Can anyone tell me why I let myself live in this?
Am I stuck in a room with no windows or doors?
I used to bang on the walls with bruises on fists
over tattooed wrists and faded scars
that led to a hole in my chest
that I filled with love for myself.
“Love for myself”:
You probably think that sounds conceited,
right?
But in all truth, it is the bitter opposite.
I didn’t need any of you to save me.
I figured it out on my own,
like I always do.
The fight in my gut emerged beyond skin,
but I was never good enough here.
I will never be good enough here.
I spend my weeks on a seesaw
between the highest praise and the lowest blows.
Every word that takes off from my lips
must turn and tumble in flight before reaching your ears.
You hear me. You don’t listen.
You twist me. You don’t illuminate.

No, I am not like a daughter to you,
and if you were my mother,
I would have disowned you long ago.
In fact, you really don’t know **** about me,
because I don’t want you to.
Too many people try to tell me how to live,
as though I haven’t come to learn what is best for myself.
I think,
as someone who used to fantasize about her own death
but has overcome that obstacle
and must continue to work to keep that fight alive in herself
every
****
minute
of her existence,
I have the right to write you off as an imbecile to my life.
You don’t own me.
You don’t know me.
You don’t even see me.

I ripped away the heart sewn tightly to my sleeve a while ago
and placed it in a treasure chest
kept in a safe haven to which few hold the key.
I hold the key.
But I don’t go there often.
You see, I never really get the chance.
I just want the chance,
just a little bit of time
to hear the quiet hum of a life reformed,
to stop and feel the breath in my chest,
to feel each lung fill to the brim,
and picture it nourishing every inch of my body
as I press the “release” button.
Can I press the “release” button?
Can I close my eyes and be…
just be, not do.
Can I whisper my desires to the wind that moves around me?
Can we tell secrets of our confusion,
our struggles,
our victories?
Can I reside to the treasure chest,
simply to fill back up?
“E” is for empty.

I was designed differently than you.
I wasn’t made for this.

trust** (verb):
the action of placing faith, belief, and confidence in another;
something I don’t do anymore

truth (noun):
a statement that corresponds with what is factual or certain;
something no one tells anymore

love (noun):
very strong feelings of affection toward another;
a lie that I don’t believe in anymore –
how they get you to give them everything,
you and your life and your heart,
and you’re completely okay with doing that because you think they are doing the same;
a game; an illusion I don’t look for anymore

love (verb):
to make a commitment to someone;
to give your heart completely and unconditionally;
something I avoid admitting, because if I do,
I can no longer protect my heart from the crushing boulder
that’s taken refuge in my chest for the last year

to be myself:
to simply void myself of emotion;
to distract myself with work when I can’t numb myself anymore

I’ve never quite lived up to the expectations
that bombard every millennial these days,
the ones knocking and gnawing at my skin
until they find their way in
and search through each crevice in my brain
until they find the right residence to lay their bed
and plant the insecurities that end up
destroying my self-confidence
and gifting me with the inability to succeed
until I have to scrape every piece of residue from the inside-out
just to get myself to a place where I can breathe again.

Yeah, I don’t let those in anymore.

I’ve always been a little bit of a question mark,
a strange child who danced to my own beat,
even when I tried to walk in time with those surrounding,
and there is a small piece of me that -
when a new life event of someone my age
visits my newsfeed -
wants the same, tired story for my own life...
and then I remember
I wasn’t made for this.

Sometimes
I’m not sure what I was made for anymore,
and I just keep waiting and waiting
until it’s my time to be on my own,
or catch my heart on fire,
or simply take a step forward,
and, yet, it
never
happens.

There are things I know about myself
that I will never explain,
and I shouldn’t have to.
I have a key-shaped hole in my soul
that aches to find its perfect fit,
but I’m not allowed to twist it yet,
though my fist has been ready for years,
and all I can do in the meantime
when someone asks me
why
is answer with one simple phrase
that stings each time it passes through my lips:

*It’s not my time yet.

Take my flashlight -
You need it more than I -
And maybe your path will be brightened.
This darkness could swallow you whole,
But may its bullets puncture me before you.

I'll not leave your side, my dear.
This I promise you.

Here I stand, an outsider to my own body,
Seeing myself,
Hearing my words,
Watching as my lips form each disgraceful, hurtful sound,
Every fearful curse
As I pace the room.
I look on but don't understand.
I just stand here and watch her - myself.
I do nothing,
Because there is nothing I can do.
I don't know that girl.
I've never seen her before.
No one I’ve ever been would speak those words.
No one I’ve ever been would throw herself at him.
No one I’ve ever been would be that desperately pathetic.
Every desire in me screams,
“Shake her!
Snap her out of it!
Smack her!
ANYTHING!”
Who is she to be that selfish?
Who is she to stoop that low?
To only see herself?
To care more for herself than anyone else?
To speak to someone for whom she cares with such false hatred?
Never in any moment has she felt its authenticity.
Just muffled attempts at ignoring her confusion.

