I don’t know if you’re dead
But you’re dead to me
Still running the streets
I haven’t heard from you
It’s been three weeks

I pray for you
I used to curse your name
You dragged me through the mud
Playing your games
You lost everything

My greatest pleasure and
My greatest pain
I never thought I’d get hurt like that again
I thought all my dreams came true
But it turned into a nightmare fast

I’ve been grieving you as if you’re dead
The person you used to be is gone
Or maybe he never really existed at all
You could be dead
You don’t answer when I call

You pushed me away
Ashamed of your actions
I’m afraid of your fatal attraction
The streets are your wife
I was just your mistress

Maybe I did let the world tear us apart.
Or maybe you’re just a p.o.s.,
like the world said.
I don’t know.
I don’t believe that I was naive enough
to be fooled by you.
No.
I’ve seen too much.
I saw every time you tried to fool me,
and only out of tact, pretended I didn’t.
All the things I love about you
were not a trick to trap me.
It hurts so much more
if I let myself think,
what if you were for real
and I let the world tear us apart?
My greatest love
and my deepest pain.
I wasn’t scared of what the world
could do to us.
I was scared of what you
could do to me.
What you did do.

You’re strong
and you don’t need me
and that’s fine.

Once you’ve been really loved,
everything else just feels
like a second hand shirt.

Nothing ever compares
and you spend the rest of your life
chasing its shadow.

I take a drag
and everything slows down.
I can hear the crickets singing,
and two owls.
I hear the cars on the highway.
In my mind,
I see your smile.

“I like affection.
It’s never enough.
That’s job security for you.”
“Job security?
Nah, that’s like,
I’m replaceable.”

“No,” I say, serious now.
I don’t say it,
but it hits me,
just how irreplaceable
you’ve become to me.
No matter what happens,
you’ve left a mark
I’ll never forget.
You have a part of my heart
I’ll never get back.

What’s the difference between
a break up
and a breakdown?
Direction.
The weight.
A break up is
disintegration.
A breakdown is
collapse.

I’m tired of hearing that I’m
intimidating,
too much,
that you’re
not ready,
not good enough.

There are a lot of things I’m scared of
but love isn’t one of them.
After everything you’ve seen,
how can that be what scares you?
Don’t tell me you’re afraid.
The truth is
you don’t love me.
What you’re afraid of
is the look in my eye
when you’re hurting me.

We don’t match on paper
and that’s all you see
because you don’t know 
how trauma moves.
Paper is only two dimensional.
It has no depth,
and that’s where we’ve been -
to a place you’ve never dared to look.

We have traveled through the underworld,
stared pain in the face,
and learned how to bear it.
We’ve flirted with madness,
laughed in the face of death,
and writhed alone in the darkness.

You see us together
at a coffee shop
on a Sunday morning
and you stare
with a confused look.

You can’t see past his
crooked teeth,
tattoos,
and muscular arms.
You don’t see his heart,
his soul,
or his mind.

You can’t see past my
straight teeth,
the sparkle in my eye,
or my laugh.  
You don’t see
the imperceptible scars,
the lessons,
or the cracks in my mind.

You assume that what you see
is all there is.
We have more in common
than you could ever guess,
because of what we’ve seen
and what we’ve survived.

I’ve been searching for
what I didn’t get.
As a kid,
would talk to strangers
with no fear.
Teachers couldn’t get me
to stop talking.

No one can get
close enough.
I always want to be closer.
Is that enmeshment
or love?

In high school,
I found people like me.
At 18,
I always had people to call,
so I would never have to be
alone at night.
Maybe it wasn’t
real friendship,
but it was better than nothing.

As a kid,
being alone in the house
felt like death.
Still,
without attention,
I feel like I’m dying.
If I don’t get love
when I need it,
I must be unlovable.
What’s the point of living
without love?

Lack of love
is the slowest way to die.

I’ve been trading my love for attention
and because I’ve been treating this like a transaction
maybe it’s not really love I’m giving.
Attention is still my drug of choice
and I need it
to fill this empty pit in my soul
called Neglect.
There is never enough to fill it,
never enough to soothe my nerves,
never enough to convince me
you really love me.

No one has ever fought for me.
That wound is so deep
it scares me.
Maybe that’s why I push people away.
To find out who will come back.

