I wish that I was dead.
It’s not really that I want to **** myself.
I just want everything to be over.

If I was brave enough
maybe I could do it myself.
But I’m not.

I wish that my life was over
so I wouldn’t have all of these feelings
that actually don’t exist.

I wish that I was gone,
away from my life and family
so I wouldn’t be hurting them anymore.

If only I could make it
so I’m the only one who hurts,
maybe I’d be brave enough.

You haunt my thoughts, turn my dreams into nightmares.
Your image shows me what I see in myself.
Someone frightening.
Your voice whispers to me what I hear my reflection say.
Something false.
The memory of your touch makes my body tremble.
With remembered violations.
The memory of your taste makes my tongue crave something else.
The taste of blood.
The memory of your smell reminds me of the warmth I felt.
When I was in love.
You’re the demon I encounter every single day.

Even when I don’t see you.
Even when I can’t see you.
Even when I won’t see you.
Even when I don’t want to see you.

You’re the demon of my memories.
The demon of my body.
The demon that takes over my emotions.

I blame you.
For feeling sad or numb. Never happy.
For crying or frowning. Never smiling.
I blame you.
For biting or cutting. For punching or scratching.
For all the pain I inflict on myself.
I blame you.
For drawing blood on the skin you once called perfect.
For carving lines into the body you once held in your arms.
I blame you.
For creating darkness in the eyes you once called beautiful.
For needing to watch a heart-wrenching movie just to cry.
I blame you.
For forcing my mouth into a shape you never knew.
For creating the fear of a simple kiss from someone else.
I blame you.
For the depression that has taken over my mind.
For the depression that has taken over my soul.
I. Blame. You.

There are so many reasons I blame you.
All of them valid.
All of them validated by others who know my story.
Except for you.
  Because you don’t remember it the way I do.
You don’t remember that I said, “No.”
You don’t remember that I asked you to stop.

So I know that it is not myself to blame.
But because you don’t know
what your violations did to me,
I blame myself.
I blame myself instead of you.
**Again.

Binge.
             Netflix                      
             Hulu                          
             Bulimia                    

I have new ones.
              Writing                    
              Poetry                      

There are times
where in ten measly minutes
I write and write
creating one poem
per two minutes.

Five poems in
ten minutes.

I am Binge Writing.

Pouring out my soul
in the form of a
waterfall.

These medications make my emotions hazy.
An inversion in Salt Lake, Utah occurs in my mind.
The surrounding mountains of guilt and shame
create the perfect bowl for smog to stay.
Hiking up peaks to view the city lights
and instead I see halos of gold through fake fog.
Back down to a car that swerves through canyons
while going just slow enough to see the road’s edge.
Walking up and down the streets no one can tell
of the poison we all breathe in together.
Utah, a happy place, where strangers smile at each other
and try to force themselves to believe that they are not fake.

Sitting on the bathroom floor
with lights off
and doors locked.
With mirrors covered
to hide the truth
of what you are.

I roll up my sleeves
just like you have asked.
Around those who might
understand.

I show the baby scars,
a checkerboard of tan and pink.
A forearm wearing a heart.

Please watch my face for emotions
as I watch yours react.

I'll see you accept or reject
the girl wearing this broken body.

There are times
so often
I think to myself
do I have the right
to label myself?
Wondering if
the cuts I make
are deep enough,
bleed enough,
scar enough,
created enough,
for me to be a cutter.

But I must be.
Because I do.
I must be.
Because my skin is
purple and red lines
of scars.
I must be.
Because I see a pencil sharpener
and remember where my
screwdriver is.
I must be.
Because I was hospitalized
and even they were surprised
at the destruction.

So I must be a cutter.
But I don’t have the right
to label myself.

I only know me.
And I don’t matter.
So I must not be one.

*But I am one

Jealous of the people walking down the street.
The people I don’t know.
Projecting my hopes and dreams onto unknown souls.
Seeing in strangers what I want to see in myself.
Recognizing they probably have problems too.
But putting them on a pedestal is easier to do.

Hold me close
but do not touch me.
Treat me well
but do not take me for granted.
Never let me go
but let me leave.
Learn all of my faults
but let me be me.
Get to know me
but do not leave me.

I've taught you something new.
I've shown you something fun.
You've thanked me for it all.

I took your hand and weaved my fingers through yours.
There, now you can say you've held someone's hand.
The first time he held a woman's hand.

I took your face and turned your neck and kissed your cheek.
There, now you can say you've been kissed.
The first time a woman has kissed him with some passion.

You took my face and I gave you my cheek and you kissed.
There, now you can say you've kissed a girl.
The first time he has kissed a woman with some passion.

I took your face and kissed your lips slowly and purposefully.
There, now you can  really  say you've been kissed.
The first time a woman has kissed your lips.

You took my face and kissed my lips nervously.
There, now you can  really  say you've kissed a girl.
The first time he has kissed a woman.

I've shown you how I kiss.
You've shown me your nerves.
But you've done well.

I grabbed your jacket and pulled you towards me.
I kissed you with passionate wanting and you opened your lips.
The first time he's been surprised by the passion.

You put your arms around my back and pulled me towards you.
You kissed me with nervous passion and our tongues intertwined.
I didn't teach him this one, he's learning for himself.

I've shown you some firsts.
And you've decided what you want.
Next time we meet, there will be more.