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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

My sky came crashing down on a saturday night
I looked outside myself and saw the mess I made of it.
My bones were shattered and my psyche torn apart
I never thought I would let it get this far.
Maybe if I stopped myself from loving-
pumped the brakes and stopped
to look both ways
things would've turned in a different direction for me
But I suppose I wasn't supposed to break-
that just sent me into a hydroplane
because everything I know of is drowning.
Maybe if I wouldn't have been so distracted
so worried about losing sight of the road
the fatal crash wouldn't have taken place.
But I am here, bleeding and broken
and you are there
looking, staring from the outside of this ambulance
when all I wanted was for you to
hold my hand through this car ride
I'm not sure I'll make it out of alive.
You just mouthed the words "I'm sorry"
and the paramedic kept on driving
I watched you pretend I wasn't hurting.
These crashes happen often
because I was never good at controlling things-
the pattern repeats every time
another sorry slips from your lips
and I wonder if you care to know
how bad this actually is.
It was like before the storm
all you knew was my happy
and when it rains
you don't seem to know me.
You don't want to get your feet wet
but I've brought you umbrellas
on days when you were so under the weather
you couldn't seem to get up-
took your hand and held it until the sun came again.
But the storms keep coming for me
and when I try to convince you they will pass
I don't think you believe me anymore.
I know I am unpredictable
and overwhelming-
that these tires are too worn now
to handle this kind of weather-
but I am driving anyway
heading into an unknown direction anyway
because I know when I get there
the sun will be shining
but I'm not sure if you'll be there to share that with me.
You're stuck on I'm sorry's and apologies
for things they aren't your fault.
You can't control the weather-
but it would be nice if you could bring me an umbrella
it would be nice if we could see the sunshine together
but you're stuck in reverse
longing for a path you can no longer take.
I'm tired of waiting for your reign to be over.

sometimes,
our biggest fear
and most tragic regret
is ourselves.

sometimes,
love can turn you into gold
lining the walls of an ancient castle.
and sometimes,
love can turn you cold
cooling the tender heart
that was once inflamed with passion.

I sit idly as the days pass me by
and next to you
I feel so alive.
But some days,
without you
I feel so exposed on the inside.

The thing about love is,
it can be the brightest of days,
and the darkest of nights.
It can show you,
the side of yourself
you would've stored away
if you'd known it was there.

Who am I,
or you, to judge love?
It is it's own force,
it's own entity
it can either leave you whole
or leave you empty
and I'm not sure
which one
love has left me.

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

I tried to smoke away my thoughts of you today-
but as the hunger pain etched into my stomach
and as every single laugh left my lips-
all I could taste was you.
My mind was somewhere else-
but I still ended up finding you there.
I've had writers block for a week
it still hasn't stopped but I hope
writing about the way you left me
will help the words come back to me
I hope it will make me worthy of something again.

I broke today-
my 10 month streak of no self-harm diminished
and I was at war with myself again.
I gave myself a concussion
clinging to the episodic tendencies I've always known-
I missed the familiarity.  
My nose started to bleed
because all the stress was getting
way too into my head
and so was I.
I fainted.
and no one was around to find me.
I woke up from falling-
alone once again
which reminded me of my childhood
everything reminds me of my childhood
the days when the stress would take me over
and sleep would win in an instant-
everything makes me feel so low
everything reminds me my childhood
except you.
But why do I see your features etched
into every face I come across.
Why does this feeling in my gut
tell me I should run back to you-
why do I feel like you're my forever
but you want that with someone else instead.
You said I wasn't the problem
and you cried when I kissed you for the last time
as you hoped you weren't making a mistake
even though you knew you were.

I hope one day I forget you-
that your name just turns into
another face in the crowd
another person I don't care to know.
I would've spent my life with you.
But you were too caught up in insecurities
and inconsistency.
People in your ear
telling you this forever thing doesn't exist.
I was left on the ground-
sharp words from your lips
pinning me down
all for your peace of mind
all so I could eventually lose mine.
Enjoy your freedom-
because I am now the prisoner
trapped inside myself
and you had the key-
but you tossed it aside
for that peace of mind
and your own company.
I am now my own tragedy-
Misery loves company,
but ******* I love lonely.

You have become the monster under my bedsheets
and the creature that keeps me awake at night.
The one who reminds me I am no longer worthy-
not even a response leaves your lips as to why.
You make it seem like these hands
that have been holding you up for so long
are only just holding you back.
I want to feel like the sun-
not the candle you blow out
when the wax becomes unbalanced
or the room begins to smell nice again.
I want to feel like my presence in your world
means more than just nice words
and late nights of me by your bedside.
I need to know this isn't just a game for you-
that these feet and these eggshell punctured soles
have walked all this way to mean something to you.
I want to know I mean something to you.
But as of late I just feel like an empty box
patiently awaiting to filled with something special
but you just use it to prop your feet up.
Look outside the box-
see that I have been standing here heart in hand
for god only knows how long
and remember to dance with me.
If the sunlight isn't enough for you-
live inside your shade
become accustomed to darkness.
Just remember-
turn the lights off when you go.

I'm not opposed to my introspective nature
that most cling on to with broken fingers
and ever trembling lips.
I am forever embracing my most outer self
in more ways than just one.
The sun never really rises and falls,
the earth where you're standing just changes locations
and I am located just above the brink of insanity
waiting until the world turns just enough for me to fall again-
but as the fleeting world speaks to me with tone deaf hears
all I can seem to dissect from the conversation is
that forever means nothing in a world where
tomorrow could never come again-
I could never come again
but I will not take that liberty from myself
I will not sacrifice my freedom of expression
for a small sense of morality
I'm not sure exists in the eyes of those around me anymore.
The one being of my own being means more to me
than being something I'm not
so the facade I play day by day
seems to break away at the edges
like a clay molding of who I once was
and I will make a stone masterpiece
with just my broken fingertips.
Spongebob ain't got **** on me
because these hands can carve memories
into the retinas of another human being
and make this life a masterpiece.
Don't ******* try me
because I will swallow you whole
and spit you back out faster than you can tell me otherwise.
I have self-inflicted my own pain too long
to not come back strong like stone.
Like dark canvas silhouettes syruping over sunrise
when sibilance meets promiscuous  
that's where you will find my sunday best.
My meeting with the God that may or may not exist
the self-loathing meets with the self-fulfilling prophecy
and I am the head of the dinner table.
So dig in-
feast your eyes upon the glory that can be.
Feast your eyes upon defeat below your common nature.
Remember morality is a game that only you like to play
just to show others you can win-
but what good is winning if you don't know loss?

people are never just people
they are volcanos and mountains
gardens and skyscrapers-
beauty, that will eventually
lead to destruction.
the thing is-
you can never un-feel something,
or something for someone.
I had hoped some things would
magically vanish in an instance,
but they latched onto my memory
and played hop scotch with my nerves
as my mind ran rapid with paranoia.
I had wished at a young age
someone would love me more
than my father did
and show me more attention
than my mother did.
But see expectations
tie a knot around your hopes
and noose it to the ceiling fan
you watch as they spin
round and round and round
until they break everything
in their path.
See people don't come with a warning,
because we're all not really sure,
what we're actually capable of.