Note to self:
Who are you?
What have you become?

I watch but do nothing.
And I follow her home to watch her more,
Searching for a clue behind every nervous twitch.
A palm full of twenty painkillers trembles in one hand,
A bottle of water in the other,
Tears ceased,
Just calm.
There she sits for what seems like hours
But only proves minutes.
And something inside of her makes her stop.
Me?
Somehow, two days later, we meet again.
My vision has changed.
I feel her again,
A version of her I respect.
One moment watching,
And the next moment being.
So I find the pills.
Without hesitation,
I dump the remains,
Listening to the plop, plop as each drops.
I press the ****,
And they are flushed forever,
Along with the girl I never recognized.

Never will I see either again,
And a quiet grin turns the ends of my lips.

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.

Empty.
Numb.
Careless.
Unfeeling.
The lifeless shell of a human you’ve become.
This is vacant soul I see.

I don’t know this boy,
Nor do I want to.
He died the night your arms formed my shield,
And dark eyes brightened to newfound life,
Leaving me speechless.

But our demise saw to it that the birth of death arise again,
Suffocating any life left in you,
Parting with happy, alive, and energetic,
Welcoming the cold.
And we meet the empty shell once more.

A nearly full bottle of painkillers rests on my desk,
Calling,
Shouting,
Crying out my name
For just a moment,
A notion bringing my fearful heart to its knees.
Speechless.

Instead I choose to chase who I once was,
While somehow attempting to better myself
Into someone who can be ok.
But what is ok, exactly?
When and how do we get to good enough?
And is “good enough” actually ever enough?
Too many thoughts.
Too many constant battles inside.
But still speechless.

You called me your “guardian angel,”
Said without me, you’d have no life.
You told me the ghost of who you were
Began to live when I stepped in.
Your will to exist, your empty shell,
Your desire to awaken at the break of every day,
Everything changed when I stepped in.
Everything changed when I stepped in.
You came alive when I stepped in.
You breathed new life when I stepped in.

You said, “Forever.”
You said, “My future.”
You said, “Always.”
You said, “Je t’aime.”
You said, “I want you.”
You said, “I need you.”
You said, “I love you.”
You said, “That love will never go away.”
You said, “I’ve waited my whole life for this.”
You said, “I want every second with you.”
You said it all, but I wish you hadn’t ‘cause maybe,
Maybe I wouldn’t be here,
Trapped in all the vanished promises of our evanescent life.
So many thoughts,
So many desires,
So much life lost deep down inside,
Yet still so speechless.

You stepped out when fear stepped in.
You stepped out when confusion stepped in.
You stepped out because of your stupid, unconditional, pure, overwhelming love for me.
And I stepped out because it made my heart swell with even more love for you.

I don’t know this boy,
Nor do I want to.
But I wish with everything I’m made of that I could help him in some way,
That I could be here in some way,
That I could find one thing to say
To bring him back to life some way.
But here I am,
Speechless.

Little does this boy know I’m here
If he truly ever needs me.
I am always here.
But here he also is,
A stranger,
Completely ok with feeling numb,
Just barely pressing on,
Lifeless.

And it was with those words, this realization, that I discovered
I meant nothing to you.
You mean everything to me.
And I meant nothing.

How can I believe this?
I don't.
But how can you act like it?

Empty.
Numb.
Careless.
Unfeeling.
The lifeless shell of a human you’ve become.
This is vacant soul I see.
But there is nothing I can do anymore,
Except lie here,
Pray here,
Stay here –

Speechless.

Do me a favor.
Go find a mirror.

Look at yourself.
But more importantly,
See yourself.
Find the marks that line your face.
Wrinkles from smiles,
And stress,
And pain,
And laughter.
Find the scars that mark your skin,
And remember how you handled the ones on your heart.
Find the bruises that blacken your body,
And remember how you blackened yourself.
Are you someone you respect?
Are you someone you love?
This is your life,
And you only get one.
Are you who you want to be?
And if you aren’t,
Are you going to do something about it?

Break the mirror
The way you can break your habits.
Forget the seven years of bad luck.
Those who follow the rules go nowhere.
Those who take risks don’t look back on “what if.”

This is your life.
What will you do with it?
This is your life.
Will you tell the truth?
This is your life,
And you only get one.
This is your life.
You only get one.

This staircase -
These cold walls and concrete floors
Are the only things that understand.
My pen forms the words I cannot speak.
This staircase is all that will listen.
It cannot hurt me,
Because it cannot choose to not care.

But soon I will not be a burden to it or anyone else.
The twenty left will be used on me,
And I cannot wait for that day.

Was it worth it when you shed a tear and pushed me from my own
Straight into the unknown abyss of the who-am-I’s
And where-do-I-go-from-here’s?

