This is my story.
It's my first poem in months
and suddenly
I'm stuck.
I've been lying in bed for so long
that I lost my voice,
I think I wrote so many words
for my ex-boyfriend
that I have none left for myself.
My life is a whirlwind
of passing daydreams and photographs
and empty cigarette packs
and cold cups of coffee
and pieces of other peoples' poems...
Pieces of my own poems that I barely remember writing.
I spend my time trying to ignore
the sighs of discontent
in the back of my mind,
echoing across the walls of my brain,
trying to provide a way to relate
to the people I know
but it's hard when
I can barely relate to myself.
I am a work in progress.
The scars that litter me
are fading fast,
but I'm standing still
while the world moves around me.
Inhaling the toxicity and
exhaling the stardust of my peers,
surrounded by memories
locking me in place,
peeling from the walls of my being
like paper,
this is my story.
It's a written and rewritten masterpiece
that I have no record of
because I gave up on journalling
a while ago,
because my life isn't necessarily one
I'd sit down with a glass of wine
and write about at the end of the day.
It's full of torn pages,
crossed out sentences
and smudged words.
I guess those things come of a story unfinished-
of a work in progress.

This is my story.
My first poem in months
and suddenly, I'm stuck.
I've been lying in bed for so long
that I lost my voice,
I think I wrote so many words
for my ex-boyfriend
that I have none left for myself.
My life is a whirlwind of passing daydreams
and photographs
and empty cigarette packs
and cold cups of coffee
and pieces of other peoples' poems...
Pieces of my own poems
that I barely remember writing.
I spend my time trying to ignore
the sighs of discontent
ini the back of my mind,
trying to provide a way to relate
to the people I know
But it's hard when I can barely relate to myself.
I am a work in progress.
When it comes to food
less is no longer more,
and the scars that litter me are fading fast
but I'm standing still
While the world moves around me.
Inhaling the toxicity
and exhaling the stardust of my peers,
surrounded by memories
locking me in place,
This is my story.
It's a written and re-written masterpiece
that I have no record of
because I gave up on journalling a while ago,
because my life isn't necessarily one
I'd sit with a glass of Moscato
and write about at the end of the day.
It's full of torn pages,
crossed out sentences,
and smudged words;
but I guess these things come of a story unfinished,
of a work in progress.

he's 24 years old.
he's 24, he's 24, he's 24
and you were 27
and i'm 17
and what the **** is age anymore.
casual flirting and joking
back and forth
turned into his hand twisting in my hair
and him pinning my wrists above my head
and his breath in my ear
and suddenly I can't breathe
because he feels like you
he feels so **** much like you that I can't think
because I have a boyfriend who doesn't know
because he's 24
and his arm feels like yours as I grab at it
and I moan and I giggle
and I almost whisper your name
because he and i
never even kissed,
no clothes came off,
it's just his lips on my neck
and his hand in my hair,
he spanks me so hard i have dark bruises
but i consented-
teasing me, he calls it
but I still
can't
breathe
and i'm wishing that i'd gone out
with his fiance for the night
when she invited me.
when his roommate walks through the door
it takes everything not to heave out
a sigh of relief
and i never thought i could feel this way
but he's 24
and he almost reminds me of you
but he's not you and he's on top of me
and i'm moaning and giggling
but i still can't breathe
he's autistic, he doesn't pick up on cues
he doesn't get rules
he was involved with another 17 year old
a while back, he says
because he's different and that's what i liked about him
and then his lips are grazing my skin
and i giggle and i moan
but i still
can't
*******
breathe.

