I'm 23 now.
and the weight of the world is too much to bear
I want for so much, so little the air is in my lungs
never enough to breathe
nor to give life to this heart once aflame.
again, I will admit, it is withered.
dead and cold.

I'm so tired.
every plan foiled.
every stitch come unravelled,
leaving me open and naked
and easy to ****.
I am the prey -
a victim of my own life.
a victim of my own mind -
my own, selfish heart
forever screaming
forever crying out
dying on the inside.

and the broken home I came from
I built
and and I burnt it down
myself.

now, my love is homeless.

and though I wish
and beg
and pray
I cannot keep the monsters at bay.

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.

Everything I am is too much.
I am an assault to the senses,
and no longer do I dare
to brush against your heart
for fear of an allergic reaction.

I listen to the voices of other men.

They tell me that I am a goddess,
worthy of all the love and lust in the world.

I listen to the music of their voices on repeat
artificial, prerecorded sweetness and affection.
Adoration and attention.
Sometimes dusted with lust.

Words that no longer come
from my own lover's lips.

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?

One of the very rare times
that you hold me in your arms, of your own accord
I look into your eyes
and realize, in horror
that this is not enough.

you are not enough for me.

and that the hurt outweighs the laughter
and the shame outweighs our joy
and for all my tears -
every fear -

you are no longer
and have never really been
my beautiful boy.

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

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.

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.

There is a wrongness in this life that I cannot place.

There is something about the world that I wake up in every day
that makes it feel less and less like home
each time I open my eyes.

Something is missing.
Something is wrong.

As if I was transplanted here against my will
the wrong blood type, the wrong time
the more I try searching for meaning,
there is even less that I can call mine.

My vision blurs
and I beg my heart to let me see beyond.

There is so much more worth bargaining for
than exists here
on this day
in this life.

Sick in the sun,
and searching for the moon

The beacon to call me home.

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 remember the first time you put your hands on me.
I remember feeling the fire in your heart,
and tasting desire on your tongue.
I remember the way it felt to lay against you
and how perfectly our bodies seemed to fit together.
It was like we were hand crafted for one another.

do you remember?

And then, slowly
but ever certain
the fire bled out until it was but an ember -
barely glowing among the ash.

I'm so cold now.
Your body used to keep me warm.
Your breath kept my heart beating.

But now, I am alone
and I am cold
and all I have left to keep my heart humming
are these bittersweet memories
of honeymoon passion
played over and over again in my head.

like your favorite **** star on repeat.

All my life I have been obsessed with the idea of being in love. The thought that if I gave my heart, my soul, my entire being to someone, that I would be repaid in kind. That the sweet nothings, whispered so much, would buzz on for days in my heart. That my mouth would be so often kissed, my lips would bleed. My body would ache from how often I would let my lover have me.

What a dream.

This fairy tale *******.

I blink hard in the darkness of the evening light, struggling to find your eyes. I find your mouth instead, soft and gentle against mine, pleading for my tongue and so much more. I find your hands - and I feel them move up my body. You leave impressions of your fingertips on my most hidden skin for the first time. For each chill you send down my spine, I gasp and moan into your ear, hotter and hotter each time. But still, I cannot find your eyes.

Instead, I find you less soft, less pleading - more demanding than ever. How could I deny you - how could I deny myself? The hottest dream I've ever dreamt.

And the only way to measure the passage of time is how many times I feel you, again and again, for the very first time. Your skin against mine. Our breath fogs the window. Your hands in my hair. Sheets strewn, bodies bare.

Babe, you took me there.

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.

I used to paint myself to plastic perfection. By the buzzing light of my squalid bathroom, I would paint a portrait of a queen on an otherwise less stunning, far less beautiful canvas. Synthetic eyelashes, artificial pigments and all, I was something to devour.

And as I adorned myself in little more than lace and elastic, I felt less like a plastic gem. I felt far more like a diamond, primed and ready to be displayed to an endless array of lost souls from every dark corner of the internet.

I had never been more lauded in my life. I was some sort of ethereal creature to worship.

But only as much as I was a ***** to purchase.

And all too quickly, the gems lost their sparkle. The tokens lost their shine, and I lost that glimmer in my eye.
As much as I was a work of art to inspire, I was cheap, and thrown together. Meant to be torn apart.

And now, so many people own so many parts of me. So many secrets.
I cannot even own myself.

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.

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

I rely on you

not him

to dry me out.

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.

“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.

I wish
oh god, how I wish
that I never latched on to every word you said
the hum of your voice kept my heart beating

and god, how I wish
I never caught your eye
I wish you hadn't put your arm around my shoulders
and I wish I never crawled into your bed
and slept through the night
next to the warmth of you

I wish we hadn't spent those long hours in the night
staying up so long, just to talk
just to be together
I wish I would have just slept on the living room couch instead

I wish I never widened the cracks in my heart
just enough to let you in
it became too full, too fast
and now it is bursting in pain.
infected.

I wish I never invited you in.
I wish we had never been lovers.
I wish we had just stayed friends.

Long, long ago,

Around that time when the sun hung high,

I would have gladly taken your hand

And led you to the place where there are no worries.

Led you to that place

Where dandelions are not weeds

And all could be free.

Long, long ago,

Around that time when the sun hung low,

I would have gladly tread the road

Where between the wealthy and the rulers,

Only the strangers go.

Where we would fill the dimmed streets with laughter,

And share our woes.

And not so long ago,

When the moon pressed out

From behind the midnight clouds,

A landslide of firearms swept you up

And carried you away from familiar homes.

And now you’ve got your guns,

And I’ve got my silence.

The days are becoming a blur. A sickening blend of everything and nothing. You could almost call it a bad high - if it had any of the slightest pleasure of one. I have felt too much, and now I have become too little. I have negated myself and I am a walking dream in this waking nightmare. Now if only I could remove myself from the equation.

I feel so heavy. And my bones, with rusted joints, need far too much care and coaxing to move. And I'll be honest - it hurts to stay in bed all day. But it hurts to make myself exist, too. It hurts to breathe. What is the point? How can I help anyone - how could I love anyone - when I can barely take care of myself?

I keep waiting for my knight in shining armor. I keep waiting for my true love to materialize out of thin air, here to save the day and tell me that everything is going to be alright.

I keep writing, as if it will keep me numb and from feeling.

And as much as it burns my lungs,
I keep breathing.

I keep hanging on, for some possibility of a promise that the air will clear and the sun will shine through the dust and smog, and bring me a beautiful day, and a beautiful love -  and I will wipe the mud from my face. And by the grace of god, maybe one day, I will be beautiful enough to deserve.

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

Most nights I put myself to bed alone.
I smoke til I'm dizzy and I tuck myself in.
I wait for the opening of my door -
The creak of the bedroom floor -
but I fall unconscious
far beyond the point where you finally join me.

And some nights I feel you pull me close.
And you whisper "I'm sorry".

I cherish the few moments I have with you
As brief and as warm as they are,
they are fleeting.
But my love for you is not.

I'm afraid that I am starting to look my age because I am no longer carded when I walk up to the bar. I think the permanent wrinkle in my brow may be telling - the creases in my forehead are also unkind to my youth.

Whatever youth is left in this body, a breadbasket of stress.

Of course, drinking does nothing to help preserve whatever visage it is that I am so greedily clinging to.

And oh god, what an awful thing it is to be twenty three. How desperately far away it is from nineteen, bright and burning.

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.