Sorry.

Not for the bruises inscribed in my knees at six years old,
or gravel-shaped cuts dotting my palms
after being kicked off my bike like a rodeo bull,
or even the sliver of a scar on my right index finger
from closing it in a van door when I was seven.

No, I have no remorse
for the innocent;
not a twinge of sympathy regarding the unfