I had a tough therapy session, can you listen?
She said, "Talia, you can't live in the psych ward."
But what am i supposed to do when every time i drive my car i have to pull over because i can't see anything but car accidents?
I'd never cried in front of my psychologist until she said that suicidal thoughts might be something i have to live with.
She said, this is bpd.
I said thank you.
She said that if i continue to purge at the rate i am going my heart will stop before i turn 18.
I couldn't help but think that i hope it does.

I met a boy a few years ago.
His eyes were always searching for something lost,
but he never knew what he was looking for.

We became acquaintances,
and after a while,
dare I say,
we became friends.

He never talked much about his past,
but I was able to read his absent eyes,
the way he never made eye contact for too long,
or the way he forced himself away from anything
he might get attached to.

His eyes are always just as anxious as mine.

He is sitting right next to me now,
just as lost in the professor’s lecture as I am,
and he’s writing too,
pencil feverously scribbling whatever thoughts
cloud his mind in this moment.

It’s been four years since I met this boy,
and I have never been able to figure out his angle.

There must be something he wants,
some reason he still talks to me.
No one has stayed by my side for this long.

Could it be possible that he actually cares about me?
No,          of          course          not,
That’s an idiotic thing to think.

But why else would he still be around me
when all I have been good for are
learning how to bake the perfect cupcakes together,
taking photos of the local wildlife,
and late night conversations about the stars?

The men I have known don’t care about those things.
The only thing that matters to them is
what’s between my legs,
and nothing else.

So could this one be different?

Could someone actually care about me?

Separate beds and shades
Of reds. Intimacy is
A ****** handprint.

She doesn’t always look the same
Sometimes she’s a silver sphere
Fooling you that she is bright
But she’s just a mistress of the night

Sometimes only half of her you can see
Following you wherever you’ll be
She hides while dancing in the sky
Half, still a full beauty up high

In time, she becomes thin, crescent
Like a smile, a blissful moment
She looks delicate, discriminating
Only a part of her, still breathtaking

And only those prison of the night
Will witness the euphoric stint
Of showing pieces of her then
The beauty of becoming whole again

sometimes love leaves you
aching;
longing, for something
your fingers can’t touch,
and your mind can’t identify.

sometimes love leaves you
hungover;
blackout nights/headache in the a.m,
can’t move, your body’s heavy and
last night’s a blur.

sometimes love leaves you
poetry;
lines and lines of whispers,
words that you can only
give to 11:11 wishes, and midnight.

sometimes love(rs) leave;
going like a vagabond,
wanting none of your time,
the ache in your chest
throbbing.

I think she lost a part of herself,
picking up the pieces. And that's
okay; the universe works because
something is given for
something to be gained.

Her parents were red-blooded
Americans; they drank confirmation-
bias and the minimization of minorities.
They would make her problems as small
as the countries, they couldn't find on a map,
but could find in their hearts to demonize.

Oh yes, the demons: what used to
afflict her and corrupt her pure heart.
To them, she wasn't a teenager --
a child -- stressed from carrying a
family, featuring a mother with
a brain tumor; guest starring
'I-stunt-your-growth-with-Jesus'
as the understudy for mental
health awareness.

No, she wasn't a child; she was
a burden because she cut herself,
because her legs grew too thin;
as thin as the crucifixes around
the proud, turning necks, holding
dismissive heads of 'Why-would-
you-want-to-be-dead' Christians
and 'I-don't-understand-what-isn't-
in-the-Bible' fat, white relatives.

To make things short as her
life could have been: she dipped
in and out of drugs, featuring
****** and pills that would
dip in and out of her body,
like a fool's gold life jacket,
soaking in the waves of her
pale, transitioning to adulthood,
twenty year-old waters.

She saved herself, and
they thanked God and the
boy and mostly everyone
else but her. And the little
brother sat, sinking in a seat
softer than his deep-seated
hateful beliefs. But, the
truth is that she saved not
only herself, but also the
handsome, white, tall,
smart, talented image of
'Holy-****-what-a-tall-
drink-of-privilege.' A
tall drink who cared for
her more than the country
cared about being right; who
loved her more than the parents
of the degenerates living in some
unknown collection of poems about the
disenfranchised and American angst.

She was a protest, very wondrous;
a halting of the longest dark,
a breath of fog floating towards
a lonely, very deep pond.

And she was only beginning.
And it was all very exciting.

it was one of those crazy hot days in the dead of summer.
i remember because of the sweat that poured down my skin
and the way my eyes squinted as the bright sun shone.
i massaged my neck nervously, my mouth twisted into a grimace.
ya see, i’ve always been weak, especially when it comes to you.
so what i was readying myself to do, i knew, would be too much.
but i had to let you go as the rays of sunlight baked my skin and
my head began to ache from how hard i was squinting, grimacing.
i said goodbye, as my heart raced, either from the heat or the pain.