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Chelsea K Sep 2017
My dear girl,
You are a castle, built into wet sand.
A beautiful structure cursed
by unfortunate circumstance.
If only you were born an hourglass instead;
Then you'd feel purpose as your sand slipped away.
But instead, your fragile foundation gets eaten day after day, with each and every passing of the ocean's hungry waves.
Chelsea K Aug 2017
A forest-green & tan striped couch, littered with burn holes from forgotten cigarettes, serves as foreshadowing of what lies ahead for the forgotten flower lying upon it.

The flower curls up on this couch, as it's the best view to admire mom from across the room, as she magically transforms eyelashes into feathers with the swipe of a wand.

Ignorantly innocent, the flower patiently awaits her time to bloom, yearns for her petals to unfurl like mom's: flawless perfection.

But gradually, mom's smokey cat eyes become dark shadows of hollow sunken ships, and bright rosy skin fades to washed out colors of furniture bathed in harsh sunlight year after year.

Now, mom buried the bones of the delicate structure she built from inside her ****, and decades later her daughter's dismantled skeleton is scattered ruins of an abandoned sunken city, polluted by the rotten flesh of unwanted fruit; a weak foundation destined to be crumbled relics of an ancient past.

Never once did Mom leave flowers at the grave that she dug.

I imagine the sweetest sounds to a brand-new mother are the screams and wails of her newborn child, reassurance that it's vibrant life lights up the room as blindingly as the birth of a newborn star, a commanding presence louder than that star's explosive death.

On the contrary, I imagine the sweetest sound to MY mother was the silence when she muffled the screams. From underwater, you cannot hear screams for help, or much of anything at all. 

Her solace was the peace felt when muddy water filled her lungs, the darkness found from deep within a drug-induced sleep, where you cannot hear a child weep.

I mentioned the young girl always wanted to be like her mom. And so it was...all grown up when I tried ****** for the first time. I held true to mom every time the rush of warm blood filled the syringe, visual evidence that the blood was thicker than the bond mom and I shared.

Usually when a person's life is ruined by a parent's addiction they will stay an ocean's length away from drugs - but I am a curious cat, ignoring the fact that I do not have 9 lives, and so I welcomed this substance into my veins, into my brain.

The brown lady would wrap me up in her arms each night, then gently dip me in the familiar flame of a fire's flickering tongue. She became the only company that could never overstay its welcome.

And so, for a time I became my mother: "flawless perfection." I will admit that ****** is one **** of a drug, but -still- i cannot see! How could ****** steal my mother's love?
Chelsea K Jul 2017
It's the first time we meet.

I can't get a read on that sweet summer smile, or the words that drip like thick robes of gold honey; soft-spoken and seemingly slow motion, a quite complicated question pours viscously from your lips.

You ask me, "What is your name?"

Now honestly, I considered honesty. Truthfully, I prefer anonymity, but it's considered rude to not share some glimpse of identity. Albeit reluctantly, I must decide: Do I introduce myself as "Chelsea"? Or as "A Window-Pane Made of Glass Too Thin"? Well honestly, honesty isn't always the best policy.

It's our first date -
Instead of worrying about which outfit I choose, I worry about the disclaimer I wear on my arms. I worry about the first time your gaze inevitably falls upon the self-inflicted displays of pain that dress my paper-thin skin. I worry, will you see a warning sign that reads "DANGER: Do not touch"? I wonder, will you listen?

Or will you choose to swallow me whole, a bitter pill with a list of flaws longer than the side effects of your favorite antidepressant. Do the benefits outweigh the risks, do you take a trial of me to see if I'll make you feel better or feel worse? Do you pour me down the drain when you find out I'm not good enough?

It's our first kiss -
A moment tainted by guilt that the sweet taste I leave behind on your lips is not saliva, but antifreeze. Drink me down and I'll poison you from the inside-out, and there will come a day that I'll be the taste you'd do anything to erase from your mouth.

It's our first fight -
And then our second, and our third...
The sand is slipping through our hourglass too fast, as we drag our blood-stained feet through a wasteland of eggshells and glass. All that remains is a crimson trail of mistakes, meandering back to the spotless place we started at.

