I always thought I was a healer for the broken and somehow the
lost found me.
I thought I was whole and the one who was open
But then I caught a glimpse in a mirror, and I saw her.

Cracked eyes and chipped shoulders,
Once a stone masterpiece that could have been marveled in all her glory.
Those broken soul's storms she endured to make sure they saw the sun have had an effect.
She is weathered down and wonders if a chiseler will ever come around to bring her back to life.

do you have moments, where you can’t imagine a future?
you’re lying there, staring at the
same walls
same ceilings
same words
with nothing but the same feelings-
empty and pale,
like there’s no reason to go on,
when you can’t even do enough to fail.
the future is coming, but you don’t want to be in it,
can’t imagine yourself in it.
where you just want to stop.
everything.
and just sit there for a while.
maybe not death, as that’s too permanent,
but something close to it.
when you can feel the rope around your neck,
the razor on your wrist,
the way the pills taste.
you can imagine it, and you aren’t sure if it’s what you want,
or just the feelings you imagine it will give you

I am a mess piled on top of a mess piled onto more mess..

If you want the perfect analogy for what kind of person I'll be in your life just think of that pile of laundry you push aside on your bed every night . . .

Is it really so true that fear can keep us trapped and imprisoned by nothing but mere thoughts?

Invisible bars with such real rigidness in their stance.

Within these walls I wonder, is it normal to watch another person cry and feel like it's the most intimate you can be with a person? And if so, what does that say about what I'm putting up with?

You can open my legs repeatedly, but you'll never know me there; because unlike other humans I live in my heart.

If you know the key to that door isn't your ****, even though it fits, but it was your deepest secrets, would you dare to open me still?

Should I consider the ones who answer no to be cowards?

And maybe that is why I have grown to hate you. Because I stand in the bravery of authenticity but still tremble at the thought of being alone.

So maybe then in actuality I hate myself too.

In conclusion, I suppose I hate neither.

I only hate the mirror you are that shows me who the real coward is here, and I'm sick of staring.