For whom would I write a love poem?
I fall in love (or is it lust?) too quickly
But I am thrown out just as swiftly.
And right now?
I'm happily drifting
Down a river on which I live
Fast and loud
Carelessly, fecklessly
But for no one but myself
Maybe that could turn into a trend:
"An ode to the one I love
The only one who can change my life
Me."

Temporary pain?
Thoughts caress a suicidal mind
Spinning and tripping
Spinning and falling
Losing it.
And you are trying to tell me
This goes away?

Running the risk of sounding pessimistic
I question that idea.
Stuck between evasion and circumstance
Cornered in the darkest place
Eerier than you ever imagined
More vile than you ever dreamed.

So weep, dear child
Sob.
Then they whisper in your ear
Everything will get better.
How dare they?

You mention thoughts of death
Of self-inflicted ******
And they pierce you like a weapon.
Telling you its selfish
And that this will come to an end.

In my opinion,
Life's payoff is not a reason to stay alive.
If you expect the pain to end
And to have joy brought back to you
You will be disappointed.
The rationale for continuing to move
Is that if you're here, I believe,
There is a reason.
You want to discover that
And you will
As long as you keep breathing.

It is so shameful how we spend life
Asleep at the wheel
Making less than a conscious attempt
To break free from our situation.

The day you left this Earth
Your exceptional and passionate life was taken
I heard your heart hit the floor
And I look up to the sky
Expecting to see you soaring.

You lived so loudly
And left me star struck.
So what is it supposed to feel like
When you are gone?
Even now, I will pass something
Do a certain activity
Hear a certain song, a phrase
And think about you.

Has it been five months already?
That's almost half a year
And for some reason, that kills me.
Maybe I've been stuck in September
Or somewhat comatose in my own skin.
The shell I've been dying to shed for just about forever.

Have you heard my screams?
The day I got the call
The day I passed out
The endless days of panic attacks
Stuck between those foreboding cycles
Of endless days and sleepless nights.

I do not expect you to be watching over me.
You should be guarding
Your siblings
Your girlfriend
Your parents.
I hope you brought the party to heaven
And God is lucky to have you as his guest.

Sometimes, I still hear your laugh
See your smile
And I am ever so grateful that
I was lucky enough to know you
And I will keep your memory alive
By really living
And not just being on standby.

Who am I?
Trapped in this lifeless figurine
No getaway, no exit
I simply drag myself through these daily activities
But why?
Is it in order to
Impress everyone else?
To show them that I can do it
To abandon some long established inferiority complex?
Maybe, maybe.
And yet, and I am still bound
By life's broken lines and timed events.
I'm spinning a web of lies,
Thoughts like
"I'm okay"
"I can do this"
Spill from my faucet-like mouth
But really?
I'm getting tangled up in all of it.
Too bad suicide is not an option,
Self-harm is not an option,
Escape is not an option.
And therefore,
I remain caged in this labyrinth,
The deserted ruins of something resembling
A borrowed and ****** body
And my shallow and sorry soul.

I was never vindictive towards you,
Yet somehow, I wish I had been.
I saw you for seven grueling years
After the attack.
Endured every flashback, every pang of anxiety.
I would not let you get alone with me, however.
I guess in that way,
I was smart enough to get by.

Crying in my pillow
Screaming at the walls
Lashing out on others
But mostly at myself.
Yet I never once wished to harm you.
Some days I wish to want to.
But I don't.
I can't.
And I hate myself for it.

You had Asberger syndrome
And I was a child.
So who is accountable here?
I guess it is just easier to take this pain on by myself.

My parents could have sheltered me,
I suppose.
But whenever my brain creeps into that region
Of blaming them even a little bit
I feel like a *******.
They did not know, could not have known
Could they?

"*******!"
I'll belt, but it's never directed at you
Like it should be.
I say it to myself, and after my voice breaks
And I fall to my knees, sobbing
The rest goes something like
"You could have stopped it.
What the hell were you thinking?
This is your fault."

Intellectually?
I know I'm not to blame.
I was seven,
How could I have known better?

But emotionally?
All of that logic goes out the window.
I beat the crap out of myself for it.
I should have protected myself
Should have been protected
And I guess, somehow
I should have been able to control that.
I still need that control, I crave it
And I still need somebody to blame.

Hey you,
I've been thinking a lot recently
Wondering how this could have happened.
Five months and I'm still not over it.
But at least now I'm somewhat functional.

Did you know I used to feel the same way you did?
Wanting to end my life
By some self-inflicted act
The rush of a knife,
The avalanche of pills
Anything to make me feel okay
To run away.

Can I tell you the truth?
Sometimes I still do.
But I owe it to you
To get better.
And I know you would say
I owe it to myself as well.

So yes, I've written about you before.
About the sacredness of your memories
About how it breaks my heart to miss you.
But today, I just wanted to say thank you.
You've had a weighted hand in
Saving my life.
And you probably don't even know it.

So, in conclusion, sincerely and, as always, love
Me.

At the bottom of the ocean
In a city on a hill
Caught in the throws of any cliche
But it better be extreme.

They left you
Wailing and afraid
I still hear your screeching voice
In the middle of the night
Or in the dawn of morning.
Is she yelling out of pain
Or out of excitement and delight that it's over?

I can't get it out of my head.
A young kid, standing in a field
Abandoned and unveiled for all the world to see.
A preteen, climbing a mountain
Built out of quicksand and depression.
An adolescent, tripping and stumbling
And not just because of the substances
That impair her fading judgment.
Yet, she's not knocked down.
She still believes in love.
Why?

Sick and jaded you
And unassuming me
Meet at some crossroads
Or maybe it's just a street.
The similarities are awe-inspiring.

Really, the poem has no reason
It makes no sense
Just as life should be.
And I love it that way.
But so many people are so serious
We have looked the other way
And decided that our existence is nothing special
But in reality, it is beautiful
Beautiful and forgotten.

You lived next to a mushroom field
The smell was pungent and distinct
It reaked of sewage and sulfur
I never understood how anyone could
"Just get used to it."

I hate mushrooms now
Moreso that I ever did before.
I mull over the things you did to me
And made me do to you.
All I can remember is
The smell creeping up my nasal passage
Strangling me
Choking me.

Since that day,
My life has resembled that place.
So much junk to deal with
Such a despicable scent
People wonder how I deal with it.

I don't even know how I stand the stench.
But I find it funny, oh the irony
In how I have come to simulate
The place I detest the most.

The term, people use it as a synonym for
Stupid
A failure
Well, maybe you shouldn't be so judgmental.

High school *****,
We all know that.
But when they make your life a living hell
And your best friend is expecting
What are you supposed to do?

It's not only students
But teachers who bully you.
Just because your friend got pregnant
Apparently you are all ***** now.

You couldn't handle it
Couldn't take it
It was doing serious damage to your psyche.
So Mom signs you out at sixteen
Contingent on the fact
That you get your GED.
Sounds fair to me.

But no, apparently because you're a drop out
And because you smoke
That makes your irresponsible
According to my parents
And my holier-than-thou high school "friends"
Who treat me like dirt

You are one of the most accepting people I know
You are beautiful, and have not had an easy life
You are more than what they tell you
You are more than a high school drop out.

When a life is taken
So tragically
So prematurely
How are we supposed to react?

I have lost friends
And acquaintances
Who were in their teens
Their early twenties.
The circumstances were ruthless
Two suicides, an overdose.
How does this happen?

The worst part is
I would have never expected it.
Colin, you were perfect
Literally, that is the only word that comes to mind
When I think of you.
I miss you so much it breaks my heart.

Michael, you were right up there with him.
I just remember how when
You used to teach Sunday school at church
And a child was absent for several weeks in a row
You went out of your way to call their home
And make sure things were okay.
I can only aspire to be like you.

Both of you were the last people
Who I would expect to do this.
Everybody loved you two,
I guess you didn't see it that way.

Conor, most recently deceased.
I know I did not know you very well
But I have met you a few times through friends.
You always seemed like a great kid
And I know that my best friend and her family
Loved you.
So many people did.

The thing I have taken away from these tragedies
Is how short and precious life really is.
These three wonderful people have taught me
That no matter how early your life is curtailed
It is crucial to live while you are alive.
Would we remember you the way we do
If all three of you had forgotten to do that?
It is not your passing that serves as a teacher
But your three distinct and brilliant lives.
Rest in peace, my friends.
I will see you soon.

Blameworthy,
That's me.
Bound by judgment
And childhood nightmares.
Did I mention sleepless nights?
Even though my eating disorder has dissipated
I still forget to eat at times.

What's wrong, darling?
Who told you that
You're not good enough?
That no one wants you?
Who would lie to you and say that you aren't beautiful?

Look at yourself.
Attractive and thin
Friendly and loved
By everyone.
Have you looked at me recently
Or ever?

I am your antithesis.
Grotesque and bloated
Introverted and lonely.
I wish I could be like you
But I will not try to let that happen.
I need to somehow embrace
This unsightliness
This passiveness
How I let people walk all over me.
But do I accept it
Or do I change it?

In essence,
You are nearly sublime
And all I am
Is one mess of a life.

Can I numb my body one last time?
You say you'll haunt me if
I overdose
I bleed out
I keep my food from digesting
I **** myself
Whether it is intentional or not.

Quitting cold turkey
Is a ***** and a half
But when you quit three things at once
When your life is still a living hell
You find yourself moody
And depressed
And angry.

How is it possible
That when I decide to stop cutting
Stop purging
Stop hurting my body
Stop denying myself
That I start to have those
Suicidal and foreboding thoughts
Enter my brain again?
Not that I'll act on them.

Obsessive thoughts
Lead to compulsive behaviors
I know this far too well.
The bleak practice of picking my skin
Will all but disappear from my routine.
But hey, at least it can't **** me.

Smoking some tobacco
As well as other assorted chemicals
Could send me to my grave.
It's a little bit of a longer flight, however.
And stress is a more direct route.
I guess you have to pick your battles.

People say they hate to be numbed
I guess that's why people abuse painkillers?
Sorry, I'm feeling distastefully sarcastic today.
But my point is
I don't mind it
Because take away the medicine
And you're forced to deal with whatever reality
Brought you to that point.
Might as well procrastinate while you can get away with it.
But it's a dangerous wire to dance on.

"Look in the mirror already
You're ugly, unattractive
And way too awkward
For anyone to give a **** about."

I step back, trying to whimper a reply.
All I can manage to stammer is
People like m--

"No, they don't"
She adds
"They just pretend like they do
So you don't flip out.
People don't like dealing with drama
And honey, you are drama.
People don't like fixing messes
And sweetheart, you make things messy.
You know you do."

I back down, submitting.
I think of a way to beat her
I go to the bathroom
Fix my unkempt hair
My crooked smile
My scarred and rigid skin
That has gotten that way from picking and cutting.

At this, she laughs.
"Try again, darling.
Pathetic doesn't even begin to describe you,
You worthless *******."

I face her, this time meeting her eyes.
But my voice still shakes.
I'm pretty
You know I am
I have something spe--

"No you don't, you little *****.
You're just a mediocre version of everyone else.
You have no talents.
The only thing you're good at
Is giving boys exactly what they want
Or letting them take it from you."

That one stings.
A tear rolls down my cheek
And she absolutely loves the defeat welling
Behind my bloodshot eyes.
My molestation was not my faul--

"But you could have stopped it, no?
Everything you do is a disgrace, and you know it.
You disappoint your parents
Your friends
Your teachers
Your family.
You are nothing.
No one will ever want you.
No one would give two *****
If you dropped dead right now.
They'd actually appreciate it."

This series of "you can't"'s
Gives me a sudden shock wave of confidence
Or is it bravado?
I glare at her square in the face
And say, with no stutter
Don't you dare ******* tell me
That no one would miss me if I died.

I said it, and it shut her up for a while.
Now the next step is
For me to bring myself
To really believe those words.

Helpless
Cold
Shaking
Broken
Untouchable
Hardened.

Do you see what you've done?
You have
Premeditated
Considered
Lusted for control
Desired
Executed
Attacked
Left.

Her intoxication is not an excuse.
Her skirt did not scream
"Yes!"
The fact that she is passed out
Does not mean that she hopes to wake up
With you and your friends on top of her.
Silence does not equal consent.

When will these big shots in the government
Stop preaching about "legitimate ****"
And other ******* that has to do
With a woman's ****** rights?

The church needs to stop condoning
Men giving into their whims
To dominate and control their wives.
Whether they're dating, married
Or freaking connected by a body part
If she says no
That ends it.
Period.

This is a story
About pain and sadness
But there is also a hint of irony.
It depicts my first and last time
Inside that presumptuous building on the hill.

I had seen it many times
Played on its playground as a child
Gone to its annual carnival as an adolescent
Its daunting shadow had watched me
With eyes of judgment
Many times before.

Finally entering through the doors
Was some kind of out-of-body experience
Mostly because of what I was there for.
The funeral of a friend was the dreary occasion.

How I miss him so
And it is still an offbeat feeling
When I think about him now.
I feel a twinge in my chest cavity
Every time I replay a memory of him.
It literally hurts my heart.

Anyway, I walk into the church
Decked out in black
My makeup has been replaced by the stains of tears.
I never felt uninvited,
As I imagined I might.
But I didn't quite know what to do.
I look ardently for a friend to sit next to
Or even an acquaintance.
No such luck.
I had to teach myself Catholic rituals
I was once again, alone.

Looking around as I entered, I saw people
Dipping their fingers in some kind of Holy water
And crossing themselves.
They seemed to be whispering something
But I couldn't make it out.
I did make a travesty of that practice
As I attempted to imitate them
Muttering some chicken scratch to look like I knew what I was doing.
I, apparently, got too much on my fingers
And some of it dribbled onto my freshly ironed shirt.
Awesome start to the day.

I sat next to two amiable-looking people
And kind of kept to myself.
The service was very sweet and honored him and his family
Wonderfully.
However, when we had to drop to our knees for prayer
I was a little bit late the first time
And the little padded areas
That you kneel on
Would not unlock themselves from the pew the second.
Great.

The worst part may have been
That during the ceremony
I could not cry.
I could not understand it.
I had sobbed for the days prior
So why, now when it's appropriate,
Can I not shed a single tear?

I feel insensitive
I also feel the sanctimonious glares of those surrounding me.
Eventually, droplets started bleeding from my eyes like crazy.
Am I crazy?

Finding a friend to drive me back to school
Proved to be easy
He held me as I bawled
While everyone else had stopped
Stone faced.
Why am I the only one
Who's emotions come and go
At the very wrong times?

Such a wreck
Such a paradox
Such a tale of heartache
For my first time in a Catholic steeple.

I do not expect people to warm up to my work like a familiar friend. I don't write to form a lovey dovey bond with my reader. My writing purposefully makes people uncomfortable and causes them to question my sanity. It is supposed to be relatable to the darker side of human nature, and to cause people to look in the mirror and think I'm not really like that, am I? I am here to expose that life is not a folk tale, but the beholders can choose their own destiny. I am a strong believer in free will and that the power to change one's situation lies within a that person's grasp. Even when the circumstances are inevitable, the outcome is entirely up to that person. Perception is reality, and what someone believes about their life will become the way they go about living it. While I do write to uncover this beautiful, yet treacherous, side of human life, I mostly write about my own experiences. I have plenty of muses, whether they're people I love, hate or miss dearly. I do not write to impress anyone; poetry and prose are my catharses. I write to battle demons, win trials, keep myself humble and to give myself a little something to brag about. Essentially, I write for me.

October
Body's cold,
And I'm shaking.
A year clean of cutting
Is a beautiful thing.
But when it comes to the rest of the world
Has it just stopped spinning?
I am lost, with no direction.

November
I find myself grasping at straws.
I revisit the practice of purging
And I do it well.
Not only do I make myself *****
But I starve myself too.
Only, they don't know
I've been using it to my advantage
For years.

December
A teacher discovers my eating disorder
So what can I do but confess?
It has been my lifeline
But I will not lie for it
At least, not yet.
But that doesn't mean I'll stop.

My mental state weakens
And I see the slits of light through my shade.
That's all I can get
Since the dreaded events of this past September.

January
The bitter cold sends a shock through my skin
The sky is some muted shade of grey
The air is icy like my soul.

I try to push past it,
Try to let the sun reach me
But it won't
It can't.
Does this month ever end?

February
Still as hostile as its predecessor
But three days shorter.
I look through the crack of my window
Trying to embrace the light.
I get so bored so easily
As winter rages on.

How can I get through this sleet storm?
Pieces of hail, like little bullets, pierce my skin
I want to run for shelter
To the one thing that smells familiar.
A knife, a finger in my throat,
But I hold on just a little bit longer.
The only relief I allow myself
Is a drag from a cigarette
But it is still too cold for that.

March
The dead begins to find its life
Small specks of green begin to show themselves.
The air begins to rise
And I can go outside again.
But for the first fifteen days
The temperature is less than inviting.

March is also a marker.

It's been six months since God gained an angel
Six months since my body was violated again
Six months since that brutal September
That broken, sickly month
That changed my life.

April
Oh, how I love you
But I could do without your rainy days.
Even though things are looking up
I am looking down a sewage drain
Or over the edge of a balcony

Will I fall off?
Will I jump?
Will I be pushed too far?
No one can say for sure.

May
I always thought this was the perfect time of year
If I ever have children
I hope at least one of them is born during this month.

School's almost out
Senior year is on the horizon
College* is just over the mountain.
Yet my fear for the future prevails.
While my anticipation to get out of here is extreme,
I wish I could know
Who I will become
And if this ailment will leave my spirit alone.

June
Insanity plagues the dainty first month of summer
Whether it be
Finals, graduation parties, or day trips
The insanity in my mind is always unrelenting.

July
The blistering heat
Keeps me mostly indoors
Between work and vacation
I barely have time to breathe in
The suffocating density
Of the nearing 100 degree summer air.

Yet, there is still no one around
No one who's there for me
Who the hell cares?
It's summer
Which gives them a new excuse
To forget about my existence.

August
The birthday blues catch me by the throat
Everyone's gone
And I'm another year older
Big deal.

I smile
Thank them for my presents
Pray to get what I really want:
My license.
Freedom.
A car that I will purchase
After almost two years of working the same
Minimum wage job.
Only time will tell.

But there is nothing special about this birthday.
Multi-colored candles replace my cigarettes
At least they won't give me cancer.

September
School's in session.
But more importantly
It's the anniversary
Of a friend's death
And that vicious attack.
So how do I feel?
How do I cope?
How do I deal?

Honestly, I battle the pain.
Honestly, my memories of both are my only connection.
Honestly, I feel okay.

You are
The sun-kissed skin that had an iridescent glow
That time we went to an ice cream parlor
For your birthday
The time I almost drowned in that community pool
The game we played with your Mom
An extension of her auburn-soaked locks
Although yours are blonder
But you have the same ruby red smile.
A kind spirit in a tiny body
The eyes that flared with the flames of a gentle spirit.
Days spent as we played with animals
On farms, at the pumpkin patch
We loved them so dearly when we were young.
A two and a half hour commute, yet worth it every time.
Horse riding with our sisters
As we complained about how annoying they were.
The first time we made ceramics
Yours, of course, were better than mine.
The way our parents would tell us
Of memories of ski trips and college endeavors
That made us hope to be university bound
Even though we were in grade school.

Things have changed.
Now you are motherless
As lung cancer took her life
Eight years ago in March.
Which also happened to be the last time I spoke with you.
I remember,
Dad wouldn't let me go to the funeral.
He said I was too young
I couldn't miss school
The usual.
At the time,
I didn't know if I longed to go to honor her
Or to see you.
It wouldn't be the last funeral he denied me
For various reasons.
I still miss her
But I miss you more.
We lost contact
And the questions I had for you at eight
Still resonate in my overbearing brain.

What was it like to lose her?
How did your father cope?
Did your grandparents move in
To take care of you and your young sister?
Do you remember these memories like I do?
Do you ever think about me?
Do you miss me at all?

New questions compete for their spots.
Do you have a boyfriend?
Do you plan to go to college?
Do you still love to draw?
I would assume you are still putting that angelic singing voice
To good use.
I hope I'm right.

Sometimes, I wonder.
Wonder what it would be like
If we still kept in touch.
Dad said your father
Lost contact with him after your mother's passing.
I know, this is petty
But I still miss every summer day
For the first eight years of my life that I spent with
My very first best friend.

"I'm okay."
Look at me
I want you to really look at me.
Do I look ******* okay?

"It's alright if you don't get around to it
I understand you're busy."
I really need you to call.
I'm crying because no one cares
And I'm ever so used to being forgotten.

"I don't want to die."
I'm not suicidal
But that doesn't mean
That I haven't asked God to take me from this Earth before.

"It's only a test, I'll do better next time."
Expect me to obsess about this
For the next week or so.

"I like going out and being around people."
It doesn't matter if I'm home or out
I'm still isolated and lonesome
No matter where I am or who I'm with.

"Thank God it's the weekend."
My anxiety doesn't take a holiday.

"I love you."
*Please say you love me too.

i
You stand at your alter
All repentant and holy
Praising the Lord to cleanse you white.
You will talk their ears off about being "saved"
With some melodrama of a testimony
Yet, you leave that place with a deceptive heart
Knowing you will sin again
And planning when and where to get your next fix.

ii
Hypocrisy, hypocrisy, hypocrisy.
You condemn those who are different than you are
Who transgress in other various manners.
If you have ever actually *read the Bible
It specifically states that
No one sin is worse than another.

iii
Some churches call themselves "a family"
Well, I can honestly tell you
That members of this stated clan have
Judged me
Betrayed me
Attempted to violate my body
Succeeded in violating my mind.
And others simply did nothing to stop it.
Some big happy family.

iv
Crusty white men
Telling me what to wear
How to act
And what to believe.
It's almost as bad as the government.

v
Baptist camps, although I have always enjoyed going,
Telling me I will go to Hell if I do not do
This, this and that.
Telling me that virtually, I mean nothing.
But if God put us onto this Earth
How can mankind be responsible
For all of its problems?
Something has to give.

vi
All of the interpretations of the Holy Bible
That have been integrated into the Church.
These are human interpretations of God's word.
And I find it shameful that
Many people pick and choose which passages to follow
And which to throw to the wayside.
If a man lies with another man he goes to Hell
Oh yes, that's perfectly literal and true
But women being subservient to their husbands?
I'll just overlook that one.
Is the view of many Christians today.

vii
Force it down their throats before they get a chance to chew
Is that really the goal that God has in mind?
And if they do not follow every biblical order
They're bad?
No, this is the human error that causes many
To run away, fast
In the opposite direction.
Never even giving it a second thought.

viii
The muddled confusion of the afterlife.
When babies die, are they sentenced to an eternity
With the Evil One?
If a person has never been exposed to Christianity
Will they serve Satan?
Is there even a distinct and tangible distance
Between Heaven and Hell
Or is it all just one murky space?
And who is to answer these questions?
People need to stop trying to
Stop playing God
Stop holding themselves to that high a standard.
As you can see,
It's worked so well so far.

P.S.
I don't believe in religion
I don't believe in the politics of anything organized
It all seems too cult-like to me.
I wouldn't say I'm the cliche
"Spiritual but not religious" type that my pastor jokes about
But I don't believe in this controversy, negativity, and often times hate.

I believe in God, and I believe He meant for us to love each other
But I don't waste my time pondering this inquiry
Because I am not Him, as many people try to be.
And honestly, that is how I intend to live my life
Finding good in everyone
Loving the supposed lepers
Showing acceptance to unlikely faces, despite their disparities.
If it is not what He intends for me
Then I'd rather have no part in His plan.

You are the last person I would expect
To smile with the glimmer that you have
To laugh with the excitement that you do
To talk with the clarity that you can.

They left you for dead
You watched your father die beside you
A bullet in your leg
Beats a bullet to his vitals.

Fifteen, you are but fifteen
When Daddy's telling you to play dead
They'll go away, just be quiet
He coos
So you do your best not to scream
As you lose blood like energy.

You wake up in a hospital bed
Bandages caressing your injured calf
A nurse tells you to turn on the news
As you ask where your father is.
The television set won't lie to you.
The flat screen relays the message
He's dead.

Years later, still living in the slums
That you so preciously embrace as your home
At seventeen, you're the only sibling without kids
But you have been deemed caretaker.

Yet, to total strangers of different race
Those who barely know suffering
From an affluent community, from generally "good" homes
You tell your story
And leave them with a lasting impression.

