I sit here and the sight
of your shiny wounds
makes me want to cry and
scream and rip all
of my skin off. These tracks
you create, as if waiting
for a train to arrive and take you
away through(from) your pain
are seared onto my eyes
and mind
and heart.

Deck the halls in paint and pastels
Steal the nurses' hours of sleep.
Watch your heart-beat on the monitor,
Hear the slow, incessant beep.
Look away from other patients,
Say that you're the lucky ones.
Welcome to the childrens' ward, kids.
We'll convince you this is fun.
Ask the doctors how they're doing!
Take your wheelchair for a drive!
And hidden there's the IV forest,
For those that aren't quite as alive.

There is a smell here, insidious
enough to almost be insipid, but not
quite, from where I stand inside
this sterile room. The smell
is sticking to the hairs
in my nostrils, coating the membranes
of my lungs, until my air glides
unnaturally inandout in the manner
of a poison, seeping
in to all your systems, that you
won't notice until
You crash.

"I think he started
his Sylvester's a bit
early" my father jokes, as
the motorcycle swerves
in front of us. "Stop," I want
to scream. This
is insanity. Three tons
of steel under your command and
a man on a motorcycle
is so vulnerable. We continue
blithely on, my father won't
see how his jokes
paralyze me.

We are hurtling through
the night and I
am hunched in my seat
on the front of this
metal beast, with my music
pounding in my ears, much like
the way my heart
pounds even
as I write to you. You
are scared of tomorrow, I
am scared of right now and all
the uncountable thousands
Of what-ifs. A behemoth
carrying other beasts like a mother
duck carrying fuzzy ducklings passes
on my right and I
flinch instinctively, though
no duckling caused this wariness
in the pit of my stomach.
Your fear paralyzes me, and
my fear is not
only for me, but multiplied,
for your scars
will never heal, should I disappear
Today.

I hear your door
down the hall click
and know
you're awake once more.
Wild-eyed, chased by
ghosts that never leave
you alone, you emerge
from the fleeting
warm cocoon of sleep.
I am not
A ghost-buster
But I wish
I could be.

You have pulled me through the breaking
point so many times. When I thought
I could not continue on, you would
**** or carry or pull or push me until
I would stand again. And now
we keep walking onwards. But I think we
have forgotten- until you
are utterly shattered, you cannot start
fitting pieces back together. We
are walking on uneven ground, and you
have made your life on ice floes, shifting
as they do. But I cannot be you. I
am gingerly stepping across the cracked ice
you leave in your wake, looking
for the balance you have stolen. I am inching
out along the branch you have broken, grasping
at every small leaf. I am trying
to stay with you until our components fit
once more, like a puzzle just waiting
for the one who can see whole picture.
I don't remember when I stopped believing
such a one exists. I have swallowed
our shards for so long and covered up
the broken parts and I
can wait for the solution no longer. You
have pushed me to the breaking point this time, and I
will soon stop trying to fit
everything back together.

Don't ask me to be ok. Don't
your ******* dare ask me
to be ok after everything I
have done and am still doing to hold
the world together. Don't tell
me it's fine it is not fine I
am whirling around my room throwing
myself at the walls I am
hunched over, rocking in
my place and moaning at the world to
shut up shut up shut up I am
stepping into the scalding shower and watching
the marks parading
down my legsarmsbackchestneck turn
the color of blood I am
huddled and screaming at those
I love dearest to go away goaway GOAWAY a rising
crescendo of static I am
gripping myself in my talons I am
scrambling for any kind of hold I am
crying with the water on so they
can't hear me I am
having nightmares where she
is devouring me I am
plastering a fake smile on. I am
asking you, how are things? I am
politely apologizing for the state of the bathroom after
my ****** showers. I am
inquiring cheerfully as to the music. I am
having nightmares where she
is devouring me and I can't escape I can't
run downstairs she
lives there I am
perfectlyfinewhydoyouask.
don't
you
*******
dare.