Was it worth it to give your heart but so swiftly tear it away
At the unexpected moment when “I love you”
Was “I still do” but “what you had to do”?

Was it worth it when you made it all one-sided and alone,
That you weren’t ready and didn’t want it
When you began it all?

Was it worth it when you changed the past to make me someone different,
A crazy, clingy girl revolved around
The perfectly realistic guy?

Was it worth it when you lied to me and everyone around,
When you spied on personal accounts
And manipulated them so?

Was it worth it when you lied about her, making me a cheater
When I didn’t even know,
Caught up in my tears and tequila?

Was it worth it when you tried to tell me that it never happened,
And I never told my secrets,
A delirious, drunken girl?

Was it worth it when you manipulated my messages but claimed of no such thing,
That you don’t care at all, never will,
And haven’t all along?

Was it worth it when you called me a mistake, a ****, and failure
When I once was a “guardian angel,”
Loved, your “home,” and family?

Would it be worth it if I left forever and murdered every possibilty of returning?
Would you once again let a cold, salty line be drawn straight down your face?
Would you regret any of it?

Was it worth it when I believed in it? And that I had it for you?
You bet your *** it was.
I miss you, you lying ****.
But you deserve every ounce of happiness and success this world can offer.
And if you’re getting there, I could ask for nothing more.
And through my cold demeanor, I'd be nothing but ecstatic for you.

I ran there today
in one of those moments of euphoric need.
I wanted to see the view they told me was so appealing.
I ran there today,
and even though I was accompanied by several strangers,
they were invisible to my eye,
so the lake’s peaceful atmosphere wouldn’t escape me
as sweet classical music whispered melodies in my ear,
a solitary canoe sent soft ripples from its path,
and eyes locked on a view framed by the most beautiful mess of weeds
on top of the hill where I stood.

“This was so much prettier last year.
They need to mow this whole hillside.”

I guess those melodies weren’t whispering loud enough
if I could hear an invisible stranger’s voice.

I loved those weeds.

You know when you see a cluster of friends together
and just by looking at them,
you know that they each have a sense of belonging in that group?
I don’t remember what that feels like.
There are pieces of me that fit into separate puzzles,
but I have not found the one that rounds with each curve
and shifts with each edge so perfectly that I am secure.
So when I look at these weeds,
I understand them,
and even though they are spiritless beings,
I can relate to them in a way I have never related
to someone of my own kind.

I am not a gentle flower
that must be nurtured to growth and bloom.
I am the white dandelion you picked from a patch of grass as a child
so you could almost effortlessly blow every seed into the wind,
scattering me in so many directions that my personas
fall far from my roots,
no two of them planting close together.
In college
I felt too goody two shoes for the theatre department,
too eccentric for the fitness nerds,
too simple for the city-lovers,
and too urbane for the country.
So,
though you may think these weeds are chaotic
and ugly
and unwanted,
these weeds are life,
and they echo our time here
far better than the flowers or grass you desire.
We are not clean;
We are wild,
confused,
and aching for the love of our onlookers,
when oftentimes we are ignored.

Sometimes
I whisper the words
“I love you”
into absent air
just to remember what it sounds like
coming from my lips.
The silence I hear in reply is a reminder
that my words ricochet off of the walls
and back to me,
bouncing off of my ear’s bass drum
a beat that lets me know I am okay,
but this beat is one that most can’t follow.
You see,
within me are two opposing existences,
both equally me,
but different nonetheless.
I am not emotional,
but I feel all of life’s idiosyncrasies deep within me:
the light that peeks through my blinds as I wake in the morning,
the solitary solidarity of a morning run when the town is still asleep,
the sound of nature’s white noise,
the crunch of autumn leaves and twigs beneath my feet…
I feel these things,
and my heart swells with a sense of liberation with each experience,
though I have not yet been liberated.

We may not be pretty to you.
We may not be cultivated.
You may think we are competing with your ideal aesthetic,
but we are just trying to make it through this tangled life
alive and well,
while the rest of the world attempts to rid itself of us.
Little do you know that we are your backbone.
We are your strength.
We are independence.
We are beautiful.

Don’t mow us away.

Your repeated stabs
Bled bullets of blood,
But the beating won’t bring me
To my battered ending.

Never have I felt so broken,
So worthless,
Than when you gave up
All those years ago.
But I moved on.
And if I could erase it,
All that would stop me is that fact that it led to him.

Despite the ending,
I would walk through the fires of hell
On pins and needles
For that boy,
For he was my best made decision.

Breathing life into me,
He taught me I am treasured,
He gave me the courage to stand up for my life,
Defeating your still relentless attempts at tearing it away.
And I can now breathe on my own.

I used to think I knew what love was,
But I never truly loved until he swept me off of my feet,
And I have yet to let him put me down,
Though he’s let me go.