I was never one to bite the tongue
that spits sharp and quick
with wit and fiery passion.
I was never one to bite my tongue.

I was never one to hold back
the vivacious, lively girl
with quick wit and passion.
I was never one to hide who I was.

But as much as the days change
so do I
and I'm beginning to wonder
if I had ever known exactly
who I was.
I was never one to second guess.

I wrote stories that could move the sun
and destroy every hope you had left
of your sweet sanity and crumble it
into an ineffable reality.
I was never one to double check.

But just like the seasons,
I changed, fast and fierce
because of a force unknown to man
that I spent years convincing myself
wasn't even real nor imaginary.
I was never one to believe in love.

Somehow it found me
and a way to dissemble
my quick wit
and set ablaze to my fiery passion.
It captured me in it's warm embrace
and promised me a lifetime
of security.

Just as it came
so did the loophole
and I realized quickly
that there was a time
where I must bite my tongue
and there is a place
where passion and fire cannot meet
and sometimes
you have to edit,
even your best work
on your worst days.

You see-
I was never one to bite my tongue,
I was never one to hide who I was.
I was never one to second guess,
I was never one to double check.

I was never one to believe in love
and when I did,
my eyes opened wide
and I had seen a world never shown
it was then I realized that
all those things I never did
had now become a part of my daily routine
maybe love, isn't as bad as I had made it seem.
and now, i may be a lot less sane
but my wit is a lot more keen.

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.

here comes the crash and burn
here comes me keeping score
of every **** thing you've ever done
in comparison to me I think you've won

watch me unweave into a basket
of backseat insecurity
you're driving me mad.

I'm sorry for not being there enough
and I apologize for shutting you out
but when every word from your mouth
shouts "this is your fault"
it's hard to stay calm,
it's hard to keep going.

I took my last breath for you yesterday
and now I breathe much easier,
without the weight
of a thousand problems on my plate.

this is food for thought,
your universe is not as big as me
I'm as small as a pebble
and as frail as the dirt
but I can still become something more.

Dissemble myself from you
piece by piece.

I don't want to leave you with nothing-
but I don't want to keep on hurting

Myself.

I'm done trying for your sake
should've seen this mistake
coming around the bend again
but we're at a four way intersection
and none of us wants to go.

I'll guess I've make the first move,
to move on from being you.
to move on from letting you
love me.

it's a sad song,
on a good night
it's a long drive
with no goodnight
kiss.

I'm craving things
I don't seem to miss
and it seems I'm done
reminising
about you.

These memories
were good to me.
But the pressure was too much.

I threw myself under the bus
and I never looked both ways.
I should've looked both ways.

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.

I try to let these words I speak come to me
bloom out of my fingers like someone long ago planted seeds
hoping they would flourish out of me
so I could write everything you need me to.
But this heart holds more regret
and these eyes have seen more destruction
than any garden could possibly uncover.
And see that's the trouble
the only time my fingers feel at home
is when the tragedy masks the happy
and the depression nooses it way around my neck
turns the whites of my eyes red and makes me remember
the reasons I started writing in the first place.
I'm a little too close to happy and I wont ever get there
I just reach out my hand to touch it
and it runs back to it's save haven
as I run back to mine because I fear what I may find
in the dark of the night-
the silence of this room is my impending destruction
is my masterpiece and my corruption.
Its my sin and my sanity in the same exact second
and I've used that line twice now but it's the only way to describe
how I am constantly crying on the inside
crying out for that happiness that runs away when I touch it.
The happiness that wouldn't even remember my name
if I did in fact learn to love it.
So what now?
These hands hold on to the idea of becoming better
and these fingers write it out like an apology letter
but you remind me time and time again why it hurt to be lonely
and I knew I would never truly be happy.
I learned that the day someone started loving me
and it somehow still wasn't enough to ensure my insanity.

When you're running down hill, you have to keep pace-
keep running while keeping your balance so you don't trip
land face first into the dirt and wish you would've just crawled.
This life isn't born to be crawled upon
so run, run as fast as your feet can take you
towards the places you want to be
towards whatever the **** makes you happy
because who the **** wants to be me
hanging on the edge of the cliff clinging to anxiety
but I wouldn't change it for a ******* thing
because this, this is my normalcy, this is my version of happy.

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.

around me are civilians
struggling with what it means
to be normal.

stuck in a loop of society's
standards and how their parents
raised them.

A plethora of mental chaos
and the burden of growing.

around me is myself
struggling with what it means
to be normal.

lost inside the idea
of being in control of something.

Their normal has a face.
It’s an object, or found at a place.

My normal is void of
human characteristics-
it is all solidified inside
this lost memory that
rips my limbic system
into an endless limbo
of hyper vigilance and manicness
I am a vigilante at best.

My normal is foreign.

My normal is a girl
with a slanted face
sitting in class
wondering why
the tip of her pencil
feels like a vice grip-

why the words
from a professor’s
lips sounds like grooming-
when in reality
she's stuck in a trance.

She's stuck inside the time
she got bribed for intimacy

stuck in a time
where she thought trust
was lust and that little girls
we're supposed to be submissive.

She's hanging by the thread of her thoughts
realizing these are memories-
realizing she cannot stitch up the holes inside of them.

That all this bad ****
isn't actually a daydream
that she can just fidget and blink and pinch
her way out of.

So now she has to learn to cope-
while she has an hour & a half
to take an exam and her mind
is void of any information.

She has never been taught
a lesson that she didn't teach herself.

I have never been taught
a lesson that I wasn’t manipulated
into learning.

So forgive me-
Bc my wish to be normal
is your struggle.

Forgive me
because this trauma
isn't a competition
but I can't help feeling like
I'm losing
can’t help but wish I was
in the place of others.