You got ready
for battle and you
fit yourself into
your armor and then
just in case someone
should try and sneak up
or get any closer
to you you welded
the sharpest spikes
you could find
to every inch, fancying yourself
a porcupine without the fragility,
no soft underbelly.
And I will brave
these daggers and come
forwards, into
your painful embrace
because all you ever
had to do was ask
and I
will
follow.

My words have the power to cut
and sting, and draw blood
from all your hidden wounds.
They are glass shards, hidden
in plain sight, on the paper.
Thorns, wrapped around your heart, pull
tighter to the sound of my words. And you
mistake this pain I inflict for
intellect and the pangs
I cause you for
sharpness and wit.

But now, I find that my own wounds
are healing, and the words
which I previously wrote
in my own blood, do not come, flowing
as they once did. My ink
is running out. And some of you, the ones
I love dearest, are like me
But you keep your ink
pouring, even as you suffer. I
cannot be like you, I
am not so strong. My nature dictates
that my wounds must heal, and I,
in my weakness,
must let them. Your sharpness comes
at the greatest sacrifice
a person could give.
I know this. And yet, I still
Aspire towards you. Bleeding
myself as I do so.

And now that I see
growing scabs
decorating my wounds, and my blood
clotting and drying, I just
wonder- now that I
resemble you no more, will you forget
the formerly vibrant colors of my pain?
Will you forget my brief stint
as one of you?
Will, much as my wounds are,
the gates close? As I lose
this sharp tang of
my perceived brilliance,
will my alluring, painful glitter
fade to you?
You, who are strong,
(or maybe in my foolishness
I only see
your masochism as such)
Will you leave
Me
Behind?

I hear you say that
the skyscrapers are Ugly and that you
can't see the stars now
for the high, empty buildings
Devoid of soul.
I hear you say that those girls
the ones on the street corner
smiling into their Cellphone, blinking
when the flash Blinds them
are Self-Centered and only
think about themselves.
I hear you say (faintly) that i
am Escaping reality
when I plug my ears and
listen
only to My Own music.

The moon is glimmering like an alien sun
off a distant sea
on the windows of your soulless skyscraper.
The girls on the corner are
so Alive and so full
of celebration for This Moment
and i
am providing myself
with a Vibrant backdrop to these flashes
of Life. I will not be
like Hamlet's father, accepting. i
am not listening
to the poison you are trying
to drip in my ears

Sometimes I forget that you
cannot absorb as much
as you like to say you can.
I forget that you are human, and not more,
not the impassive statue that you
would like to be.
I have seen you
in your weak points and I
have helped you through
some bad days and I
somehow forgot
your true form.
Forgive me, I
am so full of words tonight that
I overflowed and nearly
drowned you, even as you stood
ready to try and help me safely swim
the dangerous currents
of my own disintegrating being.
Forgive me, I
would mop up these streams and
plug up these holes and even
divert rivers in the tradition of Heracles
to clean out the accumulated grunge
of everything I have dumped on you.
I would let my mind
stop burbling and my words run dry
if only you will
forgive me.

When I talked to you and
you agreed right away
I was not prepared. I had been ready
to explain why I was right
to demonstrate and persuade
and flatter and wheedle until you
relented. But you decided
in your much greater wisdom
not to play
my game. I did not let it go, I kept
trying to prove my point.

Did you see what I couldn't? Did you
hear the desperation in my tone? And
did you know long before
I would realize? Maybe
you did. Because now I sit
watching reruns of my day and
the realization comes
It was never you
I was trying to convince.

