I should be tired,
but all I feel
is every piano strike
as it reverberates through my ears
and dances its way into my chest
so all I can sense is the stillness in the night.
If I wasn’t driving,
my eyes would be closed
in an effort to soak in every drop of peace
before the austerity of daylight
squeezes me dry.
Tonight I wasn’t good enough for anyone.

I can’t remember a time in my life
that I have spent this night alone,
but it seems only fitting that I start the next chapter
among the best friends I’ve come to know:
music, memories, and myself.
If only there wasn’t a war
between my desire for solitude
and ache to feel loved,
I could have enjoyed the evening’s involuntary isolation a bit more.

All I ask now
is that in this moment,
one of these notes could take me on a ride
to the nearest slice of complacency
beyond this bed of uncertainty
and fill me up with a sound of belonging
that will sing me to sleep
when my head greets the pillow,
then wipe away the invisible tears
that never fell from my soon-weary eyes.

I tried to find
the perfect words,
most poetic line,
or graceful prose
to encompass
the passion that builds me,
but in this moment
every lyric
makes the world
a solitary
cliché.

All I really wanted
          All I was trying to do
                    All I was seeking
                              Was for someone to see through it
                    For someone to know me
          For someone to fight
It always comes back to that

Is this how I want to leave my legacy?
But is a legacy worth leaving
Once it’s been tattered and crumbled?
Is that all I am now? A worthless mistake?
Is this even worth writing?
Or am I just further consuming in the terror of “I”?

A fiction novel of a young girl and OD –
All the reasons, hatred, and pain behind it,
The scars they kept tearing open
So she never stopped bleeding,
And the devastation it caused to those who cared –
Would naturally impact the reader.
But when the reaction goes more like,
“I wish I was her,”
It’s not exactly normal.

And then I wonder.
Do any of you actually deserve an explanation?
Is it worth my last moments when you’ve given me few?
When your moments have simply minimized my life
To the putrid carcass it’s become of late?
Manipulation and lies.
That’s all I was worth to any of you.
…When you acknowledged my existence, at least.

Who is the stranger my reflection resembles?
Because I don’t recognize the hatred in those eyes.
She’s dead to herself and most of those around,
So we might as well make it official.
Agreed?

A stranger within and without, so withdraw.
I guess that’s what happens when you spend four years of life
Being lied to, lied about, and lying the pain away.
When you aren’t drinking it away, that is.

It’s when you wake up every day, wishing you hadn’t,
Wondering why you haven’t fixed that yet.
When the people you care for the most in this world
Just lie, manipulate (or try to, at least),
And use your life to no visible end.
When they cheat with you, or try to cheat with you,
While you weren’t enough for them in the first place.
When you know the truth, but you know you’ll never hear it
Because you’re no longer more important than an illusion –
One of power and control that precedes a human life.
When people don’t care,
And when they do, they don’t tell the truth,
And they sure as hell don’t show it.

This is who you become.

And this is all you want.
And you blame no one but yourself.
Because you can’t pinpoint where these desires come from.

No, people don’t want me.
They want to do me.

And to those of you who don’t believe a word of my wants,
I hope you find my lifeless body,
And tears of blood stain your face
Like the knives I’ve dragged across my skin.
But unfortunately, I’m not going to give the satisfaction
Of you fazing me that much.
Because, clearly I’m waiting around for something,
Whatever it may be.

I hope you got what you wanted.
I hope it was worth it.

Can you feel me now?
Do you hear me now?
Will you see me now?
Will you bleed for me now?

I dare you to stop me.

I’m not scared of leaving this world.
But I am scared of leaving before I tell how I actually feel,
When I’m not releasing the infuriation I hold so delicately within.
Is this how I feel?
Or am I lying again?
Do I really plan to do this?
Or am I just reaching out for anyone who cares?
Do I really believe this about those in my life?
Or am I creating a story for an anger-filled poem?
Is this what I really want?
Or is this just easier than telling the truth?
Who knows,
Since no one tells it.
Maybe someone should actually talk to the girl sometime.
Maybe she’ll tell you how she really feels
Beyond this blistering, blunt falsehood.

