My brain is a flower,
and right now,
among the multitude
of anxiety attacks,
and copious amounts of stress,
I feel as if
I
am
wilting.

(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?

It doesn't matter.
Don't you see?
You can break and batter,
but I'm still me.

You can punch and kick,
and shout verbal abuse,
But you don't get to pick;
I'm not a tool for your use.

I may be hurt and scarred
but you cannot change me.
You can make my life hard,
but I'm still what you see.

For better or for worse, I'm still me.


(d.d.b)

Was I too complex for you?
Tell me, what is it that I did wrong?
I know it must of been a lot,
For you to throw me away to rot.
You scream words of hatred,
while I cry tears of grief.
Grievence for the love
that we once shared.
It was a passionate,
beautiful love.
A love that along the way
became one sided.
I will always love you, my dear.
You could stab me
and I'd apologize
for bloodying up your knife.
I apologize everyday.
I wasn't enough.
I wish I had been.
  

     (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)

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)

My heart is a pin cushion.
Various people have stuck needles
into it; but that's its purpose.
That's the good part.

The bad part, you see,
is when the needles are taken out.
I no longer have a meaning,
and I no longer feel loved
or useful.

Because what is a pin cushion
without needles?
I've got the holes
where they once were,
but that is all I have.

My heart is a petty, scarred
little pin cushion.
And there aren't any needles in sight.

(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)

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

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)

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

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)

They say I'm crazy,
but if that's the case,
then what does that make them?
Becuase it sure as hell isn't sane.

(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)

I don't wish harm on people
                                                           BUT

to the guy who stole my innocence,
I hope you know that I wake up at night
screaming from the nightmares
of what you did to me.
You, you ******* monster,
who thought it was okay to ignore me
when I told you "no."
Who thought it was okay to pin me down
on my own **** bed.
I hope you get justice,
however it may come.
The courts aren't listening to me,
but you'll get what's coming.
You have to.
It isn't fair if you don't.

I don't wish harm on people
                                                          BUT
Maybe you're the one exception.





                                          (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)

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.)

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)

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)

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)

Old text messages are the devil
Because they show that one day
it was *"Let's go get coffee together."
And that day led to making out,
behind a shed neither of us owned.
They show that the next week,
you were on your way over
to my house.  
"On my way."
And that day...
oh, god, that day...
I trusted you.
I said no.
My trust was misplaced.
You violated me anyway.
They show that you kept in contact;
you texted me daily for a month after.
As if nothing happened.
As if my life hadn't been torn apart.
"I love you."
"You want to get coffee again?"


(d.d.b)

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



(d.d.b.)

I was intoxicated with you,
  *but my dosage was too high.           
 When you left me, empty,
     well, darling; the withdrawals
             **** near killed me.



(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)

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)

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)

Will it ever makes sense?
      it doesn't make sense
Will I every be okay?
      I'm not okay
Will this pain ever end?
      God, there's so much pain...




(d.d.b)

I don't want to fall asleep becuase I know you'll be in my nightmares

Your touch.
Your voice.
Your sly smile.

The way you always take "No"
to mean "Yes."

I fight the unconciousness my body craves to save my mind from the vicious terror that is the memory of you*


(d.d.b)

My eyes are weary
and teary.
My smile is faded
and painted.
My heart is torn
and forlorn.

I'm broken, dear.
Far too broken, I fear.

(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)

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)

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.)

When I was young,
I believed in magic.
I always did "spells"
to keep away my faux enemy.
I called my enemy "The Darkness."
Imagine, this young girl,
only in elementary school,
running around and rambling about
"We must keep the darkness away."
"The darkness is going to get me."
My 'friends' turned me away,
finding me horribly odd.

A few years later,
magic hopes long forgotten,
it turned out I was right.
The Darkness came for me.
Who knew that little child
could have predicted
my futute mental disorders.


(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)

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.

you touched me again in my dream last night,
and I swear I woke up screaming*


(d.d.b)