What they don't tell you is that
the first time you punch that hole
in your soft, unresisting ivory skin,
waiting like a ****** stretch of snow
(whether it's your blade
or nails
maybe teeth or keys)
you're not letting your pain out so much
as you're letting in
little demons, big appetites, twisted thoughts.
You used to be scared
of that first step but now
addiction has replaced your fear. All
you want is another little crack in your now
not-so-****** stretch of skin.
You need to let the pressure out, let your pain
out, let them slowly leak away let
every little demon in, a little more
and you feel them call for your blood.
The whispers become deafening and still
you watch them multiply until they
reach your mind
set up camp in every thought
and you realize you were not letting them in
for the first time, but rather
welcoming them home.

you are not traveling far away you are not
taking a bus or a train or a plane you are not
riding on horseback or walking miles you are not
sailing a ship over the sea you are not
moving yourself further away by any measurable distance.

and I know that this will end and I know
that everything will get better and I know
this is for the best and I know
that you will return triumphant and I know
that we are strong.

But you are still leaving.
And I am still crying.

Maybe I should go
slip away like a thief in the night, or rather
in the early morning.
Those always have been
my hours.

Stealing away, stealing
myself away from you stealing
my toxic lies and
self-hatred and little glints
of occasional brilliance which
(if we are to be honest) are only
the only reason
you keep me around.

Maybe I should go
not ask you first
or give you the chance to say no.
You do not know how much
better off you would be
without me.

I think that if I should go
I cannot ask you first.
Because if you ask me
to stay, I could never
even try
to let you go again.

They tell me it's ok and that
I've been through so much. You, they say,
are a fighter.
You are a survivor.
I break down. And I crack
up and there are days that I don't
get out of bed or leave
my house at all. And you
let me off the hook because I
am fighting. Surviving. Fighters, you say,
need to let their guard down
after all. I **** up again or I
don't follow through or I
hurt someone and you
will always forgive me because I
am a survivor and they
are allowed to. Listen to me I
do not want these second
(and third and tenth) chances. You
use them for yourself. Stop saying
that I do not need to be strong just
because I survived. I know
that I survived. I know
that I am capable of strength so stop
forgiving me.

The time is Friday
The scene is dinner.
Candlelight, shimmering dishes, white tablecloth
Flowing wine, pleasant conversation, good food
An enjoyable evening at the neighbors' house.
I sit back, I do not speak much.
I am happy, I am content.
And then the neighbor starts telling you a story.
A woman she knows
got angry, lost her temper,
hit her children.
And so she stepped in, calmed her down, said
"leave the children alone."
You agree.

I do not react. Years of practice
have served me well.
I sit across from you, I do not look
fascinated or riveted or frozen
in place.

"Children," you say,
"are so helpless. To hit them especially
is horrible."

I cannot hold my pose any longer.
My eyebrows rise until they have eclipsed
the place where my glasses usually are.
You do not look.
You would not see.
You will not remember how you come by this knowledge.

(My friend says hypocrisy
is a pox-ridden ***** whose company
many enjoy.
You never have to pay for her services
to you she comes freely.)


   Not even four years ago
   (maybe)
   you have forgotten.
   I do not remember it all I do not
   remember what made you angry
   (that time).
   There never were flashing lights
   A big sign to tell me
   TRIGGER WARNING.

   I do remember holding on tightly
   to the golden-brown, smooth banister
   on the white-grey, cool marble stairs
   so I wouldn't fall down them.
   I do remember you standing strong
   above my hunched figure
   and the closed fists
   and the blows that rained down
   like drops in a thunderstorm.

   I do remember my father
   coming when it was too late
   when the hot tears finally soaked everything
   and apologizing for not being there.
   I do remember not having the heart
   to tell him
   that I was screaming his name constantly
   begging for him to come
   and save me from you.


You are right.
Children are helpless.
But you have missed the biggest truth.
Hitting children is most dangerous
not because they are helpless.
but because they love you.
Because for years they will protect you
and justify and accept
and blame ourselves.

