Broken and bruised, torn and hurt.
My body aches, lack of sleep and nutrition.
Self-mutilation, starvation, and abused.
Rough around the edges, but sweet to the core.
You’d never know though, through all the hurt, all that is seen is rebellion.
No one knows this world in which I live.
It’s a terrible one.
One where I wish fairytales existed.
Once where I wish I was never born into this despicable existence.
I’m a shadow in a land of darkness, a lost soul without a purpose.

I'm often alone.
So please excuse
my desires
for you
to hold me a little longer.
I want to linger
in that state
between awake
and asleep,
as the sunlight
filters in pink.
Caressing our skin,
whispering,
"You can lay
just a minute more.."
Reluctantly unaware;
Am I sleeping?
For this feels
like dreaming.

I haven't yet
figured out
how to put into words
what it feels like
to be trapped in my own head.
I fear that's a fate worse than death.
My whole life
everything--
every single emotional pang--
has flowed from me;
through my pen,
on to paper.
Just like that:
A balloon of troubles
released into air.
Well I've been silent
too long now.
My emotional drain,
clogged,
without a single bottle
of Drain-O left on any
of the Superstore shelves.
I'm in the unforgiving chokehold
of Depression.
With a capital D.
"Write your feelings down,"
my counselor says to me.
"writing can be therapeutic."
I know, Doc.
Which is why I'm here
on this double stuffed couch,
instead of in the safety
of my apartment
with my ink filled sword
and leather bound shield.
No thesaurus can aid me.
Merriam Webster is at a loss for words.
What is a poet without poetry?
I'm as useless
as the g
in lasagna.
Scars line my wrist;
Feeble attempts
of liberating the feelings
by placing them saddleback
on droplets of blood.
Keeping an open mind
is hardest when
your mind is the vault
sealed away
in your Fort Knox skull.
The pill popping lethargy.
This rainy day sadness.
Somewhere inside me
a little poet waits out the storm.

Choices
are the double-edged sword
with which
I will end it all.
Two devils sit
on each shoulder
seducing me
with sweet nothings.
You with your
sweet summers
and two crystal pools
of eyes
where I'd wade in the waters
of promise and tomorrow.
He with his
true love
constant as the new day,
crooked smile
and that twinkle.
He's luring me in
with his gravity.
There is never
a right answer
when you're juggling hearts.
I wish I could dance
for you
so I could make you happy again.
Like I used to.
Like he makes me.
I can't.
Choices will **** me.

After the bleeding ceased,
I was supposed
to be

okay. There would be no more sharp things
inside me,
and even better,
nothing left for them to slaughter.

(My dead baby, pelted with thorns,
knows why roses
are red.)

Yet
I am still hurting. I
am not empty like I should be.

When the dry ache turns sharp, I still
think
that someone
is kicking their way to my heart.

I am so sad
that my eyelids have begun to take the
appearance of an apricot,
sickly,
bulging, too ripe, easily bruised.

Please accept my apology
for hurting
whether or not

you love her still, whether or not there is
a mention of her consistency
between your legs –

please
think about how sorry I am for
not being cold to you
when it could save us. I have fallen in
love with
pain

because it looks like a rose's hips
and I am reminded
that she is not a flower because flowers
always die –

nothing else could make me smile
like
knowing the truth will hurt.

to ****** someone by
crying for them.

one year ago
on this day
you came over
for the second time

we watched edward scissorhands
and we were all over each other

we drank my favorite tea
the divine-smelling one
with four red fruits
the one I'd been promising
to let you taste
for many months

we took our first pictures
as a couple

one year ago
this was one of the happiest days
in my life.

two weeks ago
we were fine
we were happy
two weeks ago I was yours

one week ago
I was not yours anymore

well look at us now