are incessant and I can't seem to turn off full screen mode so everything that goes wrong I can't run away from anymore. The mistakes look me right in the eyes and deem me unworthy of avoiding confrontation. It seems these feelings are starting to demand refuge and they're tired of spending seventeen years in a cage. These matters can no longer be referred to as trivial. I have made more mistakes than I have made poems and I'm tired of being a victim of my own emotions.. No longer will I stand and watch the sunset slowly fade away. I will chase that skyline until I see the dawn again. I will plant my feet firmly on the ground and I will do the only thing I know how, grow.

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.

the burdensome anxiety that is my life,
presses upon my stomach
like the birth given female trait
none of us wish to be "blessed" with.
it tightens my intestines
and makes me sick
as if the ***** i wish i had
had been severely kicked.

I have grown accustomed to
calming myself down
and panicing
all in the same minute
and i have watched my world
crumble in front of me
and rebuild
all in the same minute.
and i start to grow tired of the routine.

the inconsistency that has been
****** upon me unwillingly
makes me feel vulnerable
like i did
when I was small and fragile
wondering why
he had touched me
in places i was told were sacred.  

nothing is ever planned
and every moment is random
but why do i feel like
someone's sole intention
is to see me without sanity.
every moment could be sickness
every day could be happiness
every instance could be a trigger.

So what is the beauty of living
if not to prepare yourself for the inevitable,
what is the meaning of life
if not ineffable?
I have found sanity,
in dark paths of my past.
I have found insanity
in calm nights alone.
and somehow
even in times i was close to death,
clenching a bottle to my chest
i realized that hell probably feels a lot like home.

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.

I hope the memory of you fades away eventually
but as I am laying in bed instead of counting sheep
I count the reasons you should be with me-
I count the things you do that reminds you of me
the traces I have left behind in your mind.
My eyes close.
1- I hope every time you play Mortal Kombat
you remember I was the one who convinced you to buy it.
and every time you lose you remember I was better then you.
2- Every song on the radio has my name etched in the background
and that saxophone solo you like so much spells out my name
in the crescendos as if it was the same tone of my ******.
3- When you lay awake at night stressing about work in the morning
as you're still high from the hits you take before laying down,
I hope you reach next to you in hopes to find my outline there-
I also hope you don't find it.  
4- in this journey of yours to find yourself again you are reminded it would've been better with me there, rooting you on with every single thing you accomplish.
5- I hope you lay awake at nice missing my voice telling you goodnight and missing my lips as they kiss you to sleep.
6-  I hope you remember I was your greatest lullaby and that you never slept as soundly as you did with me next to you.
7- and that all your ******* exes were just reminders of how much better you had it with me.
8- how you actually had something with me and not just an imaginary preconceived love you didn't have to put any effort into.
9- that you realize I wasn't something you actually did put a lot of effort into.
10- I am falling asleep finally as the anxiety fades from my memory and I remember I love having my bed to myself and not having to worry if you're thinking of me.

1- I roll over and the bear you bought me for christmas speaks to me in a voice I hardly remember. "I love you Amanda"
2- I'm half sleepy and I smile as the thought of you kissing my back and telling me goodnight creeps its way into my mind.
3- Loving you became the only thing I wanted to do right, everything else was just background music.
4- Loving you became the only thing I wanted to do right, but you thought you only did wrong so I became background music.
5- I am having anxiety again as the thought of you clouds my judgment and I begin to stop breathing again.
6- I can't see the figures in front of me or the images on the tv screen I am low again.
7- pacing back and forth in my room trying not ***** the thoughts of you out of my mind, get out of my mind.
8- I look in the mirror and realize this is what you did to me.
9- I was a frail excuse for a women, just longing for the same admiration I gave. I loved you differently than you loved me.
10- we never loved each other in the way we needed. I always felt like I loved you a little more. Like I was a little too much and you were never enough and that these hands could only grip yours in a certain way or would pull back and just put them in your pockets.
10- I hope you find me in those pockets and when your hands get sore from working too much that you remember I never made you work so much for this your hands hurt. I made you better. I made you worse.
10- I am cradled on the floor now hoping to find you there, but you're not.
10- I wonder how this is any different than when we were together.
10- I find myself repeating the same mistakes over and over again.
10- I just want to sleep. So instead of thinking of you, I start to count sheep and I realize those sheep were your disguise all along.
I am done letting the thoughts of you control me
we're not together-
and it makes me realize everything I've sacrificed for you.
I try to count sheep again.
but there aren't any left.

these scars on my knees are a reminder
  i cannot run away from the past.

but still I am buried here
   staring at soil unsettled
   basking in the outline of my body.