My love is deep.
I’ve never found anyone who could match it.
How much would I put up with just to be held when I’m hurting?
So much.
More than you would believe.
There’s a hole in my heart that nothing can fill.
I want to be held by someone who won’t let go.
I want to be loved by someone who won’t give up.
I want someone who would fight for me like I would fight for them.  
Will I always feel this empty?
Will I always feel this broken?
Will I always want to die?

I spent the last seven years
trying to tame both our demons.
Each one of mine I chained
was a vital part of me.
The iron on their wrists
burns me.
The weights on their ankles
tether me.
You gave me a mask to match yours
and tied it on for me
so gently.

When I look at the stars,
I feel the same,
I still think the same thoughts I did
at 16,
and 21,
and 25.
That’s how I know I was never lost.
Just hiding.
I haven’t changed.
I’ve only learned how to perform better,
to perform different roles;
lover, friend, employee.
I abandoned myself for awhile,
but I’m still here.
I was always here,
behind the mask.
It’s coming off now
and the chains are falling away
now that you’re gone.

Get you a man
who wants to fall asleep next to you,
wake up with you,
workout with you,
cook and eat healthy with you.
A man who will
look into your eyes
and tell you he loves you,
who can read your face like a map,
who notices when something is wrong
just from the shadow crossing your face,
who likes your cooking,
and shows you he loves you
with the way he touches you,
and the way he looks at you.
Get you a man like mine.

We said I love you so much,
it stopped meaning anything.

I’m sorry.
Please don’t leave me.
Don’t be mad.
Goodbye.
Goodnight.
Good morning.
Leave me alone.
Let’s not fight.
I miss you.
Do you still love me?

I’m not going to do that this time.

D!rty spoons in the drawer,
Smelly socks on the floor.
Loud noises when I sleep,
Angry looks when I speak.
Quiet house when he goes out,
No response when I shout.
Where he goes he leaves a mess,
And he thinks that he’s the best.
Leaving every light switch on,
And he wakes well past dawn.

I’m as cold as the space
between me and those distant suns
we call stars.
I don’t want to live.
You watch me self destruct
and you say nothing.
You revel in it, even.
“You know how to snck d!ck”
as if that’s something to be proud of.
I can tear apart your soul too
but no one wants to talk about that.
I can turn you inside out
and make you look at yourself,
but you don’t want to.
I can’t help myself.
Am I a demon?
Or a witch?
Or something in between?
A fncked up human,
with no reason to live.
My emptiness yawns
like the mouth of a cave.
It consumes everything.
I am a hungry ghost.
Insatiable, invisible, and so lonely,
I want to die.

Today, the pain is too much.
I get up anyway.
I get dressed.
I cry quietly so I don’t wake my roommate.
I fantasize about death,
about getting high,
about feeling good for a little while,
about feeling nothing.
I pause in the bathroom mirror,
staring at the shape of my hand closing it.
I breathe into the pain,
feeling everything.
I sob quietly.
I make myself face it,
the same way I make myself get up.
Keep going, keep going, keep going.
People will hate you if you k!ll yourself,
but those same people don’t answer your calls.
My pain is too much for me
and I know it’s every detail;
like a complicated tapestry.
I’ve traced every thread many times.
They don’t ask for my story.
They can’t hold any of it.
So why do I care that they don’t call?
I’m too much.

I hate this come down,
the feeling I get when he leaves.
The smell of his cologne
lingers on my skin
and my mind spins.

Everything good ends.
Maybe that's why I
don't like anything good.
Why can't I savor the pleasure?
What's wrong with me?

The future and the past flash before my eyes
like a movie reel that I can't stop.
He loses himself in me
and I leave my body.
I look to him to bring me back.

I can't find him behind his eyes.
He doesn't hear me when I speak.  
It's too fast and I feel sick.
The respect has been pulled from my body
in an instant, like a cloth from a table.

Pleasure turns to sadness
as soon as the door clicks shut.
My mind spins.
I hate this come down,
the feeling I get when he leaves.

I dreamed we were
running through puddles
and laughing.
When I opened my eyes,
I reached out for you in the dark.
My hand hit the back of the couch
and, for a minute,
I forgot where I was.
I forgot that you’re gone.

His love is quiet,
almost too soft to hear.
It's the gentle touch of his hand
on my back when I am sleeping,
just behind my heart.

Will I be the prodigal daughter
who returns?
Or the scapegoat
who escapes?

No matter how loud I cry,
she cries louder.