You are the spitting image of bravery, fearlessness, courage
And still,
No one's there to save you.
You are your own hero
Your driving force.
And no one will take the greatest gift you have away from you:
Joy, and the ability to grace others with the same.

i
To a mother who loved me
As only someone like you can.
Could I let myself leave you broken?
Then again,
I wouldn't stress you out anymore
And it would be the last time I'd make you cry.

ii
To a father who loved me
Though he never had the best way of expressing it.
Volatile and bitter were our interactions
But I never hated you like I said.
Did you mean it when you said I'm a disappointment?
I'm sorry, I promise I'll stop hurting this family.

iii
To a sister who loved me
But whom I hardly ever knew
We are total opposites, always
You are perfect and I am a perfect wreck
Keep on shining
And I'll get out of your way.
Don't cry for me, sweetie.

iv
To Matt, who says he loves me
He tells me day after day
That even though we cannot be together right now
I have his heart in my hand
And he will forever have mine.
And yet, we know it would be easier to live
Without each other
And that I by nature make things messy.
I'm sorry baby, I swear I'll stop.

I write the words down,
Let them spill onto the lines
A knife in my hand, I close my eyes
A shaking arm rises
And the other knocks it down.

You are stronger than this*
Something echoes
Vague, yet clear as glass
I fall to my knees and scream.

I will not give up on myself
For if I do
If I throw my life away
Then I will leave it's unfinished residue
It's dirtiest and most heinous parts
Here with you.
I love you too much
To burden you in such a way.

Yet is my life a blessing or a curse?
Will I bring you joy or grief
By continuing to search for every scrap of will I have
To fight on?

I must fulfill my journey on this Earth to come to that conclusion.
But this not so much a paradox of death or suicide
As it is the omnipresent conflict of a human life.

A wise tale, an old saying
One that old people, whether in spirit or in body, say is
"If you can't stand the heat
Get out of the kitchen."

What they fail to mention
The details they leave behind on the floor
Is that sometimes the kitchen
Is everywhere you go
Outside forces trap you
And it gets hotter, suffocating every whim you have
That may let you escape.

You pass out before you can leave.
Or the flames engulf your body
Your mouth fills with thick, black smoke
As you fall to your knees and beg for your life back.

Everything you have, stripped away.
Everything you love, gone.
Everyone who loves you, weepy.

They don't tell you that sometimes the heat
Turns into a fire.

Did you forget me, my dear?
I know I've always been a backup plan
I know I'll always be there
When your world fails to turn.
You take me for granted
And of this, I am aware
So why does it unnerve me
Or bring me surprise when we stop talking
For days, weeks, months at a time
We don't interfere in each other's lives.
Then one day, one random day
We drip, drip, drop everything for each other
Did you forget about me, my dear?
This was bound to happen
It's less about forgetting
And more about selectively
Choosing not to remember.

Who gives a ****
If I live or die?
I have become the one forgotten
And I have fallen into some peculiar space
Now no one remembers the girl who once stood
In my place
She is changed, she has become something unexpected and unforgiving.
Is there a reason to believe in myself anymore?

I have been deemed, by many,
Unlovable.
Perhaps the worst damnation of all
Has come from my inner self.

But how does the rest of the world see me?
My views have been clouded over the years
By some unwarranted opinions
Of hypocrites and bigots
Bullies and ex-boyfriends
Daddy.

Calling me names to this day
Even after some bouts of depression
Cutting
Eating disorders
Even a suicide attempt.

Although these are all in the past
I still fail to hold myself in high regard.
Did they make me hate myself?
No, but they had a weighted hand in its development.

So who could love a creature like me?
A person, or rather, a shell of one,
Plagued by habit
Submerged in guilt

Crippled by a question that has never ceased.
Does being forced into a protective armor,
Being ridiculed
Being unloved
Make someone truly
Unlovable?

She has dated boys before.
Boys who beat her
Boys who ***** her
Boys who did nothing wrong at all
But still did not feel "right."

One of them made fun of her
Told her she must be some kind of lesbian
(As if that was an insult)
If she did not want to have *** with him.
She smiled something sad on the outside
To deflect
To forget
To hide behind.

She thought
And what if I am?
What does that make me?
It's a question that wanders into the unexplored ruins
Of an unkempt mind.

A boy meets boy love story is next on the list.
They both play football
And think that means they must both be "players."
Really, they're falling for each other
With one swift and concise movement.

Boy A cannot tell his parents
As he comes from a rowdy and traditional Italian line.
Boy B is getting fed up
And yet waits, patiently
For his one and only to express this flaring emotion
A love, unexpressed.

Their families, churches and culture
Thinks they can change who they are.
They use different, cruel tactics.
Beat the gay out of him
Excommunication
Force her to have ***, and she will turn straight

You tell the world that they are an
Abomination
Atrocity
Mutation

And yet, I ask this.
If the Bible was a Holy deity's, a God's message of eternal love
As any good Christian, as I am supposed to be, would proclaim
Then how can it be used to justify
Acts of such hate and genocide?

"I tell you, on the day of judgment people will give account for every careless word they speak"
(Matthew 12:36)
I hope you are prepared for your Judgment Day.

Becoming friends with someone
Who has a place in your heart
Who has shattered your definition of love
With whom there is extensive history
Is never easy to do.

Part one is when you don't talk to each other
Don't even look in their direction.
You wish you could pretend that they don't exist.
The only things you exchange
Are venomous glares and glances.

Part two is in this awkward limbo.
It's been a few months, you miss him or her.
Do you talk?
Do you text?
It's all left floating in the Great Unknown.

Part three is when you fall from that blank space.
Do you simply make small talk?
Should you hang out?
Is there a chance of getting back together
Or simply hooking up?
Your brain and your heart are at war
And there will be blood.

Part four, possibly the most crucial step.
Deciding when you should cross into the friend circle
And deciding how to do so.
You talk about what went wrong
Or you simply let it go.

But can you ever really be friends?
Buds, pals, drinking buddies
Talk about current heartbreaks
Family problems
Crushes

Or do you remain quirky, undetermined ghosts who just happen to
Cross each others paths
Exchange text messages now and then
Go out for coffee
Make out at a party
After consuming a little too much alcohol.

I think all of us who have been in this situation
Know the very clear answer to the humbly posed question.

Push yourself too hard
And it becomes counterproductive.
From motivation
To deterioration.
From passion
To pain.
Maybe I'm planning my own downfall.
If this is it,
Just let me go already.

