I've discovered Hell, and the truth is,
It isn't a place you go, it's a sickness.
It resides within your bones
And its scaffolding is made from trauma.
The only fire you'll find is from the white-hot flashbacks
That leave you drenched in sweat that smells like smoke.
No-one lives there except you and your enemies,
And your enemies are fragments of history, unable to be killed.
Your mind is the devil that subjects you to punishment
That you can't help but be convinced that you deserve,
And escape is a notion kept only for tears;
Everything else remains trapped.
Hell is being held within the cage of your own body
And killing yourself trying to break free.

Many moons,
have passed over my headpiece,
as you leave me behind,
in moondust & ashes each night,

You collect on the bookshelves,
I keep here,
collecting on hearts with your light,
dusting my world with your beauty,
diminutives in bits of the white,

This is not the end of the journey,
 this a mere tiny part of the flight,
and I've not seen any more shiny,
or any star nearly as bright,

Though I am unable to see you now,
or touch your skin ever again,
or truly hear you with my ear,
I still miss you so my friend,

I know I cannot be near you now,
I cannot be where you are,
as you are but a twinkling light,
a brilliant & distant, star-

If it was not but for the moon dust,
my heart wouldn't,
be able to see you anymore either.

Ma Cherie © 2017

She’s more fun when she is drunk
At least…until she’s not
Because she’s puking in the toilet
And regretting her last shot

She’s more confident when she’s drunk
Gorgeous and ready to score
Until she looks in a mirror
And feels even uglier than before

She likes herself more when she is drunk
Until that feeling goes away
When she is so far beyond gone
That her self-hatred comes out to play

She’s happier when she’s drunk
All her issues leave her brain
But they all come crashing back at once
And cause her so much pain

She likes the world more when drunk
It’s filled with so much good
Until one little thing sets her off
And she hates it all more than she should

She likes life more when she’s drunk
Her mind for once feels still
Terrified of losing that feeling
She soon wants to end things with a pill

But she can stop any time she wants
Or so she’d have you believe
Because alcohol makes her seem so happy
That is, until all her friends leave

Forward is a difficult direction to move towards.

Walking away from him is moving forward
But staying with him is moving backward
And ten steps towards the bottle is moving backward
And ten steps away from the bottle is moving forward.
So how do you know what way to point your compass when the direction you're told to go in  is completely arbitrary?

When I was younger moving forward meant success.
Getting A’s and B’s and staying out of trouble.
But as I grew up the little details that used to be irrelevant started twisting the path and what was once a straight shot is now a complicated maze of dead ends and trolls under bridges.

Moving forward was put on hold when puberty set in and the idea of body image made me obsessed with every mark and shape of my skin. When boys were no longer gross but objects of affection. When friends became more than friends and best friends was synonymous with jealousy.

Moving forward became more fuzzy when a new substance was introduced to me that made walking in a straight line more difficult than usual but when it got dark I wasn’t so scared of what lay on either side of me.

Moving forward became more interesting when you could inhale giggles and laziness or melt rainbows and dreams onto your tongue.

Moving forward was stopped completely the second time my best friend was ***** and I had to leave my path to hold her hand as she tried to move forward on her own.

Moving forward slowed once I made it back to my own road but checked behind my shoulder every few seconds because I now understood that there are really ****** people in this world.

Moving forward complicated itself when love became the ultimate distraction.
When I stopped mid journey to take the scenic route in another human being and thought I was still moving forward but actually was getting hopelessly lost.
Then he left me in the thickest part of the forest and I started to move backwards to retrace sunken steps in a ground I was too naïve to realize was muddy the first time I had walked it.

And I have to come to the realization that moving on and moving forwards  are not the same thing because my feet can place themselves one in front of the other all day long but it does not mean that my heart drags far behind in a state of helpless nostalgia that moving due north will not solve.

Soon enough distractions no longer sway me from my path.
My surroundings are a blur because everything that makes me full of light I have already passed and I am told over and over again to keep moving forward.

So I will no longer stray.

I will keep my eyes on the horizon and hope the soles of my shoes along with my spirit do not wear down before I arrive at my destination.
I have no idea of where I am going but maybe if I keep moving in the direction that is “forward” I will get there
And maybe one day arrive somewhere that makes me feel whole again.

I've never written a happy poem.
I've tried, and stopped.
It always felt fake, cheesy.
I've come to realize that I do not need to express the things that make me happy in order to write a happy poem.
I do not need to make metaphors for the joys in life.
I have joys.
I know this.
I have yet to write a happy poem.
But I feel happy.