I finally thought our friendship
Reached a strength that I didn’t know it could,
But you never cease to disappoint,
And I’ve gotten so used to this
That you’ve finally succeeded
At getting me to care less.

Congratulations on being the one figure in my life
To continuously bring me to tears,
And make me feel no better than
The smeared shell of the creature
That you’ve walked all over.

I finally found my fight.
I’m done being disposable.
You’ve thrown me away for the last time.

My plastic smile and rigid joints
Exist for your manipulation.
My trembling skin and the flesh beneath
Are simply here for your pleasure.
My painted eyes and callused hands
Live to seek your amusement.
My unsteady mind and elastic heart
Die to be under your power.
But don’t forget to return me to
My quiet, reticent place,
Return me to the toy box
Before I’m pawned to the inconspicuous.

I love the scent of September,
The aroma of browning leaves in the air,
The soft crunch of them beneath my feet,
The sweet sun warming my skin to the perfect degree,
Combined with cool air surrounding.
I love the sight of the sunrise
As I trot the road at the break of the day,
Its rays dancing across the rainbow sky,
Its light dancing along unending hillsides
To the budding music of morning creatures.
And in this moment,
A moment filled with the serene unity of nature,
All I want is to venture into the middle of nowhere,
Scream at the top of my lungs,
And soak in the peace around me.

‘Tis the season for change.

Here I stand, in shock and pain,
Shaking, shivering in the sudden rain.
Here I stand, my stomach in knots,
My heart in my throat, distressed, distraught.
Here I stand, tears stinging my eyes,
Asking when will there be none left to cry.
But here I stand, holding on,
Searching for some kind of will to stay strong.
My one and only, my very best part,
The keeper of the key that opens my heart,
My love, my life, my very best friend,
How can you tell me its time for the end?
Like a wild beast in the dead of night,
Like a crash landing of an eagle in flight,
Like a deadly disease losing its cure,
My dreams turn to nightmares, and I to a blur.
Choose me, amuse me, abuse me, use me.
Still somehow, I'm shouting that you can't lose me.

Festering wounds and swollen, blue bruises.
Hardened, glass tears that bleed and abhor.
Positive scribbles that unlock the day.
Translucent capes that forgot how to glide.
But a head held high, the blink of an eye.
These are the jewels in search for the treasure.

Have you ever woken up from a dream
where you didn’t realize you were asleep?
Where one minute,
you think you are rolling around in bed,
frustrated that you’ve woken up at 4am,
wishing you could magically get the screams in your head
to diminish to a whisper,
but an alarm grasps at your eyelids
until you realize that you’ve awoken
and were asleep all along?

Is that what this life is right now?
Am I going to wake up one day,
and suddenly the insecurities,
the unimportance,
the nothingness,
and the apathy
will be gone?
Will I wake up and stop being an afterthought?
Your I’m-here-for-you’s,
I’ll-help-keep-you-busy’s,
and I’ve-been-praying-for-you’s
don’t mean anything to me anymore.

I finally have everything I have been awaiting
for years,
but it's not enough anymore,
and yet,
here I am – again–
realizing the only friend I can trust
is myself.

I finished high school a decade ago;
I thought I was too old for this now.

Erasing me
and replacing me
are two entirely
different ideas.

One
has been proven very easy.

The other
cannot be done.

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.

I used to wait for the days when I’d get a free moment from you.
I used to hate the majority of things you did.
I used to feel like a ******* because of things you’d say.
And I used to hate your cavalier attitude.
But in the last month or so,
You’ve become one of – if not the only – person I trust.
And I’m just waiting for the day when it all goes back to how it used to be.
I’m happy for you. I truly am – from the bottom of my heart.
And I’m trying my best to give you space.
But I’ve become a terrible *****,
Because I’m unbelievably jealous.
When I see how happy you are,
I’m ashamed to admit more often than not do the words
“What the hell did you do to deserve that?”
Run through my mind.
Because from what I recall,
One of the lowest years of my life has been because of you.
And despite everything that’s happened recently,
You will always be the person who stole my innocence without my desire to.
And you will always be the one who cheated on me.
And you will always be the one who made me feel more used
Than anyone should ever know.
I was your toy practically every day of my life
While you still used others.
And then,
When someone finally came along and saved me from you,
You tried to take it away from me.
Not to mention the fact that you have tried to cheat on multiple girlfriends with me.
And I get it… you’ve come a long way since then.
That’s why I forgave you.
But why the hell do you get to have what you have?
When all I’ve done is choose to love unconditionally,
Forgive over
And over
And over again,
Accept the people I love for all of their messed up flaws,
And be willing to do anything to make their dreams come true.
What did I ever do to any of you to deserve all that you’ve put me through?
You and all of the others have done nothing but lie, cheat, and womanize.
Yet, I’m the one who spends every night
Struggling with a decision that would make the pain go away.
I guess no one ever said life would be fair.
But they did say it would be worth living.
This, however, is certainly not worth it.