It's the first time we meet, and
You ask me for my name. Silence.
Should I introduce myself as "Chelsea"? Or as "A Window-Pane Made of Glass Too Thin". If I'm being honest with myself, I go with the latter...and you'll walk away to avoid the mess that comes after.
Chelsea K Jun 2017
Im an abandoned house with rotting walls
You are the ghost who roams these vacant halls...
We all know ghosts can't return from the dead,
you take the form of rolling fog instead.
Always hidden away where you can't be seen.
So then tell me, where the **** were you when my walls were caving in?
Instead of saving me, you gave in to addiction.
Each line snorted caused a violent shake in my chest
Every new track mark was matched with a cut to my wrist.
You could have, should have saved me.
But ******* is a **** of a drug;
****** steals a mother's love.
Chelsea K Oct 2016
Imagine tugging at a loose thread on a sweater, expecting it to break off, problem solved...
but instead that thread unravels and unravels until the sweater is a sweater no more,
but rather a mess of string in a heap on the floor, a chaotic tangle that
resembles the contents of my brain when someone asks, "how was your weekend?"

My thoughts are replaced with the blare of static on TV and I can't hear myself think, so I say what I imagine a person is supposed to say, a preprogrammed response I construct for situations like these when my brain decides to check out...

Because of course the only time my mind -stops- is when I really need it to go, not when I'm laying in bed at 2 a.m., fixating on that cringey thing I did four years ago.

But anyway, I would tell you about my weekend, except it seems that the wires connecting the language part of my brain to my mouth have been cut. My weekend probably ****** anyway, but I manage to say, "it was good." And even then, those three words struggle to get past my lips, and any words more revealing hit the backs of my teeth like a car colliding into a brick wall.

By now the elmer's glue holding me together is losing its grip, so when you tell me about your weekend, the words wont stick. How your breath is wasted on me, when I can't concentrate on not falling apart and on tales of your tomato garden at the same time.

On the surface I look so cold; my painted on smile is a thin sheet of ice, concealing the puddle that hides underneath, one that the sun can't reach --
People will often say, "if it helps, you don't seem anxious". I want to tell them that anxiety is a tormented ghost that drags its dagger like claws across my skin at night, whose presence I can always feel but never see. A monster that feeds on vulnerability, and knows it will never starve.

But, I don't know what to say, so I stare at my hands. Because making eye contact feels like facing a lion, and facing a lion means facing death. But then there are times that death doesnt sound so bad, because I know that as long as I'm still breathing, anxiety finds a way to make that hard for me too.  

Anxiety is a broken appliance that the store wont take back, the Annabelle doll that returns from the trash, so it made a home of me instead. And in return for the shelter I give, my heart pounds like its full of angry bees when I finally press 'send' on the 8th draft of a text message I've been working on since yesterday and I want to hide, but why bother? when in a game of hide-and-seek, anxiety always wins.

It is my shadow during the day and my blanket at night, one that that drapes suffocatingly around my shoulders while I'm pacing the kitchen in the dim glow of the stovelight, worrying that the next day could be the " someday " that the ones I love finally leave me. On these nights, anxiety comes to my rescue everytime. It slithers up my back where it can softly whisper into my ear : "I promise you, chelsea, I will never leave"
Chelsea K Feb 2016
There was a deep sea I once dared to cross,
                           Pitch black and devoid of life.
                           The cold, bitter sea cannot be bothered
                           with almost certain uncertainties.
The tips of the waves were razor sharp,
                            Imposed is a gentle reminder that my flesh is not steel.
                            What exists beneath the water's ragged teeth?
                            ..I don't need to be told,
                            for I am well acquainted with that darkness & that fear;
                            We've shared a bed, twin-sized, for twenty-two years.
The winds lashed and the waves churned.
                          "Get out now!", they screamed at me.
                           But where, how, when there's nowhere to go?
                           The only possible direction is down, straight below.
                           The ocean stole my soul, as it swallowed me whole.
Down here,
air is a luxury that I'm denied
again and again,
regardless of time spent
begging for the weight of
the water to relent,
and set me free.

But, it took water filling up my lungs
                     for me to finally feel peace--
                     to live where silence exists without grief.
I am at the ocean's whim,
                     I follow, and it leads.
                     All the while, I beg and I plead,
                     "Take me home, wherever home is, please...."
The current reacts violently to my request.
                      I'm spun around, turned upside down
                      and I have lost my way.
                      But my way can't save me anymore.
 The waves push. They pull. I give in to their will.
And they surrender me to the shore.              

A watery tomb left behind.
The surface is near.
           I gasp for fresh air,
                                                            ­                  Inhale
                                        ­                                      a deep breath,
                                                         ­                     an incredible breath
                                                    just breathe..
                                   I found what I was searching for.
Chelsea K Sep 2015
You've been digging my grave
and it's getting deeper every day.
Slowly, but surely.
I'm on my hands and knees again
filling the gaps and holes in my heart
with the dirt you toss my way..
I'm not as empty as this shallow grave.
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