I.**
I have spent far too many nights with my head in my hands,
Shallow breaths in and out,
Shaking and choking on the sharp threat of tears.

There’s a hole in my chest that aches with each breath;
It expands and expands more and more,
Threatens to tear me whole.

Maybe if the stars shined a little brighter I’d find hope in that small light.
Maybe if the moon were closer I’d feel better about being under it.

II.
I feel empty and inadequate.
I feel weak, I feel small.
I feel like I’ve lost myself.

It comes in waves every now and then.
The sudden wash of a ripping tide crashing onto shore -
into the hollows of my bones and crashing
with a force that chills my entire body.

It’s not welcome here but it keeps breaking down the door.

I have tried padlocks and I have tried iron and steel,
but the water creeps in through the cracks without fail,
and it’s not long before I drown.

she wears sweaters and knit cardigans on hot summer days because they cover up the crimes that her hands have committed.

the things that she can't undo, the sins that they are covered with; sins that took place years ago, covered in a dormant memory that's festered and growing every second, every hour, every day, every year that it goes unacknowledged.

and she bites her nails like she has a secret, one that she's dying to unearth but the consequences are heavy if a single word escapes her lips. but oh, does she have a story to tell.

a story that brings a wealth of shame to her, to her family. a story only heard on crime shows, the sympathetic SVUs and CSIs. but it's her story and it's his, but he's long forgotten.

and the memory never left her.

scarred her, maybe. the words are all at her fingertips, scrawled out on her skin threatening to blow and spew from the ink of her pen but should she allow it -- no.

instead she wears sweaters and knit cardigans on hot summer days to cover the sins of her hands and she wears sundresses to prove that she still has her innocence -- what little there is left.

I knew when I told you all my deepest secrets -
The ugliest parts of me that I never allowed anyone to see.
I knew when you told me that I was alright -
"You'll be okay," and **** near took my breath away.
I knew when I screamed your name, muffled syllables
Into my pillowcase as I cried out in pain.

I always believed in love,
That 'happily ever after,'
'Love conquers all' *******.

But now I wonder where you went
And how I'll ever fill that void in my chest
When all I know is you
With your teeth on my neck,
Hands scratching lines down
My back and all I see are stars.
They glow in your eyes
And your nails feel like knives
When they trail down my spine.

So move me, baby,
Make me scream your name until it hurts
Like the way you hurt me.

My hands are freezing but my throat burns with nicotine.

I’ve inhaled your name about seven times, exhaled and spelled it out with smoke.
It dissipates a few seconds later, much like the way my name probably does when it crosses your mind.

I could be cliche and lace this with lyrics; you’re worse than nicotine, you’re in the air I breathe, you’re all around me, you’re all I really need like your knack for *****, money, ****.

But none of it would suffice.

I’m sorry that my words come out like mace and I’m sorry for all the times that I’ve spit in your face but if you’d just give me an ounce of your grace, I’m sure we could leave this place and find somewhere for me to step into white lace.

Touch me, I want you to touch me there, make me feel like I am breathing — feel like I am human; but is it humane for me to breathe you in and want nothing more than to choke you out and lather, rinse, repeat?

Or should I drop the act and retreat, pretend that you’re nothing but a distraction and I don’t have time to be treated like a piece of meat?

Maybe that’s weak.

I’ve inhaled your name about fourteen times and my lungs are on fire.