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.

And through my own laughter,
I hear someone whisper,
"You're already an outsider to everyone else."

Congitive dissonance.

It’s when traces of you show in me
That I’m disgusted with the person within.
Conquering heredity is the most difficult task
I’ve ever assigned to myself.

Bleed out of my tears
And let a new fortune tingle my fingertips.

They say
honesty is the best policy.

I say
honesty is an art
that is nearly extinct to our culture.

Ignorance isn't bliss,

*******.

Sometimes I whisper the words, “Are you okay?” into the empty air I breathe just to hear what it would be like to feel someone care, but who am I to change the convention of the polite and smiling reply of, “I’m good. How are you?” Would anyone really know how to react if I actually said that it depends on the day you ask me?

The truth is,
today
I’m not okay.

I don’t know what I will get each time the… (I would say the sunlight opens my eyelids, but let’s be real here; I don’t really sleep anymore.)… I know why this happened to me the first time, but now? Maybe it’s because I learned how to feel again. I guess depression doesn’t really need a reason, though, does it? At the very least there is a big difference between now and seven years ago.

This time, I know my worth. This time, I’m fighting back, instead of drowning in it. This time, I am strong. And this time… I don’t want to die.

This time, I am actually reaching out for a hand to silently hold mine just to comfort me for even a minute. The only problem is everyone else has a life too. People love to say, “I’m here for you,” and, "I’m praying for you,” but they are too busy to actually to that.

Every day I get up just before the crack of dawn to lace my running shoes and pump my legs long enough to replace the stale state of my lungs to something fresh and clean. It’s the one thing I feel I have control over in my life.  It’s my chance to get out and feel like I’m a part of the world before the rest of the world wakes up and reminds me that I’m just a tiny piece of it.

For most of my life, I’ve felt like I am the missing piece to a puzzle that I can’t find. I’ve always felt different in a way I don’t know how to put into words. It’s just a sense of myself I don’t feel I need to explain. Not long ago, that feeling started to go away, but I think God may have misplaced me when he tried to fit my pieces together.

There’s a silver castle on my way to freedom, but I can never quite reach it, and there’s a silence that swallows me whole each time I steal a glance in its direction. Today, I am not okay. Tonight, I just pray that the next time my feet step out of bed and onto the soft carpet of the home I finally found for myself, I will feel a little bit better.

I suppose that’s all I can ask for at this point.

As I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
I know I’ll die before I wake,
So, hopefully, my soul he’ll take.
This want in me has never died,
And life drowns in unending lies.
If I don’t, I’ll surely ****
Those who surround and all my will.
No longer can I be a toy,
No longer know this lack of joy.
And maybe this will cure what ails.
An empty bottle, it never fails.
I'm sorry for the mess I'll leave,
The pain I'll cause if you may grieve.
I hope you learn from all that's done,
And this can stop here when I'm gone.
So, yes, I lay me down to sleep,
And forever sleeping shall I be.

Absolutely,
Positively,
Empty,
Meaningless,
Drunken
(or sober),
Futile,
Instinctive,
Faux-passionate
***
Will never satisfy
Past the animal moment
(if it satisfies at all).

I hope that you
See my reflection,
Sense my breath on your neck,
Taste the flavor of my skin,
And feel the sting of the tears the angels cry
Every time that you lock lips with another
Faceless
*****.

Last night
on a long drive home
at another sluggish traffic light,
screaming, “RED, RED, RED,”
my eyes lifted a few inches
to the negative space above it.
Odd how we call that negative space, isn’t it?
I wouldn’t bond sparkling glimmers of light against a midnight-colored canvas
with a word like “negative.”
Hopeful, inspiring, uplifting?
Yes.
Negative?
No.
Negative is the degree that’s been taking my breath away
the moment my skin greets the outdoor atmosphere these days.
But against this darkness that is night
I was blessed with the spectacle
of a meteor’s birth and death.
I’ve seen them before,
but never has one been so relatively slow,
encapsulating its residence in a close, fiery hue,
gliding along its path with a firework’s essence
so much that I could almost hear the crackling.
What lasted for a second
lasted for hours.
Funny how something that insignificant can stun you
so that you don’t notice the traffic light’s change in demeanor
to a quiet, green whisper.
How’d that old song go?
“Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket,
Never let it fade away.”
But what’s the point of saving your glow
for the perfect moment
if it stays so secretly hidden?
Aren’t we all just one of these stars,
a life that seems so long,
but too brief,
against the canvas of our entire universe?
Why should I save my light for a rainy day
when I can let the rainy day reignite me?
Depriving my light of oxygen would only make it dwindle,
and I’m not ready to fade into the darkness.
The struggles pour my fuel.
The hardships strike my match.
The triumphs fan my flame.