I can't help but
look over my shoulder
with every step.
Will she come after me?

No matter how loud I cry,
she cries louder.

In a way,
I'm still that little girl
reaching to be picked up
and no one is paying attention.

No matter how loud I cry,
she cries louder.

The wounds are as fresh as
the day they were made
and no one can see them
except me.

No matter how loud I cry,
she cries louder.

She won't look at me.
She's reaching to be picked up,
but she's grown.
And so am I now.

No matter how loud I cry,
she cries louder.

The difference between us is
I'd never put that burden on a child.
If a baby reached for me,
I'd pick her up and wipe her tears.

He comes into your life
without telling you his name.
He climbs onto your shoulder,
and chews the ends of your hair quietly
in the middle of a seminar.
You feel the weight of him sitting on you
and you want to crawl beneath your chair.

He keeps you from going to the doctor,
the therapist, the energy worker,
even your mentor, your sister, your friend.
You look around but you don't see him
visiting anyone else.
You try to hide him.
No one must see!  

You stuff him in the closet
when company comes.
They furrow their brows at you,
become withdrawn,
and suddenly
you feel him on your shoulder again.

They ask you why you don't go to the doctor
and you can't tell them.
I don't want to be seen.
I don't want the doctor to say,
"There's something wrong with you."
I don't want to be touched,
because I've been touched wrong before
and Shame stole my voice from me.

Dreams for sale
the problem with dreams is
everyone’s looking to buy
looking to sell

I hate pretentious poets
Bukowski is the man for me
even he was selling a lifestyle
selling an image

there are studies now that show
trauma impacts the speech center of the brain
that’s why speech is “delayed” in some young children
who’ve experienced trauma

the speech wasn’t late
they were made speechless by the cruelty of this life
maybe that’s why so many of us are drawn to poetry and rap
because we can’t speak

these words are not for sale
they are my salvation
I'm not selling a dream here
just spitting out a reality between clenched teeth

Don't tell me to smile,
give me a reason to.
It takes too long
to count all my scars.
I get distracted by the pain
halfway through
and lose count,
like trying to count the stars
in the night sky.
"Not like other girls"
is not a compliment.
It's patriarchy.
I won't clean up after you
or make you a sandwich.
Keep it 50/50,
but don't keep score.
I'm a mystery
you don't have the time
nor the inclination
to figure out.
"Intimidating" says more about you
than it does about me.
I make references
you would get
if you paid attention,
but you can't afford it.
If you buy me flowers
I'll watch them rot in the vase.

What good is art if no one sees it?
Silent, unwitnessed catharsis.
The magic is in the witnessing.
I still write (emo) poems.
I've been too self-conscious to share them
...not even that really.
I've been protecting myself
after many periods of over-sharing.
My poems are a reflection of the deepest part of me,
things I don't speak out loud.
I lost trust.
I lost faith in the world.
In you.
In your ability to witness me,
to make space for me,
to hold me the way I really am.
Yet,
I keep writing,
compelled by the demons in me.

There are days when
the unvoiced pain hits me.
It takes me by surprise,
all the tears I haven't cried.  
How can there be more?
That **** is buried so deep,
unacknowledged,
untended,
unfelt.  
There's a deep dark well of pain in me.
It's waters are silent, vast, unreflecting,
at the bottom of a cold, lightless cavern.
It calls to me,
wants to swallow me whole.
It feeds off my life, my light.
It has ahold of my soul.
The only way to shrink its power
is to drain it,
to cry out the pain,
to speak the pain to life,
so it's no longer caged inside of me,
to name it,
to feel it.
Only then will the dark waters recede
and the threat of drowning be lessened.

I picked wildflowers for you.
I brought you breakfast in bed
on Mother's Day.
I put a bell on your night stand when you were sick,
and brought you whatever you wanted
when you rang it.
I told you that you looked beautiful
and gave you handmade cards.
I told you I loved you.
So many different ways,
I tried to win your approval.

Now I wonder if you look at the magnet I bought you
at a Mother's Day garage sale when I was eight,
which you still keep on the fridge,
a little bear holding a heart that says,
"I love you, Mom,"
and think that it's a lie.
It isn't,
but all those years I spent
desperate for your attention and praise
showed me that you never loved me.
Not for who I really am.
To this day, it's all about you.

