Red, like the river that flows between my legs every so often.

Of course, this the color I paint my nails, as if the subtle yet bold mark of femininity could make me feel any more like a woman. As if the pain in my abdomen suggests that, yes, one day I shall be worthy of the burden of bearing human life - a parasite within, a martyr without.

Such gifts these are. Never asked for, so oft granted, regardless of prayers for fragile offspring.

We gasp at the guarantee of torn womanhood. We sigh at the kick inside.
We are women - strong, unyielding beasts of the northern stars. We bleed ourselves dry in hopes that we may find our way back home - our blood ever thicker than any sweat or tear could dream to be.

The red of our bodies shimmers bright beneath the moon.

The perfect pathway from mother
to daughter
to mother.

I carry libraries in my spine
a collection of scents, sounds, secrets
calibrated poor coping mechanisms to get me through each day
the weight of it all almost too much to carry
just enough force to push me through the ******* at bay.

it is 2 in the morning
and I am up, sick
pregnant with such wishful thoughts
if only things had turned out differently

hello

goodbye.

I try too hard
and the taste I leave
on your god-given lips
is heavy,
chalky and bitter.

I look for love where it cannot be found
I search barren places for any trace of fruit
honey
sweetness
sensations that have no place in the bed I have made

your lips are rough with sugar
I would rather keep you ripened
than let you rot away

ever still
selfishly
I beg you to stay.

I pass myself along
from man
to man
to man

in search of shelter
I cannot find
in the graves I dig
with my own two hands.

I owe you happiness.
For the short time I knew it -
when I knew you.

I owe it to you
to let you go.

you have no patience for me

the times where I lie on the ground
screaming

my chest ripped open
bleeding

I gave you my heart
and you are sick of hearing it

beating.

I don’t have anything nice to write about myself
because I have no good thoughts about myself.

every time I make the decision
to drink myself half to death

I rely on you

not him

to dry me out.

despite the amounts
of sleep and sanity
I sacrifice
to ensure the extinction
of the other woman

she thrives.

like flies to putrid corpses
the threat multiplies.

you attract.

what do I do
when there is
seemingly
no amount of love to ease the pain

no matter how soft the kiss
how rough the ***
how sweet your words
there will always be the stinging

soreness

burning

here, to remind me
the things you hid
the things you did

the pit in my stomach
the hole in my chest
I should probably brace to receive

again,
such sordid gifts
from my liar lover.

time after time
after time
after time

we repeat the appropriate
expected
scheduled mantras

as if they still have meaning
as if they promote feelings
as if the syllables are different now
in number, as the words leave our lips

the bittersweet

wishing for a time
before time
before time

when the resistance of regret
was as foreign to us
as wilted blossoms to seeds.

I am not the girl you admire on the train
I am not eye candy
grown wild in the streets

I am nothing beautiful
nor mouth watering
not desired
nor dreamt of

I am the fire and I am the eye

I am wits-end
calloused fingertips
split ends
tired eyes
and cracked skin

with every hope in the world, still
that I could lead one more heart to demise.

There is something disturbing in the scarcity of my name leaving your lips.

It comes in a whisper, in a hiss. It comes as mist on the wind. It comes, but never stays.

Is it necessary for me to lose control of the corners of my mouth, my throat bubbling in a giggle, when you finally say my name after two months?

As if it were something to be kept secret.

I want to have gardens on my arms
I want to carry pictures of all I have loved
and all I have lost

I want roses
and roses
and roses.

why is it that I must wait
for your apologies to me
to be coaxed out of you
by your friends

who somehow smell
who somehow see
who somehow ******* hurting

long after the words fall from your lips

and far before the “sorry” comes?

after ***
I read about self care
self healing
self love
to make up for the fact
that you will not hold me
you will not heal me
after wrecking both my body
and my expectations.

I know
my mother is not proud of me
when I change my hair
bejewel my face
or tell her about the newest boy.

I am my mother’s daughter,
and we have made so many of the same mistakes.