I have spent my days trapped-
  holding on to this idea
  that I can dig up dead memory.

Holding on to what keeps me guessing.
  everyday I am reminded
  of this ghost that carries me
  like it is a harness that helps me sit up straight.

But it seems I am slouching again
  seems my posture cannot handle
  the fact I'm trying to stand up for myself .

Where did my backbone go?
  how do I repair this absence?

When will I know that I can trust myself
  when will the alcohol stop being a cushion
  for everything bad thing I have ever done
  and every bad thing that has ever been done to me.

I am relapsing into oblivion
all because someone else wrecked who I am.

All because of this spine that is missing
and this spirit that cannot be dug back up.

It's shame I can't tell love from deceit.
It's a shame I only sometimes recognize intimacy.

When will I uncover the parts of myself
  that make me fit for recovery.

Why is survival the only thing my body knows?
   why can't I convince it things are fine now..
   why can't I convince myself?

You left these eggshells at my feet when I was born-
Placed them each two inches away from me at every angle.
I would like to think your purpose was to make me stronger.
So these soles would feel the pain of indecision and inconsistency.
You helped build me.
Although the castle you made was lined with bottles
And the moat filled with liquor
I still ended up being a prisoner at the end.
You locked me away in your box.
You stuck me into the four corners of discipline
And made attempting to speak such a basket case epidemic.
I learned that you were the dragon
That made me fear for my escape-
But I also learned you couldn't hurt me.
So these words became my only sense of sanity.
I threw them back at you until you realized what you made me
Was you.
So as you're staring at your reflection again
both your children are staring back and I wonder if you like what you see.
I wonder if your years of being a father whisper in your ear at night
So you're kept awake by your own mistakes.
I wonder if you realize you are a better man now than you've ever been.
These eggshells have been stepped on so long they are now just dust at my feet.
I'm attempting to clean the mess you made for me.
I'm not a coward anymore-
I don't blame you for these things you have placed inside my memories
And I no longer have animosity towards all the things done to our family.
You've been the backbone of a broken home-
Built from broken bottles and ****** noses.
The tragedy didn't win this time.
Your words no longer deplete my integrity,
They no longer make me weep
Because you've provided a home to lay my head at night.
A forefront for these words I write
A muse for my misunderstanding.
If it wasn't for the mess you made
These words would be dishonest-
They wouldn't sound pretty and fly through my fingers at a pace I can never seem to regulate.
Without you-
I wouldn't be a poet.
So thank you for the tragedy
Thank you for shaping me
Because the misery built my happy.
The misery led me to poetry.

Little control is had nowadays
and my head is the only thing moving.
The transient state of mind
leaves me motionless again.
Constantly trying to rid of these thoughts-
but the mocking in my eye reminds me they live.
The pangs in my chest remind me they mourn
and the pains in my head tell me they're here.
Waking is the hardest part
because you wished it a dream.
These steady hands and clear thoughts
were only for a short moment
before they were pinned to your neck again.
Taking something with you
that does not want to stay.
Fighting the refuge demanded in your chest
the way it itches it's way out
too much desire to be felt.
You can learn yourself well-
all too much can be an ache of the withdrawn
and you can teach yourself to be better.
That's what they tell me
behind soft words and vacant empathy
they try to convince me of this pain
try to learn it themselves and map ways through my mind
like it's a shortcut I've never really paid attention to.
But there are no secret pathways here
no ancient secrets of the unknown
Walking this cobble road has become
my sanctuary, I know it all too well.
Feed the lines in your head with the lies
they spill upon tv screens and convince me
over and over again that this hidden agenda
behind my eyelids is not masking some sort of pain.
They pray on the weak but that is not me
no I will not let them win they will not defeat me.
The jolting of my mind awakens me
coming to terms with my reality, I smile.
Knowing the only control I had were in dreams-
painting clarity on the background of each scenario.
It seems I have awakened. It seems I can be in control.
Only for a moment. Only with my eyes closed.

I've found a light at the end of my dark tunnel
and it looks a lot like your smile.
Where the road bends the fog lifts
and I see things more clearly now.
You are standing by each roadblock telling me venture on.
I tell you the same.
We both are stubborn in nature
and cling too much to the trees and not enough to the roots.
We are built on survival of the fittest
and the place where we seek refuge is our worst critic.
On most days-
your voice is the only sane thing I've come to know.
On other days-
it is my own that I use to pick me up off the ground.
You are the spotlight in my city-
helping to illuminate what's important.
Without you I can still glow-
but with you I can see everything so much brighter.

You have become nothing but a zip file inside of my memory,
taking up too much space so I had to make you smaller, and smaller
until this nostalgia didn’t overload my chest cavity
and you became minute enough to just forget again.