It's not fair that a person can grow
strong enough to walk away from abuse
but remain scarred forever,
haunted by it in everything they do,
everywhere they go.
A shadow falls on me,
and darkens all my days.  
There's a hole in my heart
that nothing can fill
where your love was supposed to go.

Today I'm thinking about the ones who didn't make it;
ODs, suicides, and prison.
Some of us made it.
Grooming dogs, working in cubicles, working cash registers,
cleaning cars, fighting rich people's wars, having babies,
bowing down to the man,
oiling the machine we used to rage against.

My family said I was too good for you,
that I didn't belong with you,
but I did.
They didn't see you
and they didn't see me.
We knew we were different from other kids,
but we didn't know why yet;
carrying a pain so great
when we were so young.
Some of us have been crushed by it.
The secret pain:
family dysfunction,
mental illness,
disability,
addiction,
alcoholism,
abuse,
neglect.

Some of us made it,
but what does it mean?
We've been beaten down by life,
submitting to the man,
oiling the machine we used to rage against,
we forgot who we are,
but can't forget the ones we've lost.
We don't rage anymore.

People die from this pain.
I don’t wanna be one of them.
The news will say they struggled for 40 years
before they finally gave up.
I’m already more than halfway there.
I wanna live
but I have to take it seriously.
I don’t want this pain to **** me.
Some days, I think it might.

I see my reflection
in people OD’ing on pain pills,
injecting an escape.
I see my reflection in people with nooses around their necks,
smiling for the cameras
before they ***** out their own light.
A magic pill
can’t change what I’ve been through.
A noose might end the pain,
if you did it right.
I don’t wanna go that route.
I want to live.
I don’t want this pain to **** me.
Some days, I think it might.

I know, I seem fine.
My mom taught me best
how to hide my pain from the world,
to make everyone think I’m OK.
You could have a white picket fence,
dogs, kids, husband, a Porsche,
and a smile for the camera,
and still be dead inside.
I’m not fine.
This pain is my inheritance.
No one can take this pain away,
especially if they don’t want to hear about it.
It’s a lonely road.
I want to live.
I don’t want this pain to **** me.
Some days, I think it might.

The things I've done to stay alive,
many disbelieve.
I want the whole world to know
my story,
but I can't speak it.
Don't speak,
don't feel,
don't trust.
That is the motto
of the dysfunctional family.

Upper-middle class,
but still hungry,
still afraid of the dark,
still cowering in a closet.
We've all got problems.
Somehow, we survive.

When I drink,
I cry.
That's what it means to relax.
To let my guard down
is to finally weep.
Everything has changed
but I'm still fighting the same battle,
still fighting the same demons.

"Why don't you just charge them?"
she asked me.
A mother is supposed to love her daughter.
The things I've done for love,
to try and fill that empty space,
disgust me.

I thought I had power;
I could use my body to turn him on,
but the more he got to know me,
the less attracted he became.
I thought if I could please men,
they would love me, they would want me,
but they see me for what I really am.

Inside I am small, pathetic, sad, afraid,
and insecure.
Real men cannot be manipulated
or tricked by my body.
Vulnerability and authenticity
are the only ways to please them.

"I wish I never had you"
she said.
A mother is supposed to love her daughter.  
That little girl is still inside me,
afraid of rejection,
hungry and desperate for love.
I abandoned myself.
I put myself in dangerous situations,
like an addict looking for a hit.

"****"
they said
while they waited for their turn.
The things I've done for love
disgust me.

Attention was my d.o.c.,
didn’t matter who.  
I have a skill for picking out
the most ****** up boy in the room.
God, you’re the only one
who knows why I do
what I do.
The darkness is calling.
There’s a hunger inside of me.
Temptation is everywhere,
just a click away.
What’s the worst that I could do?
I’m about to put myself
in a bad situation
just to fill the pit in my soul.
Achievements line the wall.
I never ****** up enough
for you to realize
how broken I really am.
No one could hear me
and when they did,
didn't want to believe it.

Who are you,
sitting behind a desk
in a white button up
and a red tie?
What happened to
blue jeans, white tee?
We used to drink 151 out the bottle.
Quiet boy and
crazy sad girl.
I tried to be a good influence
while you were getting sober.
I wasn't happy then,
I'm not happy now.
I need a drink and a smoke,
and a fist around my throat.

Might as well be as ****** up as I feel.
The darkness is calling again.
I know you won't follow me.