I hope
my mother is proud of me
when I get a nice job
in the tallest building in the city
wear nice clothes
and sell my soul
to become another piece
in the people’s machine.

what a wonder
to be comfortable in your own skin

and my body
scarred by every sin

what a life
to scorn the skin I’m living in.

the words that we grow to respect
from our mothers, our fathers
our older brothers and kin
are the same words we learn to resent
sowing seeds of doubt in fertile heads.

it’s been one year
i am still consistently horrified
at the thought of what could go wrong
how many broken promises must I suffer through
like shattered glass in each step
******, broken, without you?

these days
i look less and less into your starving
stunning
open
absent eyes

in your vacancy

it almost makes the one-day
inevitable pill
easier to swallow.

“I’m gonna get it done this year.”

I speak the words, just above a whisper. Some sort of self assurant mantra, but mostly I speak them to you. You - two feet away from me.
You - two million miles away.

And as my lips shut, my heart opens, like always. Waiting for some sort of response.  Some kind of reassurance that you have the pride and hope in me that I always seem to lack in myself.

But you - two million miles away, with your nose buried in the vapid pixels of your phone.

My heart closes yet again.

I’m gonna get it done this year.

Done.

This.

every night I walk the dark
the burning headlights blinding
I pray to god id catch an eye
and in the street, they’d grind me.

oh
****

I wish I could stop getting attached

anybody

who dares to show me the slightest hint of attention, or affection

interest

an instant reply

just wanna hold you
let you hold me
I picture in my head how we could be

pathetic.

we kiss
your hand on my thigh
pulling up my leg to hook your hip
just like in the movies.

every day I waste away here
I entertain the glorious idea
of getting up
and walking out

Alas

I need this job
more than I need my dignity.

I have been lilac  

I have been the sea.

I have been black as night,

(brown was just alright)

and a honey-blonde me.

I feel like every color of the rainbow

wouldn’t be enough to draw you to me.

I hear the electricity humming above me as I make my way back on the long dark road. Lampposts scarce, my way is illuminated by the irregular volumes of light pouring from the cars that pass me by. I catch glimpses of roadside carcasses  in the abstract light, and through my open mouth.

The path is clear but it is jagged. My canvas shoes have gotten wet from the shallow puddles I couldn’t see.

Sometimes it is dark. It is lonely. There are no cars, carcasses, or other urban romantic ideas to keep me company in my travels.

Sometimes I get so focused, furiously typing. I end up in the middle of the street. A horn blares. My heart catches in my stomach and I correct my failed trajectory.

It is 7:43 pm on a Saturday night at the end of February and I wish you were here to walk me home.

I wonder how long it takes
to complete this transition
from despair
to apathy

I've been waiting for ages
for this hurting to stop
so familiar, but so much sharper
than time and time before

in my past
the pain was not chronic

But you go on
and on
and on.

There is a point I come to every day on my walk to work. An outlook, messed and marked by tall grass and weeds. You can see beyond the valley there, to the low rolling mountains of the Allegheny. Sometimes when the sky is just right, you can even see the smoke stacks of the power plant near my old home.

Most days, I pass by this vista.
I can't bear to look it in the eye.
It reminds me of the wideness of the world, the fear that touches me when I speak of leaving. The dreams that I have spent like breath - time and again - departure from this life.
To leave the job that kills, the friends who've forgotten, the lover who cannot remember how to love.

Most days I walk past.
I will not lift my head.
But the vast emptiness of the space between me and the world, the openness, the cold and absence of safety, with no promise of home... it calls to me.

Like the angry seas to young sailors, it cries my name. Something unsure. Something more.
Something that will nurse, something that will drown.

It beats me down.

And I will let it beat me til I break.

I open up my bleeding heart and let it leak upon you
Let it stain your skin, let it blur whatever sure sight you had

For whatever reason, you welcome it
Now soaked in my blood, I look upon you and realize

How ugly I am

The life force my heart pumps
Barely enough to keep me alive
Weak in the light and strong amongst lies

I am not your lighthouse
I am my own ship, lost at sea

I am as ***** and worthless
As the one who first crushed me.