Can’t help but feel like my childhood
is nothing but an ankle monitor
keeping me distant from myself.

I am carrying around this burdening
that no one has any idea what to do with.

I am drowning in the idea
someone else will ever be able to help me.

I'm drowning in the idea of solitude
and independence-

That loneliness will someday
feel like progress.

That this pencil
will no longer feel like a vice grip.

I am choking on the absence of words
just dead air and radio silence.

This salience,
here on this stage-
will swallow me whole.

The only place I can call home.
This type of normal chains itself to me.

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 ******* hate myself
and I mean that in the nicest way.
I am the only one who loves myself
with a fiery burning rage.
But who also has the desire
to slit open the scars
I have left for myself.

It's like I'm my own back stabbing
***** of a best friend-
when all the world is sinking in
on these tainted shoulders
I'm the one who picks myself back up
because who else would?

I am as bipolar as the weather is
where I live and if you lived here
you'd think that was funny
but I find it kind of sad
that when the weather turns gray
and the sun is too shy to show it's beauty
that's the time I fall to my knees
and shout "no one loves me"
because maybe the sun is my security.
Or maybe my depression is seasonal,
either way I am one with mother nature
because she may be unpredictable
but you admire that about her
no matter how much **** we put her through
and ******* we feed her,
she's still there to make us cautious
that we will be struck by her lightening.

One day when my palms are sweaty
and my knees are weak
and theres nothing I can do to let go
of the bottle that is clenched to my chest
I will remember that I love myself best
and if I succumb to my own abuse
that makes me weak and frail
and kind of fickle if you think about it.

My mind is an escape and a prison,
kinda like going on vacation
where there's a construction site
right next door to your hotel
but you don't mind because
the beach is in walking distance.

I guess it's kind of hard to explain
where I come from and where my head
is currently at but I guess all I can say is-
There is gold at the end of the rainbow
but everyone's *** looks a little different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I promise I'll be better baby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's ironic to think about how I had someone once.
The kind of person who would
"insert literally any cheesy metaphor here" and he would have.
But I was too scared to want that for myself.
Too terrified of my emotions to let them into me.
I wish I could turn back time.
Before I was all ruins and dust of those who have walked all over me.
Sometimes I think it a dream,
that this life I'm living isn't really me
That the girl with the dark brown hair
never dyed it because she wanted change from a boy who broke her heart that she ended up running back to anyways.
Now her hair, heart and pride are all damaged.
She isn't treated the way she needs to be. And any chance of that happening isn't likely. She chose her fate but it wasn't wisely.
She didn't think she deserved to be happy.
So now she's not.
And she can't seem to let go of the boy with the canvas across his chest because she finds beauty when he breathes.
But he doesn't give her a second look most days.
Only acknowledges what's in front of him when it's there, not when it may not be anymore.
He often thinks too much into himself.
They are both too insecure to love each other properly
and too insecure to let each other go.
We are the best of friends but the worst of lovers.
And there could've been the love of my life somewhere before or inbetween but I never seem to do things according to plan.
These paths across my thighs are like a roadmap for my lonely and you have never dared to look in their direction because you don't know this pain I feel under my clothes.
How every inch of me is covered but it still feels so open and exposed.
I've never hated anyone more than myself.
Not even the ******* who stole my childhood
because I hate myself for letting him.
I shouldn't put so much blame on a girl who has never had guidance. Built myself from the ground up and it seems I am not finished yet. There is still work to be done.

I'm sorry for what this pain
has turned me into.

I'm almost 23
still I sit
uncomfortable
with the parts of myself
I should've felt okay with at 12.

But I am stuck there.
A small girl
painting on her skin
wondering why everyone
makes such a big deal out of her body.

But still I am stuck here.
A grown woman
tearing at her skin
wondering why
she feels so outside of her own body.

Everyone wants something from me
there is only so much I have left to give.

They wonder why I cannot
push past this pain.

They wonder why I won't
shut the **** up about it.

It is lined inside my DNA now
my genome is riddled with trauma.
It is as much apart of me
as the these veins inside my skin.

I am weak
in the same breath
as I am strong.

Taking steps backwards
until I meet the small girl
that was ruined by another.

I shake her hand
and thank her for the progress.

I look in the mirror and do the same.

But all I see is my trauma
lapping over my eyelids.
Stuck inside of my reflection
my abuser stares back at me.
Smirking.

Stop making me remember
I am trying to forgot.

But this is just as much apart of me
as I am apart of it.

It will never be a second cousin
twice-removed.

It will forever be malignancy.  

There is no remission for this.

No black box warning
on the side of these pills
because I will end up killing me first.

I got 99 problems but hip-hop ain't one.

"Poetry, that's a part of me, retardedly bop
I drop the ancient manifested hip-hop straight off the block"
Nas and Jigga beef was the first I heard of drama in the music industry-
fueled me as a youngin' crowned from my brother's love of it.
Fast forward to when the radio put me on-
in the garage, on my mongoose
I heard someone spitting through the stereo
didn't pay much mind until a high-pitched voice rang through.
"Through the wire-"
no "through the fire?"
I couldn't understand but this dude started rhyming
and speaking through the speakers at me
my hair raised up and I knew this was love-
smile on my face at first listen
never really heard anything like it.
I thought back to the first song like that I heard-
"Life's a ***** and then you die-"
knew that line all too well
resonation in my bones didn't feel so much like a stranger-
my young self started spitting around the older crowd
they looked down and smiled-
a sense of admiration.
Hip-hop was my way in my ticket to acknowledgment.
Started listening to Eminem before I was even 10.
5th grade on the bus rides to and from field trips
"Shut the **** up guys I'm trying to listen"
headphones in, finally found someone to relate
so many thoughts of suicide being taken away-
realized the radio wasn't really my thing
too much pop and not enough soul
the words they sang were nothing to me.
In the beginning hip-hop was just a facade I liked to play
so other people would notice and think I'm pretty cool
but somewhere along the line it took me over
bumping nas, em and pac through my stereo
mom looking in my room like
"where the **** did my daughter go?
she's listening to this ****, she's gotta get a grip-"
But when I hurt the music would listen
bass lines and samples running through my veins
didn't know much about hip-hop
except the way it made me feel..
Technology came abrupt and the computer was my safe haven
the runaway from the abuse I was experiencing
mommy and daddy fighting?
headphones in so I can't hear it.
crying through each verse
and then the chorus hits and I'm better
finally realized I wasn't alone in this hell hole.
Started up a myspace-
more room for discovery
Eazy-e some Biggie more Nas
and **** even some Jeezy.
Every word they spoke
became something that was apart of me.
"Poetry, that's a part of me, retardedly bop
I drop the ancient manifested hip-hop straight off the block."
Nas said it best-
old school rappers speaking to me before bed.
Then I discovered Cudi, more Kanye, andre 3k.  
thought about how I had to write like this
it was my destiny to manifest this passion
put it into my pen until I could learn to lavish
in the luxuries they could afford
not the riches but the rhyme schemes
and the way it helped me
again and again would listen until I got tired
notebooks full of rhymes
my life was on the line and it became wired
then came limewire and my mind blew up
there's an entire world of music I never knew-
download after download the music became me
so much more to go through
****** up my computer
virus to the hard drive
all my music's gone. ****.
Freaking out in my room at midnight
threw a chair, punched the wall
mom asking if i'm alright.
"*******, go away"
She thought the music was to blame
but without that **** is why it happened
never gave up on this **** called rappin'
wrote my first rhyme when I was in 5th grade
poetry turned to rhyme schemes
and samples I liked to play.
Passion turned to aggression
when everyone started spitting
thought this was me and no one elses
has to prove who I was to the masses.
High School came and I was
"The girl who rapped"
freestyle lunch sessions to secure it.
Voices from the crowd
"**** she murdered it".
Slipped up-
started on the pills
too many thoughts in my mind
too many demons to ****-
ran away from the hip-hop
turned that **** to heavy metal
pop-punk and punk rock.
Turned away my from my passion
and started writing poetry
stanzas, sibilance and sonnets
filled my insides.
I suffered without the classics
the dream began to fade away.
We moved-
became a recluse.
didn't eat for weeks
but this time money wasn't the issue.
Heard something bumpin' from the basement
my hair stood up when I heard that base hit
ran down like I was chasin' after my passion again
"what is this?"
my cousin laughed "Life Changes"
"who is it?"
"Wu-tang" he said to me
I bobbed my head and smiled once again
"Wu is indeed for the children"
he laughed and so did I.
Realized my love for hip-hop
would never actually die.
"Poetry, that's a part of me, retardedly bop
I drop the ancient manifested hip-hop straight off the block"

Reek havoc amongst yourself,
watch it burn from the ashes of neglect-
simmer like the silence inside your bones
remember the things you chose not to say.
As your blood boils to the surface
reflect on why you're about to lose your sanity again.
In the dark of the night-
I sit on the roof watching passing cars
like I'm the only one who pays attention to their breathing.
I watch the sky and try to see the Earth spin
try to make a musical instrument out of the wind
I hear music in everything.
Somewhere along the line it became the only safe haven
so the blood that spills over and the ashes that fly away
become not just a passing memory-
they become a church choir for mistaken identity
for the facade placed upon me that I eventually threw away.
I remember hospital beds better than my own childhood
and I think memory is the only game of russian roulette
I have ever been good at-
because either way I die.
From the memories or the wounds it gives me on the inside
either way it cripples me.
Attachment is not my forte
but it seems to linger on my mind
like it's a bad dream I can't seem to shake.
Independence has always been the way I grew-
flourished under my own autonomy
and patriarchy has always been the enemy-
times like these I realize how genetics are strong
how father and son can grow to become the same
how times can change more things
than they make consistent
and how consistency is dynamic
in this world where everyone is so static.
I have become myself once again
found the fleeting feeble female
I was once was and grew her into something I liked better.
Felt the indecision of discretion
and watched as freedom became my second nature
but now it is my sixth sense
my conversation with the higher power
the light at the end of this tunnel
so use your words wisely-
they can become a disservice to you
and make you wander onto the edge of your own lips
only to have someone else remove them with their kiss.
Your mind is your own greatest magic trick-
use it to your advantage.

In the middle of the night he cried-
arms outstretched wide to his father
who was never really there
and the times when he actually was
the liquor stained lips would reply
with an adaptation of his truth-
"**** it up and be a man".
The boy looked at him with hollowed eyes
and a heavy heart and from that day on
carried a burden upon his shoulders
at the life he thought would treat him well.
But it painted dark skies over his sunset
and brought clouds to the sunniest of the days.
He was born in a world where emotion is never okay-
So the chip upon his shoulder turned into a hole
and eventually made it's way into his heart.
That chip now a disease on his insides
his brain rewired to push everything back,
to swallow his hell whole and to hell if he did
because he knew what this life was doing to him.
His insides turned to stone and he held a stone face.
As his father told him the names of all the men
he should look up to and he left any women off the list.
So as the boy grew old he found himself hiding away
his insides and never showing a hint of emotion
because he knew it would let his father down.
Outside he took his fists and misplaced them
upon four walls-
his arms outstretched around little sister's neck.
Society's genetic defect.

Someone once told me-
men are more likely to commit suicide than women
I thought about this for a while-
Women wake up everyday in fear of dark alleys and street corners
Afraid of men with any address begging to undress them-
We can't walk down the street, any street without worry.
We cannot go into the store without fear painted at our feet
We have become afraid of our own shadows.
This life has built resentment upon our shoulders
ever since the wage gap got less and less
and even now we still have work to do.
But we can't forget that society has painted a picture
of us all and they're nothing close to a self-portrait.
They're more like those fat faced comic illustrations
you get at amusement parks and laugh at
because they look nothing like you.
Us women have been taken advantage of for years-
hiding behind car keys in-between our fingers
and pepper spray on our keychains.
Men have had to hide their pain behind fake smiles
and bank accounts that are supposed to make them feel bigger.
When in reality, we all just end up feeling tiny.
We all feel like the edges of our feet are on top
of years and years of misandry and misogyny-
and although the words feminism encompass feminine
all it's really about is total, complete equality-
so now is the time to treat everyone equally.

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.