Looking up at the stars,
i remember how long ago
I tried to hide myself inside of you.
because darling,
you are a galaxy
full of blazing stars
and circling planets
and vastness,
you are infinite
and you always have been.
I remember how
we walked outside my house at night,
you tapped your feet against the pavement
and i gazed at the sky,
and at you,
longingly,
i watched you dance.
i've been wishing on the same star for years
but now, all i see
is the dullness of a cloudy sky
that you created
out of the dust of crushed pills.
You are beautiful.
your tired eyes and yellowed teeth
are not.
You are gorgeous,
but the scars and protruding bones
are not.
You searched for yourself
in glass bottles and burning desire
to wash yourself away.
you are a masterpiece,
your long flowing hair
your hips
your lips curled into a smile,
i was madly in love with you
but I have no idea who you are anymore.
you are worth everything,
but the alcohol is not.
the drugs are not.
Dying is not worth anything.

I miss her.
I miss how we used to be.
We sat on my bed
and wrote on my wall,
"We're 13.
People treat us like kids,
kids have fun.
When did we start making life
so ******* complicated?
We need to have fun again."
We need to have fun again.
We needed to have fun
so she took a bottle to her lips
and started crushing pills.
We needed to have fun,
but we took keys and razors to our wrists
under desks, in bathrooms, and under covers
to deal with the fights, the lies,
the whole world being against us.
(A tradition i recently continued
after 4 years
by taking a razor to my upper arm in
our school's art gallery.)
Those Nights that we spent together,
those nights kept me alive...
until they didn't.
Until I lost her.
Until she became nothing
but the smoke
of a burnt out candle
remnants of the blazing fire that she once was,
whispering,
"you're a liar...
you said you'd get better."
I sit back and see her wasting away
and i hate myself for not trying harder
to save her.
We needed to have fun
but as I watched her transform
from a girl to a ghost,
all gangly limbs and rotting teeth
and scars and nosebleeds
and missing conversations
and empty words,
I wonder what kind of fun
she could possibly be having.
I used to know her better than I knew myself
but as i watch her go from a sister
to a stranger,
I realise i barely know her name now.
i miss her.
I hope she knows this isn't what i meant
when i said,
"We need to have fun."

I promise I'm not crazy.
I promise I can make the empty mornings and nights
and tear-soaked sheets
up to you.
I promise I can figure out how to make you happy
when you're down-
I haven't quite figured it out yet,
but I will.
I still cry on the nightly
even when you don't see,
I see
that I bring you down
but you stay, and put up with my **** anyway...
It must be hard,
dating me.
It must be hard
on the days that I forget how to live
and I'm too weary to do anything
but stare at the drawings on my wall,
to do anything but breathe
and sleep and cry,
it must be ******* the days
that I beg you to ask what's wrong
but immediately say,
"I'm okay."
It must be ******* the days
that I can't keep any food down
that I'm clinging to your shirt,
stuttering out broken apologies,
it must be ******* the days
I'm scared to say "I love you,"
for fear that you won't say it back.
It must be hard
but it's hard for me, too,
and worse that I still don't know how to help you
when you feel that way,
when you feel like me,
so all I can say is,
"I'll make myself up to you.
I promise... I'm sorry.
I promise, I'm not crazy."

When gentle breezes turn into gale,
     remember that you will prevail.

       You may tear at these pages daily,
in search of peace and tranquillity.
   Planting hope and scattering wishes,
    Spilling blood in smears and blemishes...
       Flying out of the dark on
     wings of birds.
       Bridging the rippling void through
           severed words.

                Seeking...
             Reaching...
               Imploring...
            Writing...

     Be not wary of eyes that speak.
  Be not afraid of mouths that leak.

Know that our scribbles are only
   sacred to us.
       Emotions and thoughts we
           bind and truss.

  What we put forth, we owe it to ourselves...
     Bits of us we've kept hidden in the
darkest rooms; atop the highest shelves.

You...
      are wielder of your mighty pen.
You...
      determine how far or long your
         words would span.

   Your words... They're precious gold.
Many or little; be them new or old.

So let drip your ink with little reservation...
  Let us grow from strength to strength
     as life teaches its lessons.

   Rise up and live on in these here pages,
     For here exist only
         freedom;
               not cages.