I know about lying on broken bones, beading into my back.
She was missing something.
She was lying on hands searching through the trench coat of a bathroom romance, watching butterflies melt,
She was becoming herself
At four thirty am I write her account, embroidered in a diary of lullabies,
“this is what death must feel like, being  left alone in a street screaming of footsteps and blacked out whispering.”
She threw deliverance, caked over old vengeance, out of the car window with daybreak’s kisses. She writes,
“I sit in the heavy sleet of the delta drowning in resurrection, grime from age wipes over me once,
twice,
The broken blood pools out of ‘I love you’s’ and islets.”
She slept with the darkness.
“Prayers don’t come for me anymore.”
She glitters, shivers, tactless as a teacup in an earthquake,
She is awake.
”I am awake.”
She documents God- "I feel God,"
- in herself. "In myself.”
There is a silence.
A burning, left, cold to dry alone,

This is for her.
Call it, my face, swathed in the impenetrable darkness when it is no longer my own, call it an aunt’s love when a mother’s doesn’t suffice any longer. Call it,
cigarette buds and elevator rides to death’s door. Call it power bubbling up from the violation.
This is for you; call it Cuban cigars, show tunes, and Marylyn Monroe;
call it misery. Missing, call it hues and paint, my life prostrated on a disgruntled canvas. Call it fate.

This is for you.
Call it liquor stains and tarot cards in a fit of ecstasy. Epilepsy, call it the most intricate balancing act of existence.
An unseen performance, a lyric with no voice,
“a cry in the night”
”a scream of supplication”
The hunters’ march to death, the Holy Grail’s melting between your fingers, civilization pouring through veins,
“death, destruction, life, happiness, Azrael, Abbadon, blood, Rome!”
“I don’t want to feel this!”
Call it whispers of unspoken meetings and witches in the night, threatening,
“I know you!”
“No you don’t! Leave me alone.” Recognition. “I don’t want to listen…”
She writes,
“I loved you…
On purpose and…you left me,
with,
myself.”

Nobody likes anyone whose perfect.
yet how come we all strive to be perfection?
seems like we always want what we don't need.
we make it our every effort to be flawless for everyone else.
caring so much about the way others see us,
we forget to just be our selves...
Feeling so disconnected from the world
yet trying so hard just to feel accepted
we forget what it means to just be, without striving all the time.
never realizing that perfection is the you, without trying.

I'm sitting at home watching TV mindlessly, but something isn't right
the walls- it's as if they are closing in on me.
my breathing begins to quicken
"I need to get out of here."

waking out the door i think,
"maybe some fresh air might help? there are no walls out here"
but it doesn't; it only gets worse
my chest tightens- i need to get home fast

back in the confines of my home, i run to my room
my head is pounding, i can barely breathe properly
why is this happening?
the walls are closing in again
everything feel tight, like I'm trapped in my own skin-
my body itches and burns
and my lungs can't take in enough air
and someone is screaming inside my mind except there is no sound

i want it all to stop

but my SKIN, oh god my skin
I'm writhing and scratching but the itch won't stop
if this keeps on I'm going to go insane
it's like I'm covered in grime- like i need to shed this layer of skin

i can barely think straight
everything is too loud and silent and tight and
i need to wash this feeling off of me

i run to the bathroom and turn on the water
but the sound of my mind or lack thereof is louder than the sound of the water and i need something to drown it out-
my stereo.
i run back to my room to get it and my phone
and plug the two up
i strip off my clothes, scratching at my arms and legs and step into the shower

****!

i stand there for a minute- the water burns my skin but it still itches
so i begin to scrub my body- every inch
the music is blaring and i can barely hear my mind anymore
the stream is thick and my lungs begin to relax
but my skin
my skin won't stop itching and burning
like thousands of microscopic things are crawling on me
no matter how hard i scrub
it
won't
stop

i scream as i turn the water even higher-
the music is deafening at this point-
I'm frantically scrubbing my arms, chest, legs, back, neck, everywhere
like I'm scrubbing away old heartaches and embarrassments and stresses and worries
scrubbing away e v e r y t h i n g
i don't stop until my limbs are bright red, my fingers burning from gripping the wash cloth so tight
I'm shaking
the water has cooled down some, and i let it run over my body, facing the shower head and slowly turning around

after what seems like hours the water is freezing
and the music has stopped long ago;
my mind is silent
my breathing is normal
and i can bare living in my own skin again.
i turn off the water and step out the shower, wrapping myself in a towel
I'm clean, maybe not spotless, but clean, for now

Auto pilot;
Droning on through the day
Barely realizing where I work,
Just knowing that that's all I do.

The most feeling I have
Is the bothersome itch
From the Mosquitos
Attacking my legs all night.

Scratches, sores, bruises, scars
Painted across my pale skin.
All from work work work
Except for one.

Funny to see what the years do
To the skin you wear
And that so many scars
Just barely heal.

you got high once;
when i was out of town.
i forgive you love.

i know you're sorry,
it's a struggle
of course.
i forgive you love.

dry your eyes
and remember i don't have it in me
to leave your side
i forgive you love.

mistakes are a part of life
you're the sweetest boy
that holds me when i cry
i forgive you love.

In your world there are magnetic lines that draw your needle North. Polaris and the Great Bear guide you home from clear moonlit skies, so that you may stumble into your hearth at night. I was told that in my heart was a compass rose, with a needle like yours, pointed and true. But my directions are undifferentiated. Ursa hides behind dark clouds and the magnetosphere is interrupted by the fiercest of solar winds. The needle fights to find North caught in an endless loop. The way home is unknown. But somewhere I know you are waiting for me to arrive, for the storms to pass. You would wait a thousand years. And though my compass is broken, I am reaching out my arms to find my way through the brush. And someday I will find you.

i find the right key
and unlock the front door.
i am greeted by the silence
that was filled by you a few years before.

i sit on the edge of the sofa
the one you used to sleep on.
i close my eyes;
i see you there again.

coughing and painful cries
echo in my ears.
you reach for the machine
which once helps you breathe.

i open my eyes,
and you disappear.
the silence is depressing.

i wish you were still here.

"God, you can be so sensitive sometimes."

I want to wear a rock-hard shell plate upon my breastbone, so words and dumb feelings would deflect instead of pierce straight through. If I could I would travel all the oceans and drown inside each and everyone of them until I had nothing but sea salt and a mermaids kiss. I wish instead of tears I would laugh because everyone always told me how crying is for weaklings.

Instead I let your words slice me into raw pieces of meat. Instead I struggle to find air in a room that is too humid. Instead I make believe that you are what I need to survive.

Instead I am too sensitive. And too weak to leave you.

"Your father and I almost had an affair. I thought it was so…romantic!"

My food lingers inside my intestines, attempting to slither back through my throat and wade on my tongue.

The only time I remember my parents sleeping in the same bed was when I was six, and that memory is fuzzy, like fumbling to the bathroom in the dark. I hit corners and trip over my own feet. I remember crawling between the two of them.

And the next memory is my mom in her bed, my father in his. They are not happy with each other.

They are not in love.

The memory after that is both of them yelling. Screaming. Words that are acid filled and burn my flesh.

The memory after is my father being drunk and my mother throwing objects at already stained walls.

The memory after that is me attempting to escape a house I could not find a home in. My mother tearing through my ribs until my plasma trickled down my arms. My father is sober, but sad.

My mother touches my father’s hand,

And I must excuse myself so I can run to the bathroom and punch the mirror until I see the shards poking through my knuckles and feel nothing but pain.

*Lovesinotrealloveisnotrealloveisnotreal.