If you come clean, so will I.
Because somewhere deep down,
That reflection’s not me.
Somewhere deep down
I still believe.

A mother’s love
Is cleaning the scrape on her knee
When she’s fallen off her bike.

A mother’s love
Is watching Tarzan
Eight days in a row
Without complaining.

A mother’s love
Is taking her to dance class
Four days a week
Year after lengthy year.

A mother’s love
Is saying “I love you”
Every night before she falls asleep
For twenty years and counting.

A mother’s love
Is holding her in her arms
(As a grown eighteen-year-old)
While her broken heart bleeds down her face.

A mother’s love
Is saying “I don’t know, but I’m here for you”
When all she asks is “Why?”
Over and over endlessly.

A mother’s love
Is the song played on repeat
As they sing at the top of their lungs
During every long car ride.


And a daughter’s love
Is being able to see,
Able to accept,
And thankful for the fact
That she can honestly call her mom
One of her best and most supportive friends.

With each step
the keys swinging from my wrist
lightly graze my thigh,
urging it to continue moving forward
and resist looking back.
The aroma
of freshly bloomed honeysuckle
fills my nostrils
with the sweet nostalgia of past springs
alongside friends.
Meticulously-
picked songs bounce against my eardrums
as the soundtrack
to a life of simultaneous apathy, agony,
and ecstasy.
It seems
some higher being knew that
I needed to feel
the lonely tonight in a way I haven’t allowed
in quite some time,
that I just
needed to feel within myself
everything I’ve been
stowing away under my lungs,
adding pressure to each breath
that I never
noticed was there in the first place,
forcing away
the laze with which I’ve treated the existence
I’ve become.
In my peripheral
I see that colors are bursting
in the sky behind me,
and it’s enough for the wind to press my cheek
to look back
on a vision I’ve not witnessed
since autumn approached,
and I close my eyes to let my head fall back
because it’s almost
too much life to feel.

It occurs to me
there is beauty behind us
sometimes worth giving a glimpse,
and if we don’t turn around
at a time that calls,
we won’t find our way back home.

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.

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.

I am the last step before you reach the end of the staircase,
the one you push against to climb to the top.
The grime from the bottom of your shoe leaves me filthy and dark.
Sometimes, your weight is so heavy that I crack.
I am the one for which you aren’t ready,
the one you trip over but are too insecure to fall for.
I am the one who makes you want to be better
(even though I never asked you to be),
just not yet.
I am the crutch you use to pick yourself up
from the broken bones that haven’t quite healed,
the bandage that holds your wounds together until you are restored.
I am the sandpaper that scrapes away pieces of myself
until you are left smooth.
I am the rough side of the matchbox, the one you strike to create the flame.
I am just a girl you used to know.
A meaningless,
distant,
forgotten
memory.

But I am also the phoenix,
not the ashes.

We cannot choose
How,
When,
Why,
Or who.

It is inexplicable,
Indescribable,
Mysterious,
Effortless,
And pure.

We cannot control it.
We cannot choose it.
It just is.
Simply complex.

We can choose to run from it.
We can choose to hide.
We can choose to deny.
We can choose to ignore.
And we can choose to bury it.
But, eventually, it will catch up
And force us to do something about it,
Unless we want to live in misery, emptiness, and artificial happiness forever.
Because we don’t find love.
It finds us.

I laugh
when my truth
is twisted
to lunacy,
because
what else
is left
to do?

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.

She looked at me,
so matter-of-fact-ly,
and the words came tumbling out with ease –
that if I don’t have a man in my life by age 30,
my life will surely be miserable. –
What has this world done to us?
Where is our independence?
These are the saddest words I’ve ever heard a child utter,
not because they are true,
but because she believes they are.

Are you really living
If you're just surviving?
Is it really worth it?

There is nothing I would love more
Than to say that I'm done with this charade,
I'm done with this wall.
Tear it down.

Every day brings the urge,
But no day brings the courage
For fear you do not feel the same.

So I stay here searching...

Everything has changed.
Nothing has changed.

If I’m being honest,
all I’ve wanted from my social life
over the last several years
is to have a number one
who also sees me
as their number one.