Tears under lamplight, so often called silver.
as if you think they're precious, or beautiful.
As if my pain makes me special, or radiant.
As if this is something rare, like it doesn't happen so often.
You think my tears make me unique, like no one else has ever been
Radiant in quicksilver, and no one else's shoulders have trembled
Under the burden of these sharp reflections of light
that adorn my face.
like the fluid sparkle of my eyes in this moment
is unprecedented and will not be repeated
thousands of millions of times over
so many people, so many faces.
So much glistening pain.

But this is not the first time
And it is far from the last
for me, or any of the others.
My tears are not silver, they are not precious.
They are not beautiful.
My blood has turned to water
and life has whipped me in the face
until I have overflowed and I bleed,
staining everything with the liquid pain
pouring out of the tracks cut through my trembling flesh.
You are so close to the truth
     (If I heated silver, if I stuck it to my cheeks
      if I watched the flesh burn and embraced the pain
      everyone who cared to look would see and the marks
      would not fade for a long time
      or ever.)
But so far from it
     (If I heated silver, if I melded it to my face
      if I adorned myself in refractions of glory
      I might be able to walk with pride.
      Everyone could see me, resplendent
      and I would embody strength
      and not hatred of my own weakness.)

Two magnets holding on
they won't ever let go
fit together so perfectly,
every groove aligned. Every broken shard, painful
and sharp when alone
somehow compliments, strengthens the unison.
(With every minute) they pull each other in closer
continue to intrigue and enchant one another
until they're all the other can see.
It's not possible to be near them and
Not feel their pull
And wish to be part of something magical
even though it might just be science.

These magnets, so perfect, so fitted.
And between them (so close to invisible)
a piece of tissue-paper
so fragile
almost not there
covered in creases and tiny rips
Holding on.
Maybe not holding on
so much as letting the magnets
hold it there.
Hold it together.
Keep it from falling apart (further).
Despite the tiny holes it tears
in its skin
to remind itself it still exists.

But no matter what my nature
I cannot help wishing I was not a tissue
but a magnet, too.
I was not keeping you apart
in such tiny, almost unnoticeable (but not quite)
ways.
I think of pulling away
every minute you get closer.
But the same force that holds me together here,
if I left,
would rip the heart out of me.

My poems, my thoughts
my pain on paper
they're all me.
Me me me me me.
I write these things for you
to find
And offer up my pain as
a selfish gift
an offering
a sacrifice.
Look at me.
Understand me.
Me me me
me me.
I give these things as barter.
I know you, your desire to feel
to see pain that isn't your own.
To think that
maybe
someone else has it harder than you
and secretly, happily
embrace the pity.
I understand and still I ask
Accept my offering.
And in return, give
Me me
Me me me
a feeling of understanding
like somebody cares.
More.
Give me
selfish me, twisted me
tired me hurting me addicted me
my drug.

You think the thick blackness under my eyes looks like
War paint.
Like I am going out to battle the world and defeat one and all
that dare stand before me.
You think this thick darkness under my eyes looks like
Attention seeking.
Like I am silently screaming for people to notice me
and come closer.
I only draw in those
enchanted by demons
in love with darkness
at home in the night.
You say that eyes are the window to the soul. You are right.
And I am shuttering mine.
But my war paint does not help me battle
the world
My war paint helps me hide the battles that rage
inside me.
I could cry
Wash it away.
Let it go and surrender
and then let you in.
But when you see me
I see myself, reflected
in your eyes
and my own verdict
is damning.

The Tartars thought that a neat
clean hole in your head
would let in the gods
and you could hear their whispers.
A neat
clean hole
in your skull.
An honor for those worthy.
But what if
a hole
is to let things out?
To let out the pressure
to let out the whispers
to let out the shouting
and the voices of your inadequacy
ever-present.
When your thoughts are too expensive
to ever want to keep
could a neat
clean hole
let them go?
A hole in my head
and a hole in my heart
to let out the pain
to let out the love
to let out the heaviness
and the lack of hope.
But I cannot drill holes in my chest
or my head
So I punch holes in my skin
Until pain bleeds out like water
through the tiniest crack in the ****.