I am at a constant war with myself
Whether I should cake-face or remain nameless
Comfort in my own flesh...
I have never known it.

How do I further beautify this body I despise?
Not so that I love myself more, but to inspire a fire -
Your lust, your desire?

I dream so fondly of the dark
But I do not have the courage to see it through
The same cowardice that grips me
Holding me hostage
In every miserable corner of this life.

I'm the subscription inconvenience
Waiting for you at home
The love you don't have time for
The obsession you didn't ask for.

And despite my best efforts
I continue to restart each day

Fear in my chest
Water in my lungs

So heavy my head
So frail my heart

So easy to break.

I am the eye.

Oh god, I am the eye, and I have seen
Enough vulgarity to burn ******-skin
Obscenity in corrupted files
One upon one and another.

And how much I would love to gouge
This golden honey brown from my skull
Feel the chill upon my temple to help me forget
Forget and forgive, forget and forgive
As if it had never happened.

I am the breath.

I am the breath and the poison
The only reckoning I have to offer
In words like mustard gas
How I would boil your flesh in hatred
Rage and despair.

Wistful weapons to bring you home
Fragile shield against my heart
Nothing to hold close.
Nothing to push apart.

No hope and no mercy.

Trust is feigned.

I am the eye, and I am the breath.
My love is gone, and you wear his flesh.

I am the eye. I am the breath.

Resilience is the most cursed gift
The hand that never tires of holding
And how eager the heart is to hurt.

Forged between the veils of anger
Of sorrow
Of wretchedness.

We beg like children
To never feel the heat of the same tears
Wetten our faces.

But the past shall repeat.
But the past shall repeat.
But the past shall repeat.

I work hard.

I break myself for the better.

I choke on my own exhaust.

I sob on the long walk home.

I lash out intermittently, as if someone would care about my struggles.

I cry for help.

I snap at the hands that reach to touch.

Like a wounded animal.

Screaming.

Fighting.

For what?

Where is the line between fighting and dying?

This year
You were a liar
And so was I.

The beat of my heart went unanswered
And your biological responses left unchecked.

I was alone
And you were smiling in the next room.

There was death.

Death of people
Death of friendships
Death of trust
Death of love.

My birthday was just another day.

And your gift to me,
The same as always
More oil to keep
This monstrous engine running.

My demons are my best friends
The ones who hold me in my times of need
Who press themselves into me
Without me ever asking
Despite my protests

They sow the seeds of anguish
Amongst the fields I reign
Like plague they reap
Before I may ever thaw.

I build myself up with kind words.
Words I do not hear from the person I want to hear them from the most.

Sometimes the things that are best for us are also the most painful.

I hurt so much, I don't want to hurt any more.

But I don't want to hurt any longer.

What am I doing with my life
locked in my head
thoughts on repeat
playing in reverse
like a record in my mind
my brain never wired quite right
my mind never one to keep me
myself
or my heart
in tune
with the spinning of this world
getting faster
getting sicker
more bloated than ever
in the place I must call home

Your own heart with its hand on your throat
pictures of your would-be lover.
She still sleeps with another man.

As the days crawl by,
lust grows in your belly again.

And the self restraint you so torturously practice
is a gift from god himself.

Never the right time.
Forever the wrong place.

Maybe in the next life,
she will come to you
wearing white instead of black
and the owner of a different face.

She's in such a hurry.

Your time is too precious.

You will not waste.

Decisions, decisions.

I will never be the loved one.

I will never know the mirroring
of the love, affection, attention
adoration
that I so willingly give unto others.

I will never know what it is like
to be treated like a queen
to be sung to every day
to be pampered and cared for
to be lusted after
to be wanted.

I will never know devotion.

I will never know what it is like
to trust blindly
the knowledge that to you,
I am enough.
I am beautiful.
I am perfect.
I am loved.

I will never be the loved one.