And oh,
it is almost
always
the same.

Unconscious, I have dreams:
and they are, usually, infected;
tainted by, and only
by: you.

Perhaps my tattered
subconscious cannot seem
to let go.
No, I suppose,
I cannot forget nor forgive
just how detrimental
an impact you had
upon my fractured soul.

Perhaps this is why
in all my dreams
I always see
you.
You're in the shadows,
always lurking, always
ready; ready to hurt me
a million times over
and over
and over
and over again, and god,
you really never left
this bed, did you?

d.b

There are indecorous mistakes
found in this world,
in this life,
that cannot, despite
all efforts of frantic,
pure, desperation:
be erased
in the slightest.

d.b.

Perhaps if I
can refrain
from asking,
I might never know
just how much
is so
inherently wrong
with me.


d.b

Open a can in front of her
and then ask her why
she flinches
at the sound.

Ask her why
the mere scent of beer
coaxes stomach acid up
her throat.

Go on, ask her why
her childhood memories
are tainted
by an alcoholic fog.

Ask her why 'father'
is a six letter word,
and each letter
is holding a 30-pack of misery.

-db

Mesmerizing never described
me in any sense
of the word.

I have only ever been
sharp corners
and dark shadows;
never the light
in a room.

No one brightens
at my presence, no
I do not inflict joyful
inclinations. For I
have only ever been
the background--
only ever meant to be
in the back of rooms,
removed from the crowd,
invisible.

-db

if every year of my life
were a chapter
and I could only remove one
from my story:
I would tear out chapter 14.

I would rip all the pages,
mutilate beyond repair,
shred. Shred shred shred
burn burn burn until
nothing was left but ashes.

14, when I was naive.
14, when I thought kissing a boy
would make even me think that I
was straight, 14
when a hot summer event suddenly
burned me hotter than the sun
ever could, because
at 14, a boy I called friend
didn’t listen.

14, he’s in my house,
14, he’s in my room,
14, he’s on top of me,
14, he’s forcing his way in me and I…
I am telling him to stop.

14, my cries go ignored,
14, he’s stronger than me,
14, my parents aren’t home,
14, I didn’t tell anyone he was coming,
14, he could hurt me if I run,
14…where would I even run to?

Shame; Shame because 14
is the story of when I said stop…
and then stopped trying to stop
what I wanted to stop and had asked
for to stop in the first place but
he did not listen to the word
‘stop.’

14, when fear paralyzed me.
14, when what was less than an hour
felt like a lifetime. 14
was crying when he finally left,
14 was seeing blood and knowing
it wasn’t my menstrual cycle.
14 was when my whole life
changed.

In chapter 14 I had innocence
stolen. In 14 I started high school;
where I had two classes with him
everyday.

14 was acting like it was fine,
I was fine, it was all fine,
until it wasn’t, and
14 was police reports and questions
and being accused of lying,
14 was “He’ll get what’s coming to him.”
But we are chapters away from that now and
justice has never once been applied, and
he roams free and
I still feel trapped under his body.

Chapter 14 would be entitled
“****”
and I would erase it from my story
if only such an action
were possible.

(d.d.b)

i walk the line.
i walk the line of death
and living
and i do not know
which way to lean.

i tell lies through my teeth--
i teeter on the edge of oblivion.
the unknown beckons amidst
the anguish festering within.

nightfall claws at memories;
darkness engulfs as thoughts
surface, race, remind-
and i wonder how easy
a step to the left, down into
death, might be.

(d.d.b)

I'm so tired of crying in bathroom stalls and wiping the tears furiously away and never ever being liked and never ever being good enough and always getting laughed at and always failing and I'm so tired of being tired

d.d.b

I'd rather walk
a city street;
where, at least,
the people passing do not
know my name,
much more than
I would enjoy
walking into
my local grocery store:
where I am
too visible.

the screams
still caught in my throat
from that day;
want to let them out,
to cry,
be louder.

what if
I'd been louder?
could it have saved
my soul from
being torn
that day?

can still hear it,
your breathing;
can still feel it,
you pushing
me down.

can still remember;
oh, how I remember.

(d.d.b)

Cannot breathe,
around you.
Cannot speak,
around you.
Cannot bear to be,
around you.

You.
You, who tore my soul
in such a detrimental way.
you, who violated the frail
body underneath you.

Let me live, I beg,
let me breathe.
Go away, for god sakes,
please go away.

(d.d.b)

and if I am allowed
might I say
it's becoming too much.
Every aching day,
I search for reasons to keep going
but my dear, you cannot see
the despair engulfing my soul.

It hurts.
Dear god, it hurts.

No thought not turned over;
no mistake not reprimanded a hundred
thousand godforsaken times.

It is all simply too much.

(d.d.b)

and i wonder if we spoke today
you might deny it all.
I wonder if you might care
to hear about
the flashbacks;
the nightmares, the fear.
Do you think about how
it must affect me
that I have to face you every day?

