I never really let myself look back at it,
you know, since I transformed into this person,
since my heart relearned its beat,
and my eyes regained their sight,
and my mouth relearned a speech that could stand up for
the brain that's had to muster every ounce of confusion,
every spec of pain,
every seed of anger,
and release it until the look in my tearless and fearless eyes
gained light again.
I never wanted to lose you.
I just had to if I wanted to come back from the dead,
from the grave I made in my hollow bed,
formed with baby green sheets and a pillow for my headstone.
That was your choice.
I just walked away from a world that would never care.

Sometimes... I just really hate when you're the inspiration behind
the fingertips clicking on the keyboard,
when you're the reason why I let myself bleed into a poem,
when you're the motive in a desperate attempt for me to have something for myself.
And then I remember... that's how I escape the way I'd wrap
around your conniving little finger until it turned to blade.
I always find it interesting to see how fleeting my existence can be.
It's like a game, isn't it?
The drunken texts, the awkwardly un-awkward hugs, the hellos and goodbyes
that turn into absolutely nothing.
It's funny how I'm the one who can be normal.
And honest.

The hardest thing I've ever had to do is accept that you aren't you,
that almost everything you do is a charade,
you parade about wanting pity and remorse,
you love the sadness as much as you hate it,
you hate the deception as much as you crave it,
and I simply cannot do that.

Maybe I haven't fully accepted it yet.

I wonder when I'll be invisible again.

Pin my arms to their furthest range,
so they’ll forever outstretch to everyone else.
Strum me unendingly. Listen to the hum.
I always do what’s asked.
I can’t wait for the day my insides tear
to the point of steady separation.
Then maybe they’ll stop pulling at me,
and I can tug at my own heart strings.

Are my eyes closed,
or is the atmosphere black?
After the hundredth collapse,
I’m back on my feet,
no crutch to lean to
or hand to hold.
The sensation of each heel strike,
each toe press the floor,
could delay to a hole,
for all I know.
Unsure and unsafe,
Undone and unreal,
I don’t see the strength
they see in me.
So, sometimes I wonder,
Should I stop moving forward?
Is this aimless?
Direction? -
I have none of that.
Still I keep going
in hope that eventually
my fingers will find
the light switch.

The light knocking
on my window
from the rain's tiny fist
may be the single,
most relaxing,
contemplative sound
in Mother Earth's
long and sobering life.

My eyes are the series of letters you skim,
My hands are miniature font that stares miss.
My skin is a struggle for external boldness.
My mind is a simple afterthought.
My muscles recount lifetimes of information,
each tendon a lesson that presses me forward.
My organs hold treasures of memory jewels,
my vessels an account of their worth.
My legs are the diction of unknown adventures.
My smile is their punctuation and grammar.
My heart is a fact of lesser importance,
my ink its wounded citation.

I’m always here if you should need,
but the few who do so quickly forget.
Someday, my lines will be embraced in the full
and delicately handled with interest.
Read between, above, beneath,
Analyze every washed-out curve.
Study my circles, my twists, my ridges,
and make me into a book.