Sometimes
my pain is a fire
that burns me, a beast
that rends me, a battle
to be fought and lost.

And sometimes
I just need to
sit here and stare at
the walls while I watch
the tide come in.

1 . When I was born, life
cut the cord that connected me
to my mother. There's still a
tiny hole
in my stomach.

2. There's this faint, jagged line
between my eyebrows.
I have no idea
where it came from.

3. Three dark parallel lines
run down my ankle,
a reminder
of friendship
and barbed wire.

4. The skin on my hands, feet, forearms and shins
is decorated in tiny white flecks,
like a snowfall.
They mark me as a warrior.

5. The skin on my knuckles
is just a bit thicker, just a bit more silvery,
younger than the rest of my skin.
That marks me as an idiot.

6. Nine pale parallel lines
run across the inside of my forearm,
a reminder
of solitude
and razors.

7. There's a puckered, jagged line
on my hipbone.
I know exactly
where it came from.

8. When I was fourteen, death
cut the cord that connected me
to my friend. There's still a
gaping hole
in my stomach.

You asked me how you can know
when I am not alright,
because as my skill at painting grows
the murals on my walls become more lifelike
until the differences disappear.

I cannot tell you how long
these cracks in my facade will last,
but I can tell you this:

Look for the blood under my nails.

Look for the blank, empty stare of my eyes
as my mouth contorts itself into a smile.

Listen for the faint sound of rising hysteria,
a note of sobbing amidst my laughter.

Watch and see whether I can hold your gaze,
if I'm looking into your eyes
or just pretending to by staring
at the center of your forehead.

Wait for my silences, and watch my face
to see it twitch a bit every time they are broken.

Notice when I am bit less willing
to let go of you at the end of our embrace.

Count the minutes I take in the bathroom,
to know whether or not blood is dripping
onto the tiles.

As cliched as it might sound,
look for the dark circles under my eyes.

Remember the way I am when I am happy,
for I surely cannot.

And when you have taken note of all these things,
do nothing,
unless you want them painted over, too.

You complain of the softer
world's lack
of the definitions you
have become accustomed to
in your field of clear lines,
where notation is not
an abstraction and knowledge
may be clearly told.

I suppress a smile, knowing that
you have taught me
the lion's share of those
things that can never be said.

Occasionally I manage
to glimpse someone
I can never know

in the odd tilt of
one word or
the reflections on your glasses

and I wonder.

There's a green sort of light
falling through the treetops
alighting gently in your hair.

There's a green sort of light
shining from your fingertips
into my skin. I can't see it
but I know it's there.

And you say
there's a green sort of light
my eyes catch from the sun
spin it out in a web to ensnare
yours.

"He was only twenty."

My reaction shouldn't be

"lucky *******."

Dear world,

No, I will not be functional this week.
No, I will not tell you why.
No, I do not expect you to cut me any breaks -
    what I'm pulling right now is not actually acceptable.
No, I do not want you to go looking for a reason -
    assume there are no extenuating circumstances
    and stop being surprised that someone is doing
    what you you seem to expect of everyone
    and taking your **** in silence.
No, I am not okay.
No, I do not want or need your help.

Now, *******.

Sincerely,
Me

And then you
start to
wish the distance was
physical.

I'm standing naked in the shower and
blood is running down my legs and
the tiles are cold under my feet and
I start shivering harder and
I just want to crawl into my bed and
I won't because I don't want to leave bloodstains on the white sheets and
this is so familiar, like I've come full circle and
there was never anyway this could be avoided and
the burningstingingscreaming of my nerves reaches a crescendo and
it hurts so much and
it's all my fault and
I don't care and
I'm shuddering so forcefully I feel like my muscles will tear and
I look up at the mirror and
I see all the places where the redness of inflammation blooms upon my skin  and
there are so many they mask the cuts and
all I can see is the red and
my vision goes blurry and
my knees hit the freezing tiles of the bathroom floor and
I don't feel it, I don't feel anything and
I don't remember how to make my brain send signals to my muscles and
it's one a.m. and
I somehow have to stand up and
go to bed and
get up tomorrow.

My head is heavy
My back aches
My eyes are burning
My hands shake

And yet there is no one to blame
For my own sorry plight
Except myself, it's all my fault
I should have slept last night.

I have never hated
myself more than when

my traitorous heart
raced, when my lungs drew
gasping, shallow breaths that dried
my mouth and made me
feel like I was choking on
the taste of ****** metal, when

I allowed my shoulders
to heave, when I allowed
myself to tremble, when

I couldn't stop my head
from twitching slightly
to the right before
jerking back into place (again,
and again, and
again), when

all you needed
was a pair of arms to hold
you against a steady heartbeat,
the rhythm of calm
breath against which you
could time your own, and
someone else to be
the most okay person in the room.

When you bind
   yourself to someone you
      never realize how the chains
         add up.

                                               I didn't. It didn't
                                             matter, though, as long as
                                           you all tried to work
                                         out the tangles and pull
                                       me in the same direction.

                                     Now
         I have let you sink
                                             your grappling hooks into
                        all these little pieces
                                 of me and none
         can decide which way
                                                           to go
                nor do they
                                   have to as
         you tear them
                                            apart
          ­                                                           from
         each
                       other
                                                          I­
cease
                                            to
            ­          exist.

A woman stands
Alone before the darkness.
Her battered feet
Will let her run no further.

She lifts her hands
Blood dancing down her arms, lest
Her wrath retreat
Allowing her the ******.

Sometimes my
memories are
too sharp
and I run
away to
the now
where you wait
for me and
I try not
to seem out
of breath.

I am torn
between biting my nails
until I taste
blood
and leaving them long enough
to draw it
from my flesh.

You are

the single flower petal left lying
in the wake of the wedding
train years later as I yearn to

see the splash of color against
the ground of gray and I
kneel to lift you and

breathe life into your lines,
clasp you in my arms,
call you mine, yet I stay

my reach and skim you
gently with my fingertips, not
daring to risk

a tear.