Don't think
I can take it
much longer, anyway.
You burn my eyes,
your voice curses my ears.
Your smile swallows me whole
and I wonder,
I truly wonder,
do you even regret it at all?

Some nights I find you
on the ceiling, while I lie in bed.
Your face looms over me,
a haunting memory.

Some nights you're in the blankets,
the same ones you once touched,
and I swear,
they still have your scent.

Some nights, truly bad nights,
you reside only in my mind.
Thoughts of you intertwine with my nerves,
they send my system into overdrive,
they attack so forcefully,
I am left gasping for air.

Some nights,
it's crippling flashbacks,
glasses of warm milk
while curled on the bathroom floor;
my attempt at self care.

Some nights,
sleep feigns peace before transforming
into horrid nightmares.
Tears spill, screams emitting,
I drown in vivid images of you.

Some nights,
I cannot decide whether being awake
or being asleep
will cause more pain.

(d.d.b)

But it doesn't even make sense, does it?
The way we love without actually loving;
the way we look into each others eyes,
and we both know we see something deeper,
but we aren't allowed to speak.
We don't really talk about it.

You wrap your arm around me and I am paralyzed,
but I like it.
The way you smile, the way you laugh.
I swear, every cliche applies to you.
Perhaps it's wrong, I hope it's right,
and I know you see my feelings
but I don't seem to care anymore.
We don't really talk about it.

I want to kiss your lips.
I want to be able to look you in the eyes for longer
than .2 seconds,
because they are a wondrous sea of curiosity.
I want to be able to call our friendship more than that;
I want to be us.
There's just a small, miniscule problem...
We don't really talk about it.

(d.d.b.)

I'm sitting in a desk,
towards the back of the room,
the first time I have a flashback about you in class.

You're sitting across the room,
but it feels as if you're breathing down my neck.
My concentration shifts from taking notes,
to an all too vivid memory.

Suddenly I'm pinned down
on my own bed
with you towering over me.

The teacher talks of hominids,
but all I hear is my own screams.
A chorus of "No"
that was heavily ignored.

My breathing is shallow,
my heartbeat is rapid.

I've missed an entire slide by the time I snap out of it.

I'm not gonna borrow the notes from you, that's for sure.


(d.d.b)

My art teacher requires me to have an x-acto knife in my possession.
This, my friend, is a bad idea.
You see, she is blissfully unaware of my harmful tendencies.

But I can assure you, that if there's one thing I know,
it's that knife will be used on more than an art project.

School in itself is a trigger.
Knives and razors are the index finger that pulls said trigger,
setting off an explosion of blood along my wrist.

See, dear art teacher, that knife will hit my skin,
whether I want it to or not.
In a moment of weakness,
of stress,
I will turn to that available outlet.

I do not know what is scarier.
Having that knife with me every day,
or knowing that a twisted part of me wants to use it.

(d.d.b)

But is it really such a crime?
Avoidance, that is.
I wouldn't call it isolation,
nor anti-social behavior.

Perhaps I just enjoy the quiet
and the decrease in anxiety
a bit more
than mindless chatter
and having to worry about everything I say.

Please, darling,understand this one thing.
I'll avoid people quite often until my last breath.
Only under this circumstance shall I function semi-correctly.

(d.d.b)

but how do I explain to her that even though I know
that it's her hands touching me
I swear I can feel his?

How will I explain to her, whoever she may be,
that I will wake up at night screaming from the memory
of being pinned down by him?

I don't know how to explain it.
How do you explain it?

(d.d.b)

But, darling, no one is understanding this.
My abilities are flowers and you're picking off all the petals
before I even have time to grow more.
My brain is a garden that I can only water when I'm alone,
so please understand that I will wilt and dry out when exposed
to too much social interaction for too long of a time.
I need time to recuperate, to grow, to freshen up.
Because a flower is no fun when it's wilted, and all the petals are gone.


(d.d.b)

But I can’t go anywhere in this small, god-forsaken town without seeing you and having a panic attack.
Do you realize this at all?

Sometimes I can’t sleep in my own ******* bed because you made it a crime scene when you shoved me down on it while I screamed “No.”

You ****** me up. You still **** me up. And you will never be punished.

That in itself is ****** up.


(d.d.b)

It is pure, unadulterated hell
to remember your soft touch.
The way you laughed at my horrible jokes.
The kisses, the stars we watched,
the bus rides,
the music we both loved,
the songs we danced to together in your room.
It is all so hard, like walking on a wire that was fun before
but now my harness is gone and it's actually dangerous.
Thinking about you is a delicate disaster,
but I do it anyway.


(d.d.b)

Run the extra mile,
write the extra page.

Go farther than expected of you,
for it will surely pay off in the end.

(d.d.b)

The fear still lingers,
and it's not always manifested
in the nightmares and flashbacks.

