the crisis center
is nothing close to
comforting
and it the last
place
i would want to
call
when i'm thinking of jumping
off of a bridge
and ending it all.
who would have ever thought it
would come to this-
sitting, thinking, and
suddenly crying, sobbing,
screaming for help
without saying a word.
but i am still here,
alive and breathing,
growing more trees than weeds
in this ******* rib-cage
that never could learn how to just be.
but i'll take trees over
the dead and brown and
rough
any day.  
any day
i could have stopped
it all-
am i talking about life or
the pain of it?
we will never know, but we will know
THAT NEW GROWTH COMES WITH DEATH
AND SOMETIMES THE PAIN OF STRIKING OUT ONLY MAKES THAT PERFECT HIT ALL THE MORE SANCTIFYING
AND WHEN IT STOPS RAINING
YOU DON'T NEED TO WORRY ABOUT WHAT'S COMING NEXT.
it always gets better.
the ropes get stronger, less fraying.
and the ground, god, the ground, you've never felt anything more solid in your life.
and this is what the future looks like.
nothing comes out of the ash that isn't stronger than what was burned.
i am not less
than who i was before,
before i died at the hands
of smoke and
ignorance.
i am more and i am stronger than
your fists will ever be, and i am smarter
than the wit you
never understood yourself,
and i am more,
so much more
determined than
the devil ever was.
do you see this now?
do you see me
here
and now
standing on my own
and making waves
and telling the wind which way to blow,
teaching spring how to sing properly
and never falling down
at the feet of anyone
who resembles you?
do you see
me
now
walking on my own?

lukewarm tea
chocolates never gifted
an old book that makes me
think
too much and
a blue pen with
black ink with
bite marks on the cap
from where you
used to hold it
between your
teeth
for me
while i wrote
about how much i
loved you

the hair on your fingers
the hair on your toes
the hair in your mouth from
laughing too hard
everything can be found elsewhere
for some other reason
than the one you first thought
and now i know that here
right here
on this cement
next to the palm tree
dying for the winter
that we are how we set that table
that the dish can be a bowl
the fork can be a ladle
and the kettle can
hold more than just tea
and trinkets of the past that
you can't trust your
dresser draws to keep
because here i am
next to the blocked stairwell
and i know that i am elsewhere
somewhere new
because i chose a different reason
than the one given to me

the thing they don't mention
the thing they don't want
you
or the person with the
checkbook to know is
after it gets better
it always gets
worse.

Today I am hopeful
I am somewhere near happy
Rounding the corner of
Healthy
And headed for the thing
I haven't seen in ages
But know how to recognize
I am sprinting
And then walking
And then often rolling backwards
But today I am something other than
Angry stories and
Sad pictures of
Past, present,
And future
Today I am loved
I am worth it
I am here and alive
And today I can
Know it
Today I am winning
Without having to
Fight

cold feet
bundled tightly
with the hopes
and dreams
of those
who once
believed

i am no longer
of this
classification

i know
now
that there is
something -
someone
that i am meant
for -
someone that
i am meant to
keep breathing for

cramped hands
shake with relief
from
no longer
grasping air
so tightly
with no reprieve
or reason
at all

is this how
we
are all meant
to live

somewhere in this
too-tightly
packed chest
of mine
there is a new conductor
steering us to
safety

the only question
though
that still remains
is

are these
new tracks tread
by me
or the person
i cannot
tame

my words feel like death,
not physically,
they aren't sick or bleeding out,
but mentally.
they haven't made sense in a long time,
letters all jumbled,
missing apostrophes.
i guess this is an example of a writer
getting too involved in
their stories.
i don't belong in here.
let me leave.
i can give you more,
be more,
do more,
i swear.
and now i am yelling,
screaming,
and my fists are punching air
and making contact,
touching something that isn't real
for the millionth time.
i just want so much.
i don't want to be here,
let me leave, please.  
the tears are washing off the blood
but that only makes the bruises more visible.
my words are blending together now.
i can't think straight.
grab the bottle, ******.
get me out of here.
i am going to leave.

I have been depressed for four years
I have lost more than four friends
and loved fewer than four people
Four times I have tried to do
The wrong thing
(or the right thing, who really ******* knows)
And four times I have been prescribed
A life foggier than most others
But still more normal than the one
That comes to life when left to my own devices

It has been a long four years
But they have gone by so fast despite
The too long days in a town
That only ever taught me how to hate myself
I look behind
Ahead
And I don’t recognize anything other than
The child I once was
Who had no idea a person could be so alone

It has been tiring
And every time I go to sleep
I feel like I’m not yet done
Paying for the past
For the sleepless nights and
Zombie days

It has been four days
It has been four whole days without
Thinking that this isn’t all
it’s supposed to be
It has been four days of arriving
On shores I used to know so ******* well
It has been four days, four nights,
More than four full meals
That have looked something like the
Mirage in the lake
I was ready to die in

Everyday
I must pray
I must beg
I must pretend that this is my normal
That this is my average day
That four days of this
Is what i’ve always known

It takes more than four days
More than four years
Four lifetimes
To relearn how to swim
Without a death wish tied to my ankle
It takes more than four worlds
To feel the pleasure
And not wish for the pain

It take more than four days
To know what
Living means for me

There is a black form that follows me. Sometimes it likes to get up right behind me and taunt me, look how close I can get.And then sometimes it follows through with the threats and wraps itself around me, like a child given a piggyback ride from its mother, it’s creator. Sometimes I can fight it off. Sometimes it disappears in the light of my inner sun.

But the black form is always with me.

Even when I think I no longer need to run.

This time last year I was writing things that meant something that could stir something in your soul that could trump the monotony of waiting for a break I could make you listen I could make you lose your breath your sanity your reason I could do it all I could be it all now I am nothing rebuilding again always again and again it never stops the downward ***** I have been dumped in that dark pit too many times I am tired where did you go me or you this is what is left
What it is I don't know I don't know I don't know how to keep the faith how to trudge on how to be like the rest of you all without questions and haunting forms
what now

the scent of depression must be strong because he told me he smelled like me hours after i was gone, that he could feel the clouds i left with him and the burden of my worries was too heavy too  bare for too many moments at a time, that he could feel the sores upon my knees and that the rips in my skin left him cold in the winter, which never ended because biology never will, and he reminded me of all the dreams we never spoke of and all the times he woke up knowing i had done the same, that the urgency he felt, the tears he tried to wipe away, they were mine alone and not for sale but he bought them any way, he told me that he had purchased this for the meaning of salvation, that he planned to make due on his promises, to follow through, to go farther than my weak legs could carry me, and then he told me of his time in hell and his time with the devil himself, he told me that he knew my aches like no other and at the same time he could never find the source of the ****** knuckles he kissed so much, the ones he would wrap with utmost care and caress until i fell asleep, he told me that this was what it felt like to be in love with me, that he couldn't bare the storm, but he wanted to anyway, he told me that death in my embrace was something too precious to be given up on, that rewards only came with sacrifice, and that one day his woes would fall on me