There are little moments
I would do differently
if I had the ability,
moments whose memories create obstacles
for me to trip over,
obstacles like
my past
or anxiety
or my insecurities in myself.
I can’t blame them for the fall,
but I can tell you
I’m learning how to dodge them.

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.

Join the club.
Lie.
It's what humanity does best.

My stomach is a series of knots
slowly suffocating my breath
so my brain can’t focus
and my mind starts racing.
Salt water fills my eyes
until it overflows and spills
out onto the skin that’s crawling
over the anxiety that I fear
may scare you away.
You are the fresh air
in the bland, stale world
to which my life became.
My heart isn’t ready to lose you
before it even has you.

This is me.
I'm not perfect.
Take it or leave it.

Bag my head,
and cut only a slit for my lungs to breathe.
Maybe purposely blinding myself
will ****** the sights that remind me.

We are
A nonentity,
An almost,
A could-have-been,

A wish,
A dream,
A hope,
A longing.

I live.
I die.
I conquer.
I stumble.

You play.
You speak.
You neglect.
You enjoy.

A breath.
A whisper.
A shout.
A secret.

A game
That will someday end in despair.
A desire
That it will not be too late.

A dare.
Go ahead,
Be a guy, my dear.
‘Cause I’m told no longer
Are you a man.

I’ve spent the greater part of the last decade
nuzzled in a driver’s seat,
fixating on the horizon,
while mellow tunes from my iPod
serenade the muscle in my chest
so that my breathing might stay steady enough
to control my impatience
for just enough time to see beyond this highway.

You see,
I’ve been chasing sunsets for as long as I can remember,
but I still recall the tranquility that rushed over me
the first time my feet touched the ocean floor
with the tide’s white noise silencing my cares
and a rainbow-canvas sky mirrored in sparkling waters
blinding my responsibility.
I’ve never been able to find it again,
because every time I greet the skyline,
I fall short.

There is something missing within me,
a piece of myself I never quite found,
even after the chaos of orchestrating my own
death and rebirth.
I know everyone finds the ocean sunset peaceful,
but there is a key in that fiery heaven
that only fits the crevices to my brain,
and no soul could match its sanctity,
so I will keep running to that shoreline
until I find a sky that can fix what the locksmith broke
and the waves that will put my reeling mind to sleep.

Today
I tried to run from my thoughts –
Literally –
As I have done many times before,
And never have I been able to succeed,
For I’ve learned we cannot outrun what lies within us.
This merely leaves us gasping for air –
Physically and emotionally.
Yet, that still does not stop us from trying.
Silly little souls are we
To choose the numb instead of the sentiment,
But sometimes…
It’s just better that way…
Until we are brave enough to change it.

Someday
I’ll be brave enough to change it.

That’s it.
I’m done with metaphors.
I’m done with comparisons.
I’m done with poetic lyrics.
(Though, they will probably slip in anyway.)
But no more nonsense.
Just me,
Bare emotions.

I can go on all day about wanting to forget,
Wishing it all to go away,
Believing that I mean nothing,
Supposing that you don’t care,
Distracting myself,
And talking as if none of it matters.
The truth is I don’t buy into any of that garbage.
It’s only the material that forms the mask I put on every morning.
My sword and my shield.

I put down my guard and remove the mask
Only when I am alone.
This is when I am safe.
…But am I?
Is a hiding heart truly protected?
Exposed, I would tell you that
Loving you is the greatest, most rewarding thing
Life has ever brought me.
This is the truth,
This has always been the truth,
And this will continue as truth.

You are not the ones before you.
This love is not desperate,
This love is not juvenile,
This love is not hollow,
And this love is not love of the idea.
This love is pure,
Fine,
And not halting.
This love is –
Well… love –
As is should be.

I don’t need you to save me.
He already did that by bringing me to you.
You see, I lost myself long ago –
You know this –
And when I lost myself,
You found me,
But I never found myself.
At last I have.
At last there is independence in me
I have never known before,
Free from the bond of love the noun.
Realization of love the verb.

And I do.

No, I do not need you to resurrect me.
I'm stronger than you know.
I am not broken,
I am not needy,
I am not desperate. –
I am a better person for this,
And I now know my wish comes from the right roots within.
My desires have not changed.
My love has not faltered;
It has grown.