The pedal gives into the force of my foot
as my right eyebrow arches,
and the corners of my lips turn slightly upward.
I can’t help but feel something kindle in my chest.

Watch me fly.
Watch me fall.
Watch me breathe.
Watch me burn.

…And eventually,
watch me fade in freedom.

A bleeding flesh wound –
I am the fingernail digging in sharply,
Deepening the cave of plasma and color.
I am the itching when healing attempts
To envelop the skin in beige-clustered hues.
I am the crusty, brown layer on top,
Unsightly for certain and unwanted at best.

Did no one teach you? No matter your stance,
Ignoring a scab to its slow, subtle parting
Will still leave a scar behind. –
I gracefully linger, for these scars don’t fade.

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.

The past is young, arrogant, and naive.
Anger cures what the gullible believe.
Truth betrays, but lies deceive.
Isolation framed by the mask I weave.

I find it sad...

...that a girl with so much going for her -
incredible friends,
caring family,
talent,
beauty,
health,
intelligence,
a home,
a bright future,
faith,
belief,
strength -
A girl whose life is filled with love,
Can feel so lost.

I find it sad...

...that a girl, whose life is meaningful to others
And shows signs of God's love,
Can feel so hollow.

And I find it sad...

...that all it takes is one glance in his direction,
And her heart melts right back down to square one.

And it's time to get up and start over again.

There is a cold stillness every time I close the door behind them,
Reminding me I can't hide behind my smile in the comfort of my friends anymore,
Reminding me that Happy is again slipping from my grasp,
Reminding me that Lonely is about to take its place beside me,
Reminding me that I miss you,
Reminding me you don't.
At least you don't show it.
Whether or not I believe this,
I cannot say.

They say a torn muscle is forever weaker in its function, even upon healing, and can easily be re-torn in the same area. They also say bones never break in the same place twice. Their breaking point repairs itself to even more immense strength.

The heart is a complicated ***** with hollow chambers that pump us full of life. It is made of muscle…

But mine isn’t.

My heart is fist-shaped, covered in scars and dry blood, and every attack has left a new finger broken, each inhibiting my ability to perform at my best, but when the soreness bids farewell, so does my weakness. People like to tell me that I am strong. I am strong because my heart is always clenched and ready for the next fight. Even those who manage to open the hand will eventually be crushed by my grip. I don’t have any issues with this. As far as I’m concerned, no one will get a chance to start breaking knuckles for quite some time. Maybe by the time I’m risk-ready, I’ll relax just enough for someone to fit their fingers through my heart-spaces.

Until then, I’ll keep chipping away at the pieces of blood.

Even though I don't love you,
Even though I have no desire to be with you,
Even though I there is no jealousy,
You know exactly how to manipulate
And pierce directly underneath my skin.
Like the needle-***** of a lioness
That makes her lose her sense of composure,
You turn me into a beast.

You're simply the one who's always there.
You delicately place me on a pedestal,
Then rip it from beneath my feet,
So all I can do is fall to the floor
And believe in the worthlessness you make me to be.

I seem to forget that you're "always right,"
Just like you were right every time you lied
To get the one thing that you wanted from me,
Just like you were right when you knocked me down
And smeared my face with dirt and debris,
Just like you were right every time you've done
The same exact thing to others.
Yes, my bad, you're always right.

Don't flatter yourself so much.

This place is my release,
A white screen in front of my eyes
waiting to be filled with a story
that emerges from the tiniest thought,
the most fleeting sight,
the most faltering emotion.
Whatever shoves me around,
whatever makes me fly,
this place keeps me grounded
to where I am the safest.
And sometimes,
when I don’t know what brings me here,
I just listen to the clicking of the keyboard
held prey beneath my fingertips,
hoping to see the answer reveal itself.
That didn’t happen this time.
My heart hangs heavy in my chest,
held there by cages of bone and blood,
swinging from an avid artery
back and forth,
back and forth,
like the ticking of a clock
tracking the time till I explode.
Have I detonated yet?
Maybe, when the clicking stops,
it means I’m whole again,
without needing to learn of what ails me.
I have nothing to say here.
I have yearnings of freedom
crying through my nerves here.
May they release with these words here,
calm with these words here,
rest with these words here,
so I can go on with the earth here.
Can it stop me from unease?
Will my eyes lift again
to the beat of a heart left floating?
I still hear it,
the clicking of the keyboard
held prey beneath my fingertips,
held pray beneath my fingertips.
Can it lead me out of this one?
This place is my release.

