Making up stories, until to us they are the truth.

And I am
so sorry
For loving you
as much as I did
It's just that
You were the only constant
In my ever-changing life
And no matter how hard
I pushed you away,
For some reason,
You were still there

First, you dig your self a hole
Deep enough to lose control
Then, you push yourself inside
At the bottom, where there's no place to hide
Next, you try to claw your way through
Until there's nothing left to do
Tired, helpless, body worn
Wrists among everything else is torn
Drowning in your own salty tears
Condemned by the most realistic fears
Gasping for air, destined for execution
Feeling like death is the only solution.

Recovery is like a closed wound
That keeps reopening.
Sometimes it doesn't hurt
Sometimes it stops aching
Sometimes it blends into the skin in such a way
That you forget it's there.

Other days
It itches and stings
And you keep picking
Until you rip the scab off completely
The blood covers you
You become trapped by this illness
You are smothered.

Eating disorders are open wounds
That heal over time
But the mark leaves a scar
That is there forever.

So I cannot say I was bulimic
And frankly, I wasn't a very good one
But I am a bulimic
At peace one day
In raging battle zones the next.

The important part
Is that the shot never fires
The enemy never wins
The wound never stays
Open.

I recall his voice sometimes when it's late and the world is quiet.
Longing for it to once more say my name.
I feel it vibrate through me.
It plays like a song,
focusing not on the words but the sound.

When I close my eyes I can see his face.
Handsome and strong,
a smile that lights his essence.
I could gaze at him forever not wanting time to continue,
knowing that he is a masterpiece.

I sometimes start to drift to things left unsaid,
silence and missing him always echoing the same.
Our souls are tangled in this unexplainable way,
curiosity and wonder always setting my skin on fire.

I could go to him...
but I've built walls that would crumble,
spent so much time stacking this house of cards.
We all share a moon I once was told.
Yet I never counted falling stars until he left, and took a piece of the sky with him.

I keep lullabies on my lips at night,
At those times when insomnia lays on the side of my bed,
Right where he should be.
My skin burns and my heart aches,
but I know now he's just a ghost.
He once was as real as touch,
only to become as strangled as my breath.