No, I do not need to be rescued.
I just want you next to me,
Here by me,
Close to me.
Literally and emotionally.

I used to live on Cloud Nine,
Where the cold, black darkness fades into white,
A place where love should never hurt,
And all troubles rest far out of sight.
I used to live in Truth,
Where the sweet bliss of love can never lie,
A place where the bearer of your heart
Forbids relapse and a love that can die.
But here I stand, knocked down
From my perfectly paved clouded retreat,
Betrayed by the boy who promised no pain,
And my heart is breaking in desperate defeat.

No longer am I living in full, but a living fool was made out of me.

Deep in my gut is a chest of secrets
I thought I had buried
beneath the hushed cries of a young 20-something’s
most regretted decisions…
give-ins, rather.

Those cries choked me until I finally had the sense
to close my eyes and stop breathing for a few seconds.
And these eyes have stayed dry ever since.
When you don’t give yourself the opportunity to feel,
there isn’t much that can tear at your seams…

…Until one day
the purest of phrases
and the most genuine gazes
slowly un-sew the web wrapped neatly around
the cavity I filled with dirt and bubble wrap.

It may only take one more smile
for me to hand over my shovel.

When you hear the metal collide,
I’ll guide you to the key.

How many times
are you going to smash your face
before you realize
you can't walk through
a closed door?

Your breath
against
my back
is the comfortable embrace
I never expected
to envelop
so quickly
and never expected
to feel
so safe.

I burn with the need to fill your spaces
with metaphors of darkness
and adjectives for freedom.
I carry your spiral-bound glimpses of madness
in a whirling echo
inside my chest.
I scour my lobes for pulses of feelings
in little black lines
that cover my wrist,

but whenever I try,
my bones grow weary,
and I never
complete my

Dry your eyes, dear,
for your tears are wasted on the untrue.
We can’t see your gorgeous smile
behind the salt.
The illumination you exude
is contagious.

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

Erasing me
and replacing me
are two entirely
different ideas.

One
has been proven very easy.

The other
cannot be done.

I was there
When you first took in,
The very breath of life
But you didn’t know me.

I was there
As you grew,
But we never became friends.

I was there
When there was death,
But you stayed away.

I was there
When you had your heart shred,
But you didn’t know it.

I was there
When you fell in love
With the melody and its maker,
But you never saw me.

I was there
When you died completely
On the inside,
But you stayed cold.

I was there
When you tried to disappear,
But you hated me for not letting you.

I was there
When you loved
And when you came to life,
But you lost sight of me.

I was there
When you poisoned yourself,
But you didn’t care.

I was there
In the darkness,
But your eyes never caught my light.

I am here
Giving you every day,
Every moment.
But you’ve never seen me.

I’ve always been by your side,
And I will never leave it.
If I exist, that is.

I am here.
Where are you?

This weight upon my back
And this feeling in my chest
And this aching in my head,
It never goes away.
And this constant coat of anger
And the sickness that instills
And emotions contradicting,
They've all made me it's prey.

I can't do this anymore.
Life's not worth it anymore.

It takes a certain kind of person
to convince you that your life
has incredible worth.

It takes a completely different kind of person
to do everything in their power
to take that away from you,
until you can force yourself to see it on your own.

And when those two are one in the same…
How the hell did I get here?

With stabbing pangs emanating from my core,
blood ever-so-slowly finding its way to the floor,
sweat on my brow,
and flooding eyes,
I step forward without falter.

And I step again,
And I step again,
And I step again,
And I step again…

And I shall never stop…

The slumber I love to live and breathe,
So happy that it almost feels unreal,
I can taste the bliss on my slow, steady breath,
I can feel the smile in my warm, flowing blood.
And as I open my eyes, I disappear,
My breath grows sour, and my blood grows cold,
I realize reality was a blink away,
And I wish I could sleep and never awaken.
The start is the hardest part of the day -
Bittersweet slumber and disappointed smiles.

A few paces away,
Through the pasty blue door,
I can hear it,
The tune,
A beat,
The music.
Funny how something I admire most
Is precisely what brought the downfall.
And as I listen, the suppression subsides,
The memories rise,
Your breath on my cheek.
Quell it.
Content when I lock and bury
The precious box of treasure.