I try to write you out of my mind-
try to cry until there's no more tears
but they end up coming anyways
and it's not because I miss what we had.
It's because I let myself feel unhappiness for so long
that I convinced myself you were my happy-
when in reality you would bring me down
just to bring me up
so the reliance would fall upon you
but you got greedy-
and soon it was too much for you to handle
so you had to let me go.
You built me up and let me down
within the span of a year
and I think six months in is when
my world started to turn
because that's when the poems started.
The pages and stanzas of words
I felt for you that made me feel
nothing about myself-
you always made me feel low.
But I told myself I could fix it
because that's what I've been doing my whole life
trying to repair the things I didn't actually break
spending all my time fixing others mistakes.
You were never a mistake-
and I will always love you
deep down inside of me
I believe you are the one for me-
just not right now.
I've been acting as a parent my whole life
enough to know
that you have some growing up to do.
My outline is just a shade of dark now
and I'm working on the light again.
The flame I once was became smothered by love
and I'm trying to get it back-
but the wood is too wet from all the tears
and I don't have much to fuel the fire
because I am so ******* exhausted.
I'm tired of missing you-
when you hardly ever missed me anyways.
I know you love me-
you may think that's changed but it hasn't.
You convince yourself of these things
to make it all easier-
denial won't make it easier
repression won't make it easier.
Just deal with the fact
I was the one you loved most of all
and I was also the one you lost.
You can search inside yourself
to find what we had again
but you never will.
The void will always be empty
unless you have me.
So just remember my tragedy
fit your shoulders like a shirt sleeve
that now just wears your own heart upon it.
I wrote this in my dream last night-
I wrote this to get the thoughts of you
out of this mind they have been stuck in for days.
It hasn't been too long without you
but I start to miss you less and less-
I hope you start to miss me
so you'll realize exactly what you left.

I have no words for my current state of mind and it's ****** up.
Usually I can conjure into words
the way this situation makes my ******* stomach curl
and the mere idea of it sends me spiraling back
into the dark pit of angst and disgust that is my childhood
But this time, oh this time, the words I write will become
a cemetery for every ****** up thing you've ever done
I just wrote the words I'm sorry, but I don't mean them anymore.
Not to you, not ever to you again.
I'm tired of being the backlash of what's supposedly family
I'm exhausted on the idea of being caretaker
for someone who should be taking care of me
and the circumstances I am left with makes it hard to leave.
Because if it were up to me, I would've been gone so long ago.

Just like the day I ran away from home
because daddy was in our hot tub with someone who wasn't mommy,
the day I ran away because I wanted someone, anyone to notice me
to show me some kind of attention that wasn't unwanted.
I spent days of my youth sulking my own fake tragedy
only to find that no matter what, no one will pay attention to me
because these days are busy and daddy's too overbearing
and if anything get's ****** up it's war at the house again.

I will not be a refugee for other people's problems
I do not have the time or the sanity anymore to partake
in the fuckery that is adultery and selfishness.
I do not mourn for you anymore because I am no longer a child
and I no longer pretend just to get some sort of attention
so maybe you should stop as well..

You are a leech, you **** out any good left inside of all of us
and in my life and I am done putting up with it.
I will not stand idly by and watch everything I've made of myself
Crumble and go to ashes just because your burning down
everything you've made for yourself.

The day you took your palms and placed them where you shouldn't
was the same day you lost me for good.
These material possessions are just a filler for your guilt
and I will not be fooled by this deceit with your pocket full of the same.

This love doesn't come in currency,
and I don't take credit, so mourn in your tragedy
and face the debt you have placed on yourself.
I have no sympathy for a rich's man scorn.
I have no sympathy at all anymore.

The ink I use to write these words lingers upon my fingers-
the stain from this pen reminds me of the words I printed,
printed onto a page like they were my last will and testament
like every last word is breeching a secret code-
I love discovery.
The way words can wrap around lips
and be partnered with indifference and passion.
The way you can turn something so destructive into an art form-
every piece of beauty can fall in-between these lines.
These are permanent, in the same way as the ink that leaves my pen
and I hope for sin again-
for some kind of solitude that will help me write better.
But I realized I don't need tragedy to fuel my poetry
I can become inspired by the way the sun kisses the ground
and remembers to do so again every single morning-
how the world is so small but it still rotates
like it has a point to prove to the sun it can still manage.
I live for the early mornings-
the dew filled grass and the damp sock sunrises.
I live for the conversation of life-
experiencing everything through my wake
and being able to feel just enough to continue my day
happiness is an art form-
it's never just paint brush and stroke
never just words on a page
it is continuous-
late night rooftop star gazes
and becoming one with yourself again.
This world can ruin you
only to help rebuild you into a better model.
I laugh until my eyes are no longer dry-
I make a point to lend these hands to anyone
who's ever been at a disadvantage.
I breech my security to those around me
so they experience a sense of solitude in similarity-
compassion in comparison, to each it's own
the kind I never really received.
So they can know they're not alone
but realize their experiences are their own.
I want to grow with the world
find myself in the earth's crust
and build myself a fossil out of lost time.
Nothing is ever lost-
some things are only meant to stay so long
until someone finds salvation in what you lost-
nothing is ever really yours.
That's the beauty of this world.
As the ink stains my fingers
I realize if I shower enough it will disappear
and if I say these words too much
they won't mean so much
so I take pride in discretion-
I let the ambiance speak for itself
and let the obsolescence of life take course.
Nothing is ever planned
but everything is apart of the plan.
As I am driving at midnight-
windows rolled down and rain pouring upon my arm
I realize this is what freedom feels like-
each raindrop touches my skin
and reminds me of what it means to be alive.
We must feel things, even the bad-
because if we didn't
life would be so ******* boring.