No, sometimes the fear is
looking around corners
and not being able to walk outside alone.
Fear is jumping at a loud noise,
or freezing at an unexpected touch.
It's not answering the phone when it's an unmarked number.
The fear is making sure I've locked the door at least twice;
it's in the scars on my wrist
and the way I can't handle raised voises.

The fear is in everything I do,
and its been over a year since he terrified me.


(d.d.b)

My blood is made of the words you've said,
and the things you've done to me.
I keep cutting to release the memories,
but you won't come out, no mater how deep I go.


(d.d.b)

He might appear to be sweet and loving,
but let me tell you the truth, dear.
That boy is pure candy-coated misery.
He'll tear you apart in ways you cannot even imagine,
and your soul will be stained with a bruise from his blow.
Trust me, for I know;
I know all too well.
Steer clear of the train who will surely derail you.

(d.d.b)

Is 'Moving On' a reality?
Or merely a fantasy?
It feels like the latter,
because no matter what I try--
I still can't get the thought of you out of my head.

You plague my thoughts like an infectious disease.
Everyday your face is there, reminding me--
torturing me.

'Moving On' feels like some cruel fairy tale of false hope,
and I was just dumb enough to fall for the idea momentarily.
Hook, line, and sinker.

(d.d.b)

Secrets are my amplifier.
They burn in my heart like a forest fire.
I am made of those closeted items
they live in me like I'm their phylum.
For only I can keep such dark whispers
hid inside with painful shivers.
Speaking as the queen of hiding
I can assure that it is only time you are biding.
If you believe you can keep silent
think again, because the thoughts get violent.
Secret keeping is not for the faint of heart
it is, in fact, a sacred art.


(d.d.b)

But how many days in this past year
have I cried over what you did to me?
How many nightmares have left me breathless,
grasping for a light, and for restful sleep?
Tell me, how many flashbacks have haunted my memory?
Do you even know the multitude of conflicts
that you forced upon me?
Do you realize the significance of your thoughtless actions?

I bet you don't.
But I sure as hell do.

(d.d.b)

Kiss me like we will never meet again.
Look at me as if I am the northern lights,
and I am once in a lifetime for you to see.
Touch me as if I am a sculpture,
centuries old and coveted.
Love me as if I am the only thing
capable of obsorbing that love,
and darling, I live off of it.


(d.d.b)

I am drowning
in a pool of my own sorrow,
and it is the worst pain--
the worst death--
that I could have ever imagined.


(d.d.b)

My fault.*

All my fault.

Dear, god, it really was all my fault.

The realization--

The mere thought--

is eating me alive like a forest fire.


(d.d.b)

I cannot, for the life of me, get over it.

I cannot, no matter how hard I try, forget what happened.

It is killing me.

It is destroying me.


(d.d.b)

Sadness, you see,
is supposedly the absence of happiness.

The irony of my sadness,
is that I never felt the happiness.
Not once;
not at all.

One can argue, then
is it really sadness that I feel?
Or is it simply
my state of being?

Either way,
whatever it is,
it sincerely hurts.

(d.d.b)

Do you know what it's like to see everything?
To see the punchline before the joke;
to see the ending at the beginning.

Sometimes, I do.
Sometimes, I don't.

And when I do, I really do.
I call every play,
I finish every sentence.

But when I don't, I really don't.
I am uncharacteristically oblivious,
and I do not see any warning signs.
It terrifies me.

I want to see everything, always.
Because when I don't...
Oh, when I don't....
Nothing good ever happens.

(d.d.b)

It is dangerous to be me.
My life is a hazard,
but it didn't come with a warning sign.

No, it stays hidden from most,
but I know the truth.
My mind is permanently set
on self-destruct mode.
There is no off switch.

It is dangerous to be me.
Caution: Keep Away.

(d.d.b)

I'm just a filler
in a world full of important people.*



(d.d.b.)

I'm the pollen left behind
after a bee takes a drink.
I'm the bark that crumbles
on a dead tree.
I resemble a dingy penny
dropped and forgotten
in an abandoned parking lot.

I am nothing but a left over;
a mere after thought, if anything.
I serve no purpose.


(d.d.b)

I haven't relapsed in months,
but tonight I am in danger.
The dreaded need is in me,
it's burning like a forest fire across my wrist.
I don't want to, but parts of me do.

I want to rip my skin open and that is so terrifying


(d.d.b.)

It hurts to know,
that despite everything I do,
despite how much I give;
people I love still use and abuse me.

I can never do enough.
They only take what they want
and leave the rest of me out to dry.

I try so hard.
So ******* hard,
but ******, none of them care.

They don't care.

They never have.

(d.d.b)

They don't understand.
I am afraid to go to sleep.
The nightmares are so detrimental,
that despite complete exhaustion,
I am afraid to go to sleep.

(d.d.b)