It’s only been a week since I stopped taking the little white pill.
And yet I still find myself daydreaming,
Mouth agape, waiting for the release of serotonin
You see, I am simply a brain searching for a chemical balance
A tongue begging for some company
A heart, beating.
And only that.

I am not me.
I am not smiles, and jokes,
I am not asking you how your day is going and caring about the answer
I am simply a vessel waiting for it’s host.
I am not human anymore.

I’m an addict searching for my fix.
Needle in the arm, I want another bag.
I want another pill.
I need more placebos,
I need more.

Put your hands up,
This is a robbery
and you are the hostage.
Words fire,
And you fall victim.
A victim to my fake tears.
You eat into my every word,
And supply my demand.
The demand for pills.

I didn’t use to be this way.

You see,
I was you once.
I believed good existed in everyone,
A good intent behind every action.
Until I found myself,
grasping mounds of dirt
Thinking he didn’t mean to make me hurt.
I bought myself a one way ticket to ignorance.
And you simply have not boarded.
Yet.

I am Alice falling down the rabbit hole.
And I am late.
Late.
I’ve only just started my spiral
while others regain their footing.
Those around me are looking up,
Watching.
Watching me disappoint again.

Lying on my back,
Legs spread,
Giving him all he ever wanted;
(But what about what I wanted?)
He thrusts,
And I take another pill.

I’m happy, I think.

I
am
healing
but I don't want you to take off your shoes in my home yet

I
am
healing
but I'm still afraid of your touch

I
am
healing
but while I'm healing, you're burning like a broken electric wire, and while you burn you bloom

so yes, I am healing
slowly
trembling
feeling numb
but healing

Every time things start to get good,
She searches for the inevitable catch.
The Prince isn’t as charming as he seems,
There has to be a serpent beneath the surface;

Slithering into her brain, she deflects.
Every fight another cinder block,
Pulling her beneath the tide.
How can she dignify a healthy relationship
When she’s only known dysfunction?

How does she adjust?

Understand?

Love?

She falls for the wrong ones,
Gives them her all
And when the good one comes along,
She will, of course, sabotage.

He does not understand-
Every day is not a fresh start.
She lives in last night.
And she cannot escape.
He cannot kiss away the pain.
The damage.
But god ****** he tries.

He tells me he's moved on, that she's in the past,
But still flinches when a gentle hand moves too fast.
Seeing the anxiety create tidal waves in his ocean eyes,
Causes a seething anger so deep that I can't even describe.

"1001 Ways I'd **** That *****" becomes our bedtime story,
and "Baby we can't be together if you're in jail" the sequel.
((That's what they have conjugal visits for, right?))
I can see he's used to having crazy in his life, just not this kind.

I see him, and I envision the things I never could before;
I see that white picket fence within reach for the first time.
I see kids, a combination of his goofiness and my stubbornness.
I see happiness, and for the first time the future doesn't terrify me.

I used to tell him I was afraid to go to sleep,
In fear that he'd be gone when I wake.
And each night I'd tell him of my deepest scars,
As a way to make the hurt come sooner rather than later
When he did eventually leave.

But he never did.
He continued to wake me up with that groggy smile of his,
Each and every morning.
He made me see the value in the warmth of the sun;
The importance of staying alive.

He put value in me, without even knowing he did it.
He gave me a reason to smile everyday,
And frankly, he's the reason I still breathe.

((No pressure, love.))

He could tell I was used to crazy, just not this kind.

I called the Hotline last night.
Searching for a release, a way to forget.
And as much as I try to drown myself in others,
Making their problems my own so I won't have to face what's inside,
The nightmare of you still haunts me.
I thought I was over it, that I could move past what you did.
Yet all I could muster to tell the stranger on the phone,
was that you stole from me. You stole my innocence.
You took what was supposed to be an awkward, funny story of my first time, and used my body for your gain.
You held me down until my arms gave and my fight was gone.
I told you to stop, and you heard "keep going".
And you did exactly that.

I don't know why I give you so much power over me.
It's because of you that I don't allow anyone to get close,
that I tense up whenever someone does something as simple as putting a hand on my shoulder.
You are the reason that something that is supposed to be valued, and special, has no meaning whatsoever.
You ruined so many things for me in the course of an hour.
You are the reason that I'm scared to get close to anybody new.
Every time I have to explain to someone what you did, I break.
I relive.
The ghosts of your hands linger, the familiarity of breath on my neck stings.
A simple kiss reminds me of the way you couldn't.
Believe me, I've tried to find someone that could break this curse.
Someone that could fix me.
But it's because of you that I feel nothing and everything all at once.
I've earned the title of empathetic sociopath.
And I fear that I'll never outlive the reputation.

And what astounds me the most is that you still had the audacity to ask about me.
You had the audacity to come to my home, the one place I thought was safe.
You contorted the situation, made me a puppet on strings.
You somehow made me believe it was my fault.
And in little ways I still believe it is.
Every time someone asks me why I didn't fight harder, I believe.
Every time I see the pity in their eyes, I believe.
And most of all, every night this hits me, I believe.

And even though I was tempting fate with a foot in the grave before you came into the picture,
You'll be the reason I'm six feet deep, headstone and all.
You are that final mound of dirt, the reason I no longer breathe.
I hope it was worth it.

It's on nights like these that I cuddle up with Crown
and hope the warmth in my stomach masks the cold inside.
However, it's on nights like these that it's proven to be too Royal,
(or that we're fresh out. Whichever comes first.)
And it's on nights like these that I stare at these blank pages,
wishing something other than my guts would come out.
And yet, I still feel transparent.
One glance and you'd see me falling apart;
The bags under my eyes are not a fashion trend.
My incessant need to sleep 23 out of the 24 hours in a day is not boredom.
In all forms of the word I am depressed.
My depression is a fresh coat of paint on the walls of my mind.
So when you ask me how I'm doing, I'll always say I'm just fine.
But the paint still drips.

Waiting for paint to dry is a painfully long process, I've come to find.
Waiting for paint to dry is like standing on the edge of a pool.
When you think the water is just right, that surely you've waited long enough, you dip a timid toe in...
And return with hypothermia.