i guess i need more mentally disturbed
friends.
i’m feeling lately like the scab that’s been picked off,
forgotten, dried up, designating.
people don’t understand when i say my heart feels like it will
explode out of my lungs, throughmythroat and get caught between
myteeth.
my anxieties need a **** buddy, because making eye contact
is even too
much. and i wish i could stop assuming the worst.
"jesus, you worry too much"
i can’t help that i find the flaws, the nit picky things,
the traits that i want to squish like
blueberries.
i can’t help that when i sit alone in my car,
i think too often of swerving into highways and wondering what a deer
sees before it
dies.
that’s why i don’t talk about this, i never can anyway,
they swell and sit upon my tongue like when you ate that pepper whole
and all i tasted was flames.  
my anxieties and i are the kind of friends where we speak nicely
and are all smiles in front of one another,
but as soon as we turn around,
all we say is venom.

The life of a teenage girl
Is tumultuous.
She lives thirty lives in 7 short years
Combs her hair with a shaky hand
That turns still and calloused as time goes by.
Every year colored with
Black tears from too much mascara
And lipstick on teeth from untamed laughter
And dark circles under eyes from too many late nights
And scars from everything beautiful and ugly that ever touched her.

Her hands are so full
From every boy who ever intertwined his fingers with hers
And left behind whatever he did when he was finally gone.

And the ventricles of her heart; so swollen
She feels as though she may collapse under the weight of her heart.

And written in every vein,
Every capillary,
Every lobe,
Every nerve,
Are all the consuming ways in which she loves all that she loves.

And her stomach is scarred from that churning feeling;
That nauseating, stinging, consuming feeling.
That speeds in and out when she's enveloped by fear,
Or love,
Or hatred,
Or heartache.

And on her skin,
The scent of her family;
The ones bound by blood, and the ones bound by destiny.
The ones who made her strong and taught her to love.

So here's to family:
That chaotic wake up call
That didn't show its light until she realized just how bright it truly shines.

Tonight, I am afraid.
I am afraid because I had a piece of toast 13 hours ago, and there's nothing left in the fridge except some horrible strawberry liqueur, which I am drinking despite the fact that it feels like acid in my empty stomach. Me, I'm 5 feet 11 inches, 112 pounds, blue-eyed with longish blonde hair. I'm hungry, but it appears that New York doesn't feed outsiders. So I'm listening to Leonard Cohen on Leonard Street because that's the only thing I can think of that makes sense right now. Smoking in bed, my small luxury. I had a neighbor who leaves me toast and coffee in the morning, except I haven't seen him in a while and I'm too proud to knock on the door and ask for food. It's strange, leaving a perfectly ordinary life for this desperation, this skinny **** that I thought was important but now just makes it hard to climb the stairs. I'll make it, though, right? It's almost September and that's when I'm supposed to make money. Money. I just wanted to go to Italy again, feel the life I should never have left again. So okay I’ll be their clothes hanger, their one-man show, walk a pretty walk for them, and then go somewhere else. Except right now I'm considering the hospital, that sweet IV that will keep me nourished. I can't afford a taxi though, and I don't know what is I’d tell them- “Hi I'm 20 years old, broke, starving, alone, and afraid to sleep because I don't know if I'll see another day”- I think they would send me to the psych ward instead. I don't know, I am supposed to be a hybrid of girlish innocence and feminine mystique, but all I really want is someone to put me to bed and watch me sleep so I know I'll be safe.   It's 3:26 am. I have no one to call. It's just Leonard Cohen and I on Leonard Street, singing through dry lips and fading into the white of the sheets. If I called for help, I doubt they'd find me in the bed. I'm here, though, I'm here.

You don't know what it is to break
You think that I am made of stone
My home is what you chose to take
Reducing me to skin and bone
My poor child, rich in tears
I am the monster behind your pain
You do not count your golden years
As black and white fortifies your cane
You know nothing of what is true
Nothing of hunger, or rattling breath
Of sidewalk beds and bruises blue
The trembling that induces death
You do not weigh 110 pounds
You have never known fragility
You cannot hear those awful sounds
The silent anguish of instability
Have you ever been forced into the dark?
By hands larger than your waist
It's just a stroll into the park...
Until its blood and torn lace
This is why I must come back
To the home you took away
So doctors can silence each attack
Though who would listen, I cannot say
Ice or stone, whatever I may be
I am broken - there is no me

I can't live up to the expectations of life. Why can't I just ride away from home, live on my own. It sounds so easy doesn't it? I don't run though, I don't ride. I stay, frustrated, tired, worried. I stay, and I don't belong here. I can feel it all through me. It clenches me, makes me twitch. It makes my neck soar. My spine pushes against the skin on my back. I'm still here. I cry, I kick, I scream. Still here. I will wait till the moment comes to ride away. From all the worries and fears of home