A sheer screen of sweat lines my forehead
And trickles down my blushing cheeks
My body is being abused
At my own hand
As I zone out
Let it take me over.

My chest takes the worst beating
Sores abundant and a plethora of welts
Riddle my pasty skin.
If I wear a shirt with any cleavage at all
I make sure my scars are hidden
Like a well-kept secret.

My face is not far behind
The second line of combat.
My own nails, tweezers, anything
Will pick off any blemish they come across
And leaving the house without makeup on?
Forget it.

Who's to tell me I'm sick
Or even wrong?
You taught me what to do, after all
Mom, I learned this from you.
You thought you kept me sheltered from your
Habits and insecurities.
There was no way you could have.

And Daddy
Are you to say you're not to blame
For criticizing me for years?
For stressing me out in addition to
The stress I impose upon myself?

Do either of you know?
Yes, Mom, you do.
Do either of you care?
You tell me to cut it out
And then we laugh it off.

In your defense,
You do not understand the severity of my picking.
You only see the best of it.

Still, I cannot ask myself why I might do this
Childhood abuse
Perfectionism
Depression
Actions
And reactions
Of my parents.

I ask myself why not.
*...

From the outside,
No love is present
And no love is received.

I am cold,
Stone hard.
I want to let you in
But is there anyway I can guarantee
That it will be okay?

I don't want you to see
The goons that lurk beneath.
You will run, turn and hide
It seems to be a common theme in my life.

There is no way that anyone can love me.
I am not pretty to look at
And am even messier underneath.
I don't deserve to be cherished.

Discomfort in my own skin
Has caused me to desperately search
For alternative ways to change me
But to no avail.

I have secrets that run like rivers
Through the depths and canyons of my soul.
Things I carry in suitcases
Everywhere I travel
Holding my breath that no one will open them
And that they will not burst.

Soon enough, however
I am going to burst.

You are corrosive
Bad for my health,
Your smell makes me gag
And your stare makes me cringe.

Every time I talk to you,
I need a cigarette.
My body starts to sweat
And I cannot look at your face.

You must be a demon
Has the Devil sent you?
Or maybe it was God
To mark all of my transgressions.
I can't decide which is my punishment
Being in your general vicinity
Or the flashbacks that keep me from sleeping.

Maybe I'm going crazy,
Off the deep end, as they say.
All I remember is your curled, slimy lips
As they pressed against mine.
Your pudgy, grimy hands
As they explored my body.
Areas they had no right to trespass.

Then your memory triggers his.
His low, barely-audible voice
Penetrating my eardrums as if it was a siren
The way he looked at me, a child
As if I was much older.

His hands, I remember those too
They roamed the, at that time,
Untraveled and desolate crevices of my silhouette
A child's.

I remember how when I crawled on top of him
The journey felt like it took years.
His long legs seemed even longer than they were
And I seemed even smaller than I was.

The two of you have each destroyed
Different parts of me.
One part was innocence
The other was control.
Now I have neither.

You have taken everything from me
And I will give my life to get it back.

Did you know
You would be my only
Saving grace?

I miss our kisses in the stairwell
The way you played with my hair
The way you would smile
Maybe sinisterly
When I would give you an off-handed compliment.

I miss when you taught me how to drive for the first time
Illegally, of course
Did we ever do anything ethical?
I was only fourteen
But I thought I was hot ****
I thought I was tough enough for you.

I miss the first time we..."you know"
As you would say with a wink
You'd send me texts about where to meet you
It felt so secret, so sensual
And it was, for a while.

A quickie in the church boiler room
Our first time in the parking lot
It was the only place we could be alone
Well, unless you count the Big Guy upstairs
I guess we're both eternally ****** to Hell.
And somehow, I'm okay with that.

It was so wrong,
But we were so right
Too bad we lived like a train wreck.

We were built up by adrenaline
We had every reason to believe in ourselves
So young, so in love
Isn't that what they all say?

It's all cliche to me, anyways.

It's all in the technique, they say
But if you have the desire
If you have the drive
That's the easy part.
Yet still,
Execution is key.

Let us use an example
Fibbing about your whereabouts?
Know your audience
Know what they want to hear
Know what they will believe
And how much they will believe.

Details make a scarlet deception ivory
They truly create the white lie
It becomes obvious if you are too vague.
Trust me, I know.

Look them dead in the eye
Don't laugh, but don't be too serious.
Just think about what you would say
Under normal circumstances.

If you get this far,
I pose a question of irony to you.
Why would you trust me?
After all,
I am a liar.

It's all the same,
To lie to you.
To lie to him
To lie with me.

Inhale, feel, lets the flavors collide.
**** it down if you can
Every taste from your poisonous gauntlet
Reminds me of me your kiss.

Passionate, I keep sipping.
I love you more than I love myself.
You have become the reason I breathe,
And you will prove to be the reason I die.

My skin under my eyes loses color.
It is tired from the things you have thrown at it.
Trying to combat you is a lost cause.

In those moments,
I look into your brown eyes
And try to find something weak
Something human.
Your blank stare frightens me
As it is comparable to a demon, the devil
Devoid of remorse, or guilt, or sorrow.

Your words cut deeper.
They are the IV in my veins
They penetrate my skin
And invade my bloodstream
Yet, I continue to hook their machines
Up to my comatose body.

I have gone from having a bright smile
To wearing a perpetual look of anguish.
You have aged me ten years.

I stare down at my hands as they tremble.
My eyeballs have sunken into my head
I am a ruin of anything lifelike.

It is a defective disposition
But can it be cured?
An addiction is a pleasure is a curse
That grows as you feed it.

I must cut myself off from you, my lifeline,
Completely.

It comes knocking at times
When you are already down.
You're not good enough it laughs
And you never will be.

I was crying in the shower again.
It was one of my "panic attack" showers.
I needed something to calm me down,
And I hoped steam and hot water
Would stop me from vomiting.
At minimum it would keep me
From forcing my index finger down my throat.

I stepped into the rain
Tiny pellets of water caressed my skin
Ready to burst as they surfaced.

Suddenly, I couldn't breathe.
The room spun and I felt my eyes well up.
Everything was wrong
And the worst part was
I had to hide my cries.

