tell me where you found God
I don't want the name of some church you went to
I want a detailed story of a brilliant burst of light
or that time you heard a voice in the dark
I want to know your details
I am fascinated with man
and higher beings
and the fact that it has to be real if I see it
if I believe it
tell me where you found Angels
doesn't matter if it was in a hospital room
or a highway
did you feel hands on your shoulders?
think in lights
and see in patterns
I want to know where you found safety
I found mine in a low voice telling me that the angels
were real
and how tragic it is to not believe in anything
and to also believe in everything

I was late to school once
reading a story about a heroine addict
who found the closest thing to God
in a little girl
talking to a wall
I thought about it
for so long

I missed 7 am

I want to miss 8 am
or 9 am
thinking about your story
of how you found
safety
finally
tell me,
where did you find God?

I want a cup of coffee
And I want you to love me
I want your soft hands exploring
The arch of my back
And I want your fingers to caress my protruding spine

I want you asking about my bones
Why they're so sharp, who made them that way
And if I use them to cut

I want you to show your mother my ring
And tell her how happy you are
I want it, your happiness, to absorb, consume me
I want to consume you

Your lust is not a replacement for your love
But I'll take anything I can get

I was 15 years old when I realized what the meaning of innocence was
My cousin taught me a very valuable lesson on losing it
He taught me what it feels like to be abused.
He taught me what it feels to be helpless.
He taught me the meaning of, "Don't ******* tell."

That night purity spewed out of me like *****.
I flushed it down the toilet
I flushed my childhood down the toilet.

That night I got a glimpse of hell.
I got a glimpse of the devil.

The devil: curly hair, six foot four, two hundred and fifty pounds.
Eyes to leave you dripping crimson from your thighs
And turn your smile into a broken sink
Hands that will show you what flowers feel like when they die.

You will decay underneath him.

i can't go to bed
without hearing those words
pour into my ears
like a bittersweet goodnight

i walk around
with that song in my head
that puts to words
the things that i'm feeling

i scribble your name
in all of my notebooks
like a schoolgirl's crush

you are the air
swirling around my lungs
but i'm just another penny
in the dollars you make
singing
to girls like me

Dear Jade,

1. Your mother called you curvy. You mistook it for fat. A permanent reminder in your thigh.

2. The night he broke you. You perceived his uncontrollable lust as a result of your drunkenness. This was punishment.

3,4,5. Food. A scar for every one hundred calories you consumed that day.

6. The result of a suicide attempt. All the bleach in the world couldn't clean this mess.

7. Your plant died. When it did, a part of you died with it. I think you were just looking for a reason to fall apart.

8. Your grandmother died and you didn't cry. This was a reminder you could still feel.

9. FAT again. You gained three pounds and your jeans almost fit.

10. Probably needed stitches. You just wanted to see some blood.

11. Your scars were fading. You couldn't bear to see them go. Start over.

It would take me a lifetime to write the reasons behind every one of your scars.
Please. Let this be enough.
Let me enough. Love me.

and at that moment I gazed up; all I saw
was darkness and emptiness and a non-dimensional horizon.
it was an empty canvas with the exception
of entirely black.
but all of a sudden, little specks appeared,
almost like the moon's reflection on dark, salty water.
rippling waves on the black fickle surface like
the twinkling stars that night.
my ignorant eyes looking at the
faint light reflected on your face.
and that was the sky
I never saw again.

i know sometimes you forget that i still exist when you’re not around.
i forget that sometimes too.
i know that no one has the right to rest their happiness on my shoulders
and i know that if i can't count on someone
i don't have to make sure they can count on me
and my fingers are the only ones i ever count on anyway.
i give because i don’t know how to take.
i pour out because i don’t know how to let you in.
and mostly it isn't even feel real
it doesn't come from my kindness,
it’s just all i know how to do.
it's automatic.
even if i don’t care about you,
i want you to feel cared about.
it’s like the less loved i feel,
the more i try to make sure other people feel loved.
because i can't control how people treat me
but i can control how i treat them.
i just don’t know if i can do it anymore.
i’m wearing thin and it feels like there’s not much of me left
and i feel like i have to save whatever leftovers there are for other people.
i always come home empty.
so i’m done feeling like the heels you keep in the back of your closet,
because you can’t just put me on when you want to feel better
and take me off when you’re done.
i'm not the porch light you forgot to turn off
and i'm not your one-word text message
i'm more like your right hand,
like you don’t even realize how important i am
until i’m too broken for you to keep using me.
i’m not here to help you **** time
and i don’t just exist when you need something.
i'm not your morning coffee
you can’t just pour me out when you’re done with me
because i pour out so much already
and i’m exhausted and you're not around
and i'm stuck cleaning up your mess
so that i can ignore how much of a mess i am.
it's like i'm last the last domino  
people fall back on me but i don't have anyone to fall back on.
i expend because i don't want to be expendable.
but if you were giving something back
i wouldn't mind giving so much of myself to you.