Take my hand,
and I’ll take theirs.
Let me drink the strength I need
to soak their tears away.
Into my veins may every drop go,
straight to the pulsing muscle
that keeps my skin from greying,
pumping out to every crevice of my body,
piercing every cell.
Bruise my flesh,
and puncture my pride,
as long as I can breathe
vitality into them,
just to keep their eyes alive
and open to a vastly better world.
Take away what I have known,
for they don’t need to endure
the shallow, harsh, sliest of demons
bewitching the brightness ahead.
Stab me.
Fool me.
Use me.
**** me.

Just never let them see it.

Funny
How the lies never end.

Funny
How I'm supposed to walk away,
But I refuse to.

Funny
How I'll always be here for you.

Funny
How I ******* up out of care.

Funny
How I'm always the girl who's fallen for,
Promised forever,
And dumped for a life of empty encounters.

Funny
How, at this rate,
Your future will be that of your hero's.

Funny
How your hero is hollow and unhappy.

Funny
How I'm crucified every time I love.

Funny
How I'm you a year ago.

Funny
How you're him a year ago.
The "him" that you hated for what he did,
What you do.

Funny
How I don't believe this is you.

Funny
How I'm supposedly a ******.

Funny
How you forget the way you were with me.

Funny
How how no one stops you
Because they live it right beside you,
While the rest slowly stop caring.

Funny
How I don't stop.

Funny
How numbing emotions is a better option than living.

Funny
How my heart will always ache
For knowing that you are better.

Funny
How I'm not laughing.

Funny
How it never ends.

Selective hearing
and meaningless phrases,
Controlling degrees
of each minute detail,
Praise with obsession,
shamelessly stab –
Just give this some ease,
and throw me away.

Swollen eye sockets,
all work and no sleep,
Ten seconds of rest
before dawn comes again,
Egotistical nature
slashing inspiration -
See ya, I quit,
I only do wrong.

Tonight, I knew I was a hypocrite.
As I stood there with my callous stare,
Mind in a world that will never exist,
The urge to turn to every worshiper around me -
Warning them that they’ll lose it all,
That happiness doesn’t exist,
That love doesn’t exist,
That peace doesn’t exist -
Overflowed inside of me.
But what did I do?
I lay idly quiet, as always.
That’s what’s expected of me, right?
Because how dare I attempt to look for the truth!
How dare I expect honesty from any of you fools!
And how dare I tell you I care.

Where are you now, God?
Where the hell are you now?
Can you hear me, or do I need to scream at the sky some more?

Hypocrite.
That’s all I am.
These ink markings are a beautiful lie,
A beautiful attempt at a reminder of who I can be.
But I can’t be.
I won’t be.
Not in a place as cavalier as here.
This world is a ruthless place.
It’s **** or be killed,
And I’ve murdered what was left inside.

Silently.
Swiftly.

Somehow,
this place brings about a complacency
that isn’t familiar to my brain,
a delicate calmness,
beaming ever-so-softly
that the slightest abstraction
from this consistently inconsistent dwelling
will shift my mind to a place undesired.
I need this silence.
And by silence,
I mean the swishing of a small waterfall a few feet away,
the peck of a duck as its feathers are cleaned,
the splash of these creatures under the sunset,
the quiet buzz of the street nearby,
the flutter of a bird in the distance,
and the hum of an overhead airplane.
A breeze lightly runs its fingers through my hair,
and the rustling of the leaves in the trees
whispers,
“You are at peace here.”

Open my eyes a little bit wider
And turn my head another way.
There is a light in the distance, I know.
Someday, somehow I’ll see it glow,
Igniting the flicker of a flame left in me
Into a blazing fire, a burning passion.
It’s easy to hate but takes courage to love,
And darkness has no answers.
I was born to help others but always forget
To help my own self when I want what I want.
There is a light in the distance, I know,
And I will stand high, and I will stand strong
With Your grace, love, and guidance pushing me through
Like a stone in this hurricane
And my head held high.
I will learn to end this hypocrisy.
I will learn to fight this through.
I will learn to love myself again
And stop running from my heart.
For it is only after the rain that we can find a rainbow,
It is only after a storm that we see the flowers bloom.
And I will reach out my hand into the dark
To whatever force will guide me,
And on the day the sun chooses to rise
I will stop to smell the flowers.
There is a light in the distance I know.
Watch me wake up and come to life,
And join me in living in love.

This bed feels hard beneath my back,
while my head aches with swarms of beasts
trying to break through the door,
faceless demons who want to reunite with my bones.

They won’t.

This exterior has strengthened,
shielding the dark magic the devil tries to drill.
And my sword wards off the stragglers,
drowning the witches in water and smoke.

But sometimes I just want distraction –
from my head,
from my heart,
from its steady beat,
reminding me of who I am. –
Because, sometimes, I just want to drown out with the rest,
to fade into the crowd,
and feel ever-so-swiftly faceless.

See, sometimes I want a warm body to hold me,
for once in my life to live out pure lust –
animalistic and loveless. –
In a world where it’s use or be used,
For once I want to be the predator.