I have sent you into the backup file
laying on the desk in my room
Away where our pictures are.
Away where you should be.

It was always supposed to be give and take
But all you ever did was take what you wanted
and acted like I was the one who couldn’t give it.

Now I am found
one year after the fact
and each of the three I spent with you
has left me with nothing but resentment
and this animosity chained around my ankle
you always held me back.

I don't care enough
about you anymore
to finish this poem
it ended when we did.
I guess finishing is
something we were both
terrible at.

well at least not for me anymore.

I was never fragile
never let another's opinions sway me-
You ruined me.
Showed me what jealousy was
and let it rip through my flesh
until it was the only thing left of me
it's still buried beneath the cracks
awaiting to come out at every crevice
I wish I knew what trust felt like.
I wish I didn't have to lose it so badly
I wish you didn't steal it from me.
Why do you wander on my mind
like a bad memory that creeps unexpected.
You are a common cold
the thought of you lingers
and there's not much I can do to make it go away
other than sleep and comfort food.
I've mourned my entire life-
I'll continue on just fine again
mourning everyone else
like they're just another pair of eyes I wear.
I never saw your eyes
they were always bloodshot and broken.
You never saw me
your eyes were too busy hiding.
I don't want this mess you made for me, so ******* clean it up.
Take this feeling from my gut
this anxiety you left me with.
Take this love I so selflessly gave
and remind yourself how selfish you were with it.
I hope one day I forget you-
and all the ******* you left
creeping inside my mind
and hiding beneath my insecurities.
I will mourn for you,
I will move from you.
No longer will I be frailge.
No longer will I be sorry.
I am stone again.
Harder than most.
One day I will become a diamond.

It must be nice
to hang your broken wings upon
a bird that can fly for you-
to eat from the hands that have
been continuously providing you
without any effort for your own movement forward.

It must be nice to be able to actually move forward
but see I am stuck too far into my past
too far into my own mind
because when the sympathy comes
it's for a man who has always scorned
and never for the child who was scorned.
I see where the allegiance lies nowadays-
I have always seen it even at the young ages
when I begged and begged for the hand to feed me.
Those days when I wish I could've had someone else
pick me up off the cold ground and fly for me
but I've always been the bread winner
always been the provider of my own salvation
even in times when I could barely wake
there I sit making sure I would be okay
when really no one else was there to double check.
I need not be thrown into that category anymore
I need not the same things others desire or long for
wishing for these things in my world
would be like wishing for a windstorm
when you're trying to write your will
in the dark depths of the same forest you got lost inside.
It will never work-
too much chaos and not enough stillness
for you to capture what this means to me
not enough calm anymore, only storm
and I am at the eye of it once again.

Your hands reach out for those familiar
and I wonder why you don't reach for mine
until I realize we are just strangers-
living inside one home
that has never really felt that way to me.
You don't know that I need to get a grip
you don't know I long for a bed where I feel safe
a place to confide where I feel as if I really belong.
Your hands reach out for those familiar
and you do not reach for mine.
It has been this way most of my life
and I have come to learn all I need is mine.
All I need are my own hands to pull myself back together
to grip onto the edge of sanity-
show everybody I can make it on my own.
Save your handouts-
they don't exist, when I wish they did
but I don't really need them anyway.

When I was young, I hid behind tree branches and tall fields of grass
and everywhere was like a jungle to me.
I made crowns out of weeds and painted my innocence with a hinge of green.
I climbed trees away from my issues and nothing could stop me when I was hiding behind pine needles and evergreens.
I grew up back when the dented silo was still the dented silo and not the mockery of human consumption.
When my favorite restaurants all lined the correct side of Tylersville
and Fazoli’s was still ******* around.
Then I moved to where the trees were all I saw and the places beneath my toes became enriched with soil on a daily basis.
I was queen of my own jungle again and I loved every minute of it.
Now when I drive down the road I look to my right and see the streets lined with week old plastic bottles and bags-
you can’t go a mile without seeing trash and I start to wonder when the world will end, when all the pavement will become enriched with cracks and the ground will start poking through again.
Our tax dollars are going towards reparation of potholes, strip malls and new houses most middle class Americans can’t even afford.
I’m tired of watching what the world built for itself, become destroyed for what we try to build for ourselves.  
Everything is destruction and one day Mother Nature will come back with a vengeance and we will be the ones who pay the price.
Look around you, the fields you once dreamed about when you were young are now just economic land-mines and the places you work were once just an empty field.
Just remember, we live and we die and we are sometimes reborn again based on what you believe in.
But no matter your religion, Mother Nature will always be something I can believe in; when all else fails nature will always be the best therapy for me.