One of these days
someone will be intriguing enough
to break these bricks,
turn off the electric fence,
cross the ocean,
and trek the desert
that surrounds the swollen bruise
in my chest,
but if it's time,
all I’d require
is a simple
knock on the door.

There’s a post-it on my mirror that reads,
“You are enough.”
I still remember the day I placed it there,
long after the initial dust settled
from the gunfire I started beneath my own skin
like the itch of an insect trying to gnaw its way in,
and I blamed the bullets on the loader of the gun,
but someone had to pull the trigger.
So much time has passed now
that I forget it sticks there,
funny how a reminder can become
so commonplace,
how I can look in that mirror every day
and never once notice the three words
that used to empower me.

But today I did.

Life is just a balancing act
of continuous changes and steadfast invariability,
but my own scale has always favored
one side more than the other
and never the side I desire.
Sometimes I don’t recognize that reflection anymore
but in best way imaginable.
The fingers that pressed the note to glass
were weak, overly trusting, and dependent,
but the eyes that watch its message today
have witnessed its every honest actuality.
I am enough.

I.
am.
enough.

But maybe now
it’s become too true.

That name still stings
when it reaches my ears
like the bite of a snake
whose venom is slowly
slithering its way
through my bloodstream,
venturing to each limb,
each digit,
each piece of me,
until suddenly,
completely,
and unwillingly,
I'm paralyzed.

There are days
when I can still feel the agonizing ache
in its accelerated beats
as your image reveals itself
behind my lids,
when I think the threads
of those stitches I sewed
four years ago
(has it really been that long?)
haven't yet dissolved
and are keeping me closed,
and when I can feel your breath
against my cheek
and eventually my rhythm
keeping time with yours.
But these words are not
unfamiliar to the pages that I bleed onto
every time I briefly feel broken again.
So, this is a letter to the last person
who broke my heart:
Not you,
but myself.

To this day
I don't recognize the eyes that stare back at me
every morning when I rise to soft beams of light
that creep their way through the holes in my blinds
as I make my way down the hall
to look into the reflection in the bathroom mirror.
You see,
sometimes
when someone tears you apart repeatedly,
you just start to view them differently.
There are times
when all I want to do
is reach into that image
and clasp my hands so tightly around her throat
until her skin grows blue
but her fight grows red,
and if she would listen to me,
I would tell her to quit sprinting
from anything that makes her feel,
Because every time I hear her feet press the ground,
every time her leg muscles bulge in flight,
I can also hear a glass heart shattering
against her thoracic cavity,
but I still feel nothing.

Let me raise a glass to finding the solution.
Take a sip.
Swirl it in your mouth.
Feel its bitter taste against your tongue
until you unlock the door
to the invisible brick wall
in front of you.
Let someone else break your heart for a change.

I sit often in my bed,
wishing for inspiration to melt its way from my heart
into my fingertips
which click against the keys on this machine
to form words that get jumbled in my brain,
that I may untangle their knots
and loosen their grip
just enough that the ache in my forehead subsides,
and the weight on my chest is lifted even a little.
Most of the time,
whatever reactions are supposed to happen in me,
whatever connections are supposed to form
don’t,
and I continue to ache until the numbness sets in.

I handle emotions alone.
I don’t seek attention.
I don’t want the weakness.
I don’t reach out,
because I got sick of the sting
of each slap that shouldn’t have surprised me.
I love being alone;
In fact, I crave it,
but I miss the social sense of belonging that used to balance me out.
I want to grasp a hand that is stretched out to me
for a change,
but the air is always empty.

Even as I type this
I am running out of words that explicate
the cause of the dyspnea that overwhelms me
at abrupt, random moments,
and my ability to form lucid, complete thoughts
is lost.

How do you wipe a wound that isn’t even bleeding?
How do you heal a bone that isn’t even broken?
How to you fix a muscle that isn’t even torn?

I am not fragmented.
I am not cracked.
I am not damaged,
yet something in me is still leaking,
seeking something more.

I am not standing in the darkness;
I am just waiting for this sun to shed light
on a soul that knows
when to reach out
and when to let me be.