I could not wail out even if I wanted to
For everything that possessed me
Was everything that my parents remain unaware of.

If my mother so much as heard a whimper,
I would be bombarded with questions.
I did not want that.
It was not what I needed.

The desire to purge consumed my being
My body, my mind, my soul
All seemed to turn on me simultaneously.
I needed a fix.

I see a razor and I start to tremor
Cut, cut, cut
Is what I want to do
Something inside of me is bloodthirsty.

And who shows up?
None other than that annoying buzzing in my head.

"Just do it."
"They knew you wouldn't change."
"You need this, you know you do."
"You cannot go on. You cannot fight this."

I start to taste saltwater
As tears flood down my face.
I am holding on to all I have left.

I clench my wrists, shaking my head.
I had to keep repeating
No, no, no
I will not stop fighting.

Then, something spectacular
Something brilliant occurred within me.

Life is made up of choices.
In my house, I am accused of being selfish
And never taking accountability.
If only they knew
How I blame everything on myself.

I do not blame what I have been through
For the decisions I make and have made.
Those were mine,
And that voice will not let me forget that.

But another voice not enters the picture
An empowering, strong timbre
With an amiable, gentle tone.

It tells me that yes, those were choices
And many of them were mistakes.
But I am choosing to get better.
I have chosen
And will choose this.

That voice in my head
Isn't so responsive anymore.

I see you and my heart stops.
You are cold as ice
And you think you're that smooth.
You freeze me
And frostbite plagues my extremities.

My panic attack goes something like
Loneliness in a crowded room
Shivering when I'm burning up
Dizziness when I'm sober
Nausea on an empty stomach.

It's the feeling of wonder.
Looking off the edge and thinking
"What if?
Considering the plunge.

My paper skin feels as if it is tearing
And my glass bones are breaking.
My porcelain nails want to scratch
Rip me out of my body
So I don't feel this way.
So I don't feel at all.

How did I let this happen?
I shut myself down
And this is all I have left.

The smog in my lungs
The blade in my grasp
The bottle on the floor
The finger in my throat.

They keep me numb to your glare.
They are an effort to make sure
That I continue to lose feeling in my soul.

I tried to block you out.
I cup my hands over my ears,
Sing some immature tune
To keep your memory away.

It didn't work.

My mind still goes,
To the way you touched me then.
To the way your strong, stretched fingers
Traced my childish frame.
To what you made me do.

I still replay a movie in my head.
"It's just a game" you promised.
"All the big kids do it."
No. They don't.

You're so ****** up that you
Were able to convince me that
Something's wrong with me.
I didn't ****** a child.
I didn't lie to and coerce a seven year old
To give into my own deranged needs and desires.
You did that, remember?

Part of me almost feels
Sorry for you.
I know you have your problems
That you were born with
But that is not my fault
And that is certainly not
A seven year-old version of me's fault, either.

I told about what you did to me
When I was fourteen.
Some people say it must have been nearly impossible
To keep a secret like that for seven years.
It was honestly harder for me to break that secret.

Part of me was emboldened.
Part of me started to feel okay.
Until it all happened again.

My ex and I have been intimate
But it is always consensual.
When a friend took advantage of me
Right after some tragic events took place
I didn't know what to do.
I couldn't speak.
I couldn't think.

It happened so fast
But we didn't *****.
I found my voice to deny that,
Avidly.

That, however
Is a little less black and white.
The way you abused me, clearly
Was wrong, illegal, and disgusting in every sense of the word.
I understand that.
I do not understand what he did to me
And it has left me more confused than anything else.

I won't lie to you,
I am ****** about what you did to me
Still, to this day.
I would never confront you about it
I love your mother too much to hurt her that way.

I am ****** about what he did to me, too.
I still have the world's hardest time
Going to school, to work, anywhere
Out of fear that I will see him.

When I do see him,
I feel my breaths get short and raspy
And my heart beats too quickly for me to catch up
My body shakes,
And I get an overwhelming nauseous sensation.

However, I am trying to cope with this.
It will not keep me bound.
You never kept me bound.
I am breaking through every chain
That has strangled me like a noose.

I am accepting this
With every bone of my being
So I can move on with my life
So I can teach others
So I can become stronger
No thanks to you.

It started with a game.
She was innocent, but she wanted to be older.
Grow up too fast.
Be a "big kid".
After all, they have all the fun, don't they?
All her cousins were older, and she was always the one tagging along.

She hung out with an older cousin.
About seven years older than her.
Alone, in a room
A bedroom.
Just them two, and so he says
"Let's play a game."

This sounded intriguing to her seven year-old ears.
So she responds:
"Game?"

"Yes, truth or dare."
Is his reply.
They play.
Several questions in, he says:
"Crawl on top of me and kiss me."
He motions to his crotch.

The girl is horrified.
"No!  That's icky!"
She says.
He lies, tells her it is what all the big kids do.
Her seven year-old brain is confused.
"Really?"

"Yes, don't you want to be a big kid?  Oh come on."
She considers.  Considers.  Considers.
He taps into her emotions one more time.
"Fine, I'll get someone else to play then."

This child does not want to be seen as a coward.  A loser.  A little kid.
The rest is a blur.

The factors:
A bed
Asperger's Syndrome
A teen on his back
A terrified child climbing on top of him

The actions:
Hands, his on her torso
Kissing, her on his crotch
Touching, him.  Her.  Both players find fault.

The results:
Molestation.
Guilt.
Fear.
Promiscuity.
Shame.
Silence.

­Suddenly this game isn't fun anymore.
He doesn't do it again, never even threatens her.
They see each other plenty and act perfectly fine.
It accumulates in her for seven years, until she tells a guidance counselor.
Freshman year, fourteen, tender age.
She lets go of her secret, and by the end of sophomore year has become very confident.
Junior year she is flying, and that is where the story leaves off

My story, my (somewhat) happy ending.
I still struggle every day.
When society teaches girls not to be abused instead of boys not to abuse,
I cringe.
How was I supposed to know what was right and what was not at age seven?
I was not at fault.