10:50 pm, another beer-holding sorority selfie on Instagram.
I shut my phone.  I clench my fist.
I look up to the man that tried to raise me
as he raises a shot class in front of my face-
then my brother continues after.
The lingering smell of liquor on my nose
makes it feel harder to live.
See, I like to tell myself I've never done hard drugs
but then I am reminded of the days I wanted to mask the pain.
Take a paintbrush over all the misery-
and the bottle seemed to be my muse.
& as the alcohol becomes the inspiration for this piece
my hands begin to shake and my jaw begins to clench
and I can feel my mouth yearning for the taste one more time-
people don't understand addiction.
They don't understand when the problem becomes their life
they don't understand how quickly it can ruin you.
I thought I was just having fun
everyone drinks right?
Until one night I was faced with someone
who said something backhanded to me
so I threw a metal bat at his head.
I missed.
Until one night I was throwing myself at people
who probably didn't even want me for me
but for what I had underneath-
Until one night I was face down in my pillow weeping
because I had no one to drink with-
weeping because the alcohol was nowhere to be found
panicking because the emotions that needed to be addressed
began ******* my insides and making the anxiety
creep it's way back into my mind and into my stomach
until panic attacks became routine for me night after night after night.
& not even two weeks after I had surgery
I tried to drown my pain in a bottle in a room full
of people I thought I loved because I couldn't wait.
I began to forget and the last thing I remember-
was being face to face with my toilet confessing my secrets
via projectile *****-
I didn't think this sickness could happen to me
because I was so "in control".
Three days after that I was still ******* hungover.
A week after that the temptation led in and I tried to drink
again and again and again and when I couldn't
the anger came abrupt and the anxiety took over
I was a basket case that took pride in my tolerance.
I was masking what I didn't want anyone to see-
Every time I drank my insides would turn sour
and the sickness would overcome my desire to drown.
& if it wasn't for the headaches and the hangovers
and the people telling me what I didn't want to hear
It would still probably be an issue-
I lost a lot those years, even myself.
The bottle made me a persona of a person
just a piece that interprets her surroundings
I was a walking metaphor in a world full of short stories-
and I made a sonnet out of my struggle
with 14 bottles and ten syllables of labels
I put on display so everyone could interpret me.
I'm 20 now and I've been sober for 5 months
and it's sad to me when I have to say
that's something I pride myself on
but I do and I am thankful.
Addiction can be anyone-
with anything.
You just have to watch because those hands of yours
can hold on tight to anything that makes you feel alive
like liquor or cigarettes or the **** rips to your lips
but nothing makes you feel more alive-
than actually dealing with life.
That's where I found myself-
in the corners of my mind I never wanted to reach
in the parts of my memory I didn't think I could touch-
I'm 20 now I finally feel like myself again for the first time
since I turned 13, since before all the memory.
There are times when tempation will lead me to the edge of sanity
and try to push me over so I fall back into the hole I dug for myself-
but I am no longer weak,
no longer clinging to the addictions in my mind
no longer clinging to the negativity that surrounds me.
I am a delicate flower and in the winter I may wither up
and want to die-
but in the spring you will see me re-sprout
this time I will let the rain wash over me
and realize it is needed for growth
and I will blossom.

I wear this smile painted across my lips like an eviction notice-
like you have two days to wipe it clean before someone else does.
So my smile goes away for a while
reminds me it was never really too fond of commitment
I guess it takes after me.
Some days it finds it's way back to me-
sulking because it couldn't find anyone else as good.
Even though it tried-
really ******* hard.
Apologies are the only language it seems to know
and advice is the only thing it has to offer
but no one cares to find it when it runs.
When it's busy playing hop scotch
with this heart of mine-
then someone pulls something
and the pain starts.
No one notices it until it's already too late
until the pain has made it's way into my mind
and formulated itself into my edges
planted seeds in every part of me
so it will always be growing
no matter how much I forget to water it.

Some days-
my smile sings me lullabies
and reminds me how beautiful the music is
then someone kisses me and I am reminded
that music is just a synonym for therapy
and no one will ever be able to play the keys
in the soft mellow tune of the saxophone the way I like.
I'll always be destined for that eviction notice
because it seems I haven't paid my dues.

People come around and feed this scene I like to play-
they realize they are trying to fit inside this image I present to them
feeding off the fiction inside my facade
and when it comes down to me-
when the cape is ripped away and it is shown
I am a mere moral amongst men
they start to run away again.
They realize this me that they saw
wasn't what they expected-
wasn't what they thought they wanted
and I turn into the *******.
Always hurting those who don't realize who I am-
an eviction notice at your doorstep.
A smile, not even I know how to keep.

We have been hanging off the edge of this cliff
and love isn't strong enough to keep us holding on,
the more my hands yearn for your embrace
the closer we get to the ground.
I see safety in your eyes
and an universe in your smile-
I wish you could see all the things that I do.
The edge is getting sharp again-
I'm the only one holding on.
You crawled your way up and looked down at me,
contemplated if you wanted to be the one that saves us.
But my voice keeps incessantly shouting "pls save me"
all the while you try but I keep telling you more effective ways
so you shout back "save yourself" and walked away.  
You are tired of being the muse I spill my paint upon
the therapist in the chair I spill my heart out to.
I have made many mistakes
and this anxiety keeps me on the edge waiting-
waiting for someone to save me because I am too weak.
Some days I can almost pull myself up,
my feet feel friction upon the rocks and continue on-
but as soon as I get high enough to feel the wind upon my cheeks
the same wind knocks me down again-
telling me ways I should try again
convincing me, it's my only friend.

My limbs have grown tired from hanging on-
yours have grown tired too.
You ache from carrying my weight upon your shoulders
time after time again.
I try to help by pushing myself up
honing in all my strength one last time
but I stumble and my foot falls from under me-
I subsequently drag you down with me
and all I wanted to hear from you is
"there's no place else I'd rather be"
but how would that be any consolation
if we're both falling, broken and vacant?
I finally let go and fell to my fate-
I see you looking down at me
I guess love can't fix everything.

all people have ever done is hurt me-
I'm starting to think it's all my fault
and the only thing I'm good at
is letting people down.
I would love to drown my sorrows
in a whiskey bottle
and never wake up again-
but that part of me is dead.
The one who looks for escapes is gone now
and all I have left is raw emotion and coping
I'm not sure how to deal with either
when I've never really had to.
All my life has been spent repressing
everything in my wake
and now I feel as if it's all coming out-
everything that's ever made me sad
came flooding back when you left.
You're looking out at the window
to your life smiling and happy
when all I am left with is misery
and I thought I made you happy-
at least I tried my hardest to.
But it seems to me all I'll ever do
is let people down.
I push people away until I am left alone
and now I've never felt so lonely.
I've been trying to bandage this broken home
but putting into it my broken soul
and now there's no pieces to fill the cracks anymore
I am bleeding and faulting and withering away again-
there is no safe shaven for me
no peak I get to reach anymore
just me, broken and bleeding at the seems.
Nothing is ever as good as it seems
and I put on a hell of a facade.
But I'm even tired of that now..
Loving someone broken is hard
and all I've ever been is broken
and difficult and withering.
When will I flourish?
Maybe when someone remembers to water me.

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.

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

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

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

I can't help but feeling nostalgic.

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

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

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

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

This is not what recovery
is supposed to look like.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wear me out
and spread me thin.

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

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

Maybe,
not even that.

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.

I have turned into everything I've ever avoided.
I danced in the moonlit darkness of my father
and soaked in the rays of my mothers tragedy.
Vitamin D is only injected into my bloodstream
by judging eyes and objecting vocals.