Rough arms to wrap around my bare back,
my legs to wrap around a smooth waist,
my body pressed against a cold wall
as a steady hand grazes my thigh,
a tongue that ventures around my earlobe,
and lips that travel down my *******,
but no eyes to look into, for this means nothing,
so eventually we can…

But I stop because it won’t ever be.
As much as I want to feel nothing at all,
even for just a few moments,
there’s nothing that will make me forget.

I’m too strong for this now,
too happy for this now,
that when I’d like to cry, I can’t –
lucky if a single tear cools my cheek,
but never enough to feel better.

Every time the wish arrives
my own voice makes the thought subside
with a single, chilling whisper:
I’m better than this.

So all I can do
is hope that someday I’ll eventually be rewarded
for the falters that led to my freedom,
a freedom that has chained me down…

for simply
being
me.

And for so long
I’ve been blissfully numb –
So content and happy in finding myself,
Caught up in my work,
And rekindling friends –
That when you spoke and looked into my eyes,
For the first time in months…
I felt again.

You’re boiling blood seeps through my veins,
Half of your genes make up my being,
And sometimes your dense reflection appears
When my attitude looks into the mirror. –
I loathe this.
And don’t you dare scream at my mother.
You aren’t a tenth of the person she is.
I’m sick of the tears that leak from my eyes
When I blame myself for how you treat us. –
I loathe this.
Alone in my room after the blunt door slam,
I stare all around through my tired tears
And wonder what the hell keeps me here,
And where do I belong? –
I loathe this.

Lonely in a crowded room
I sit and see the world I grew up in.
Friends and family all around,
So happy, so fulfilled, and here I am empty. –
I loathe this.
They each have their lives fully figured,
They each have their world in their cozy hometown,
They each have a sunny smile spread out,
Each oblivious to any other kind of life. –
I loathe this.
Dozens of children are running about.
I live in slow motion but see in fast forward.
And the scene that plays before my eyes
Lets me know I don’t belong here. –
I loathe this.

Drink in my hand but not in my blood,
The party storms on into the night.
Keep on refilling your empty hearts,
Keep on smoking your washed up souls. –
I loathe this.
This is what you all call living?
This is what you all call fun?
The drugs, the ***, the games, the alcohol?
This is what fulfills you? –
I loathe this.
I’m not one who’s against a good time,
Evident in my affection for a drink,
But all I see when I scan the room
Is a bunch of worthless, vacant people
On an endless road to nowhere fast. –
I loathe this.

None of this matters, but no one cares.
Am I the only one who sees this nonsense?
Or am I just too boring by being me?
All I know is one simple thing:
This is not where I belong.
I feel no home anymore,
And I don’t know where I’m going,
But I know I’m walking in the dark,
And at least I’m stepping somewhere forward.

Take me away, I beg of you.

If you were a poet
and I the words,
would you wrap me in metaphors
to keep me warm?
Would you sprinkle my edges
with hope and love?
Would you warn me when judgment
comes far too strong?
Would you claim my existence
to those who abhor?
Would you flaunt me in cultures
all over the world?
Would you edit my errors
to hide my faults?
Would you give me syllables
of beautiful awe?

Would you twist me to fragments
of vengeful lust?
Would you scribble my ink
to darkened blood?
Would you tear through my home
and throw me away?
Would you burn my stanzas
to ash and ****?
Would you strip me naked
to bare my soul?
Would you forget the stories
you lost in my hold?
Would you laugh at the lines
between which you see?
Would you shadow the shivers
so eloquently?


Would you care for the letters
you etched into me?
Erase me?
Erase
Era
E

They say a torn muscle is forever weaker in its function, even upon healing, and can easily be re-torn in the same area. They also say bones never break in the same place twice. Their breaking point repairs itself to even more immense strength.

The heart is a complicated ***** with hollow chambers that pump us full of life. It is made of muscle…

But mine wasn’t.

My heart was fist-shaped, covered in scars and dry blood. Having each finger broken year after year left it permanently clenched… or so I thought. I gave up at chipping away the blood because I stopped seeing the use in trying to outrun the treadmill of life beneath me. You see, sometimes moving forward is standing still. But while I was distracted, a stranger placed a damp, warm washcloth around me, erasing the dried-up crust of my old wounds and making my scars even more discernible. Blanketed in security, I felt the bone beginning to loosen back into overlapping muscle fibers, easing a grip I previously believed was stuck. Right before I completely relaxed, a gust of cold air enveloped me as the blanket was ripped away, chilling an open hand back to bone. People like to tell me that I’m strong. Maybe my strength comes from deeper within. Maybe my strength isn’t tangible. I guess I was more risk-ready than I thought, and it might be nice to have someone fit their fingers through my heart spaces.

Until then, I’ll keep attempting to force my knuckles to bend while re-covering my scars with the specks of dry blood I left scattered on the floor.