What I would like to know is
When men are going to step up and take accountability
When men are going to say enough is enough
When men are going to stand up with their *****, molested and assaulted
Sisters, girlfriends, mothers, and friends

Guys, most likely a female you are in close accordance with has been abused
Whether you know it or not
According to some insane one in three statistic
I am asking you, begging you, pleading with you
Stand up and speak out

Educate each other
Create a new definition of "manliness"
Not just who can get laid the most
But who is the most respectful

Considering most ****** assaulters are men
Please stand up for me.
From every sexually abused woman, child and man on this planet

Broken words, broken hearts
Bones shatter like glass
Blood is spilled on paper
All it does is tell us who you are
Or what they have done to you.

The knife in your hand writes a story
All over your skin.
If we look closely, it answers questions
Questions link your past together.

What was your father like?
When did your friend die?
Did your uncle touch you?

Your answer to every question is
"I don't remember"
"It's not important."
"I don't know."

If we looked closely enough,
We would see the truth.
We would see that
Your yearning for control
Is seeping through your sweat soaked pores
Is secreted from the dry blood on your wrists
Is flooding from your tear stained eyes.

This is all you have
And you pray to God it's enough
To keep you alive.

I'm falling like the rain
Spinning and colliding with everything.
It's all so lovely,
But it's the pungent smell of lust
That takes my breath away.

You wore a magnificent disguise
You were so beautiful
That I thought you would break the curse
Of my bruised and ****** heart
With every vein intact.

When we kissed,
It was electric
But I never asked you to go farther.
I didn't want to do the things
That you wanted to do
But "no" and "not here"
Were some letters strung together
That you could not identify.

After your strong will honed in on me
Threatened me
Violated me and then threw me away
I did not know what to make of it.

Shades of grey, that's what it was.
It was not black and white as I expected
Any type of ****** manipulation to be.

I just assumed that
If that happened to me
I would know it
Press charges
And tell someone.
Anyone.

Victim blaming would not affect me.
After all, I am a feminist, right?
But much to my surprise,
It took a brutal toll on my existence.

So many dangerous, pernicious things
Can sparkle beautifully.
They catch your eye
As if to trick you
And make you second guess yourself.
That's how they **** you in.

You always think in hypotheticals
That it will look clear as day.
Until it happens to you.

When you stop to think about it,
Being suicidal is kind of pointless.
I mean,
The razor nine times out of ten won't **** you.
And if it doesn't,
You're left with these ugly scars on your body
Forever.

Pills?
You can have your stomach pumped clean of those.
Then you puke, and you puke, and you puke.
It's just making your already
What you call "horrible life"
More miserable.
For a while, if not
Forever.

Guns are awfully painful,
Don't you think?
And there are flaws with this too.
If your aim isn't the best
(And God knows when you're in that state of mind
It won't be)
You miss the target,
Leaving you permanently injured
And sick
Forever.

Hanging is ******* the neck,
But it's even harder on the brain.
It is only a matter of time before
Someone finds your body limp,
But not dead.
It may be difficult to restore oxygen flow
And you could be left brain dead
Forever.

Acids ****.
But they also attack your throat
Leaving it burning and stinging
With damage that could last
(You guessed it)
Forever.

Essentially, things happen.
People change.
Mistakes are made.
But nothing is worth altering
And destroying
Your life
Forever.

You are washed up
Out-dated
Old-fashioned
Never fashionable.

You treat me like an anomoly
Like my intelligence is withered.
Your goal in life is to make me feel small.

In response, I stand up.
Shout
Scream
Belt
Until you can no longer ignore me
Or put me in my place.

I love when you get that look on your face.
That look of utter
Disgust
Disconcertion
Defeat.
It just goes to show that
I know how to outsmart you.

This is why I need feminism.
Why I have embraced it.
Because everything that makes me "unlady-like"
Makes a man ideal in your eyes
And in society's.

To rid the world of
So-called human beings like you.
While in reality
You are nothing but a sexist.

Do you hear my screams?
Is anybody out there?
Anyone who will listen?
No.

I live in the ruins of
What used to be someone
Who was lifted up
Told that someone was proud of her
Usually by friends.
That changed.

Friends is a funny word.
All of mine seem to
Criticize me.
Tear me down.
Tell me everything I do is
Unforgivable.
Even if they were never there.

I send them my poetry
As if to evoke some kind of
Positive response.
But all I get in return is silence.

And the next day,
The biting comments return.
With high speed and full force.

I can't handle your negativity
All it does is injure me.

I do not know
Why you do what you do
You pray that I will stay broken
As if it will fix you.
Honey, if that's your philosophy
You have way more damage than I can help you to overcome.

A life spent in the comparative
Is a life spent searching
Desiring something more, something better
A thing that will meet society's approval
Everyone's approval.

If you only knew
How perfect, how flawless you seem to me
How I would never criticize you
The way I browbeat myself.
Yet you find every little thing to pick at
But you would say the same thing to me.

So why does it frustrate me?
When you complain about your hair being out of place
Your smile being crooked
Your thighs being too large
Or your nonexistent muffin top to the rest of us
But to you its omnipresent

Because I have all those things.
They are wrong with me
Not you.

Because you, by definition
Are skinnier, prettier and more likable than I am
I strive to be like you,
So maybe I could be happy.
And yet you want to change it.

Because I fear that you see me
The same way I see myself.

I will never measure up to you
But I wish you could meet your own requirements
For better than good enough.

I wish you could see yourself
Through the same lens that the world views you through.

I must avoid this
Body shaking
Palms sweating
Heart racing
Pain ensuing
All over.

My head
My stomach
My lower back
Everything burns.
Everything stings.

I want to scream.
I want to cut.
I want to die.

All because I lost a homework assignment.
Or I'm running late.
Or I had an argument with my parents.
Petty things, enormous reaction.

I have learned to quiet those tendencies
Because I can feel them coming on.
I feel the compulsions raging inside of me
Like someone has detonated a bomb.

Breathe.
Slow your mind by
Repeating a phrase
Over and over
Round and round
It turns.

I am okay
I am okay
I am okay.
I must continue to remember
That these things do not determine
My future, my life, my existence
Me.

These are the things that one must constantly think
While in the midst of a panic attack.

Even in the darkest caves,
The lowest depths
The driest seas
Something seems to sparkle.

Broken glass glistens in the light
It cuts me, so delicately
And you watch me bleed
Yours eyes light like fire
The intensity of your gaze is evident.

Some might call it sick
But we're all diseased with a common plague.
We find glory in watching others pay the price
For our mistakes and falters.

And still, others may call that cynicism.