I never wanted you to tap dance
around my ribcage or fornicate with my insecurity.
I never wanted you to feel like my eyes
washed over you with judgement day protocol..
I wanted you to be free inside of me
so I could take away every fear and instance
that makes you feel insane
and unchain it from every misinterpretation
hung around your neck.
I wanted to be the one you could save,
so that I could be the one to save you too.

My problems are not found in you
and somehow I found refuge
in my dark tainted past
but i'm tired of that being my excuse
it's my sad reality but I don't want it.
You shouldn't have to break, to fix me.
You shouldn't have to melt
to fit into the cracks you are so busy avoiding.

I have turned into my father,
unpredictable and manic.
I have turn into my mother,
paranoid and problematic.
I don't know exactly who I am,
but i'm sure this isn't it.

I will not be a shining example
of the apple that doesn't fall far from the tree.
I will not be the *** that calls the kettle black...
I am my own destruction but I will rebuild me,
because you shouldn't have to.

We ******-

It was my first time,
but... it surely wasn't your first time.
Although it was your first time with me
and it wasn't exactly love making
because though we told each other
"I love you"
I still wasn't sure exactly how to make it,
just how to say it.
You were my first time,
saying I love you and I think that was harder,
than actually ******* you.
And as a poet, these details become stanzas
for others ears to hang onto like a leech,
******* out every last emotion and turning
into a self-sacrifice of one's own interpretation.

You make it soooo easy,
but at the same time you make it so ******* hard.
like the way at times, I can't find the words to rhyme
so I just make these words I speak to you run-on sentences
that never exactly end, just keep going
until i find some other **** to say to you to make you smile,
or **** you off, because i'm actually really good at that
in fact, i love the way you call me out on my *******.
The way I want to dye my hair crazy ******* colors,
but you turn up your nose and tell me no I shouldn't,
which I admire because I would probably regret it.

You're not afraid to tell me how you feel
you don't fear I will flip out or cry or cuss you out,
and I love you for that.
because for so long i've had people
walk around me like I was at the edge of insanity,
waiting until i was pushed to my imminent death.
But baby, you just don't care
because you are on that edge with me
swinging your feet along the side,
lifting your head back and screaming
"man, what a ******* ride."

We made love.
and i'm not sure if we really did,
but ******* it felt like it
because right then
your body was the only one
I ever wanted, ever again.
I'm not sure if that's ******* insane
because I don't believe in forever
and I'm not sure I believe in happily ever after.
But ******* baby, you took the pen from  my hand
and wrote me a novel with your lips across my skin
and made me forget about every single person,
who ripped open my chest, tore my heart out at the seems
and took a piece of me with them.
The story you wrote hasn't ended,
it's still being written
and like a chose your own adventure novel,
i'm not sure where this is gonna go..
or if what I say will send me down a snake hole
poisoning my mind with negativity
or have me fighting off the evil ninjas
out to control my thought process
but ****, i'm willing to risk it
because although i'm not sure where will this will take me,
i'm along for the ride and you have me hooked
with every paragraph and run-on sentence
you trace across my skin.
and like the wise words of Miles Hodges,
"your head was great baby but your mind,
your mind was the night before a revolution."

You were my first,
love, ****, and then love again
and you taught me things
I never thought my mind had the capability of processing.
Yeah, I still hate your ******* ex girl-friends
and your pictures together make my stomach curl,
and if I ever see her out in public that *****...
it doesn't matter,
because I am yours and you are mine
and I am prettier than she is anyways...
****, it doesn't matter
because nothing matters when I am with you
and it's kind of ****** up, in the best way.

I have never felt the loneliness that I do without you,
and I'd like to think that means something special.
You make me write happy poems..
I haven't written a happy poem since I was 9
and I'd like to think that means something special.
I may not be able to dye my hair funky colors,
or pierce my eyebrow
but **** that's just my manic depression talking anyways,
and it's funny because
no matter how much things around me change
or how much I count the days until I fade away.
There's one thing in my mind that stays
and that's the way I feel about you...

We ******-
and it wasn't cute
or tragic like the movies make it out to be.
It was you, and it was me-
and for the first time I felt safe...
No flashbacks or panic attacks,
just your eyes, a little worried
and that's when I kinda knew
I made the right choice
loving you.

I am walking a tightrope
that I am continuously falling from-
my feet try to move but I see no balance.
Gravity and I have never really been friends
too busy falling, never keeping my feet on the ground.
So I walk-
jigsaw puzzle for my feet below and head above.
I try to conjure what it would look like
if I did in fact make it to the other side.
But I realize that's another part of me
I will never get to face
because my body will not ever let me-
my fear overpowers my skill
and I cannot hold on any longer
not with these two feet I own
or these two hands
too busy trying to hold up everyone else
long enough to make sure they're back on their feet.

I'm tired of not being in control
so as these emotions become too strong
and I become too weak
falling to my imminent destruction becomes routine.
Consistently pushing away anyone who tries to help
and any chance I get at happiness
I make sure it never ceases to exist again.
Control was never in my nature
so anger consumes me when I am the lesser
when the animosity takes over-
there is no coming back for me.
My mind goes blank
the only words I can spell out for myself
are regret, so this pen bleeds ink
just so I will remember these words
cannot be erased from someone else's mind
that these episodes will constantly become re-runs.
I'm getting so ******* tired of this show already-
always wanting to turn off the tv or change the channel
but I can't afford cable
this is the only show that isn't static in my ears
the only show worth watching.
Sometimes, I wish it would get cancelled
and fade away from the listings
so I don't have to see it anymore.
But the episode gets played over
I still cry at the sight of them-
I still let the plot lines dictate my emotions.

Control has never been something I was good at
but somehow this tightrope I walk
has become such an occupation
as if people are waiting for me to fall from it.
I walk steady now-
awaiting the moment I fall
I worry when I stick out my neck
for those watching my downfall
that this tightrope will become just a noose
and this show will turn into the news
reporting on what I could've done better-
repeating my mistakes like re-runs.
Time has been nagging at my feet again
I guess it wants to speed up my downfall.

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's kind of a sick twisted fate-
when someone turns out to be everything
you have found in someone else
but you also collectively hate.
It turns your mind into a constant state of confusion.
This obsolesce was never planned
and I never planned to dislike you as much as I do now.
How does one go from appreciating the very core of a person
to dissecting and disliking every part?
I'd like to think it's second nature
and the second you become who you've always been
when the mask was ripped off and I saw you
I realized I had been trapped behind a wall
of disillusionment in hopes to fix
what will always look so much better broken.
You are a mere child amongst men-
constantly desiring something so out of reach
always trying to get what you want
until it is within your reach
and you realize you don't know how to keep it
you're not very good at keeping track of time
and everything you say has to be depicted
like a novel of truth you are telling
when you use your words with such a dishonesty
that it's honestly laughable.
You have not made sense on more occasions
than you have.
Your words are your muse
your security blanket
when in reality, most of the time
they are fleeing from your lips
and they are used in the complete wrong context.
I'm glad I could help you be okay
I never asked for any help from you
so I wasn't surprised when I never got it.
Always trying to mend brokenness
so maybe I will feel whole,
when in the end I just feel like an *******.
But you are actually the *******-
and I should've trusted myself about you.
Should've reminded myself that nothing is within your reach
because your arms are carrying too much insecurity
to even try to hold someone else's hand.
But ******* you're trying-
and you have been
just not with me and I'm glad
because I found something now
so ******* special to me.
So thank you for not giving me what I truly deserved
because it showed me neither are you.
It showed me I was better than what you gave
and you said you cared but I never saw it.
Never felt these things you said you did.
I'm glad this sick twisted fate
worked out into my favor
because I can never imagine being with someone like you.
With a mind a bit too free and a demeanor
a bit too conflicted about **** near everything.
Learn to walk-
realize I did a long time ago
and I'm surprised I didn't sooner.
Maybe these steps will lead you
to where you think you need to be
Until then-
watch as I learned to dance
when you're still just crawling
one day, it will be back to me
by then I hope you'll be running.

Beyond the imprints in my skin
Redemption has tried to
Encompass my hands and hold them tightly
Across these urges that attempt to pain my smile and
Kiss the lids of my eyes.

For I have not found
Room to grow just yet,
Only making such a fickle
Mockery of my former self.

Why do these
Hands no longer feel
Anything-
They just tuck away the memories.

Beyond this smile
Repression holds me again
Often times the only thing
Keeping this mind sane
Etches a mark onto a page

Yielding what I need for recovery
Only to leave me back to one
Universal truth, to break from what broke you.

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 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 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.

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.

I'm intoxicated inside this tragedy,
it weighs in my palms.

paints something timid
and thick like a calligraphy pen.

I try to write the words that keep me sane
and try to rationalize falling in love again.

but can I carry the weight?

will my palms be able to hold onto
both the pen and still maintain the penmanship
or is this dynamic too graphic
too unrelenting
and messy?

who will I become when the ink dries?

will I smudge this pain
onto the mouths of others?

or will my silence
be enough of a concealer-
or will my silence
be but a fashion accessory
that I wear on my wrist.

this fear it has no use for me anymore
it is just taking up space now.

I must find something to make it all worth it
something that looks a bit more pretty.

do I continue to carry this with me
when it is all I have ever known?

or do I learn to let it go?

so I write until the pen runs out of ink
and I seem to run out of stories.

maybe I'll make it out in one piece
or maybe I will make a piece out of it.

either way this is where the fear stops.

somewhere between lost earrings
and the stain of alcohol the next morning-
I have found something.

It's stuck behind my snaggle tooth
and beside the lump in my throat.

it's called salvation
it's called ambition
it's a misnomer that spells out the sound of my own voice
I will spill myself as ink spills on paper
and I will unfold, over and over again.

I will make more than a story out of this malice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I told myself when I write
everything I do will somehow be unique
but I've started 20 poems off this way
and ended them 20 different ways.
I would throw my sanity out the window
for just some peace of mind
and a mind you wouldn't mind
reading on top of mountains
and in front of millions.
But my sanity is what is needed most-
so take my hands and tie them to a typewriter
because this is my sanity
and a piece of my mind.

I have a way with words
and I have grown accustomed
to clinging onto metaphors
and reading way too into your lips
because they tell me things
your mouth does not have the guts to confess.
In my world, words are a blessing and a curse
and I've spent so long biting my tongue
that i'm not sure I even have one left.
So I apologize if my words are like swords
and pierce your heart like a fatal blow to the chest
But I am trying my best.

Years have been spent
hiding how I feel
So I promised myself
I wouldn't hide in dark corners
or cover my mouth with regret
I would speak with my truth
in a tone that only genuine ears
could comprehend.
So I let the words pour out my lips
unaltered and honest.
and I'm not sure if that is satisfying,
or my biggest regret.

My eyes glaze over again
I don’t remember who I am here.

Stuck dissecting the parts of myself
I should already be familiar with
But my own body is unknown territory.

My own mind is a place diluted
With good intentions
And outlined in animosity.

Who should I be in this moment?
Who am I to those who love me?
Seems only a luxury of chaos.
Seems only a burden of memory.

My neck is stuck out for all of them
But they cower in the corner of my problems.
And I have no way left to solve them.

I have nowhere to go but down it seems
And everyone just keeps ******* pushing me.

I’m tripping over boundaries as if they aren’t there
Because I do not know the correct place to set them.

I'm a rap game prodigy
irony like Socrates
that I could spit this philosophy
so flawlessly.
Unmatched like I'm scalene-
scaling my way to the top
so high like I'm a scaffolding
go ahead fold and scowl at me
and watch me cackle sarcastically-
while I tell the masses to become appealing
the apple of my eye is hip-hop do you feel me?
Massive attacks while the males become *****
and subject to the ways of misogyny
oh **** here we go again, this bothers me
what? equality?
Misuse the muse and move through your mind
makeshift mammals mimmicking media monkeys
no wonder half the world's a ******
like you when you see-
the way I spit so fluently
second language, feel the anguish
anger within me resentment
followed by residuals
the world is red and we're all cruel
consumed by corporate corruption
no function left to the fiction of fascism
so fasten your seat-belts and see me belt
way more than 16sixteens, it's sickening
how sick this flow can be so ambiguous
hip-hop is bigger than us-
it's luck, it's lust-
it's a ******* when there's a lack of trust-
it's ****, it's love
it's touch, it's ****
it's drugs and grudges
and beef and *******
it's empowerment, cowards
and records strictly to deflower.
it's appreciation and admiration
and it at one point shook the entire nation-
i'm complacent at the placement of this prophecy
that hip-hop has engrained into me
I'm grateful for the grandfather's
and the sons and the daughters
the step-fathers and mother *******
cut throat music industry
if you don't **** with hip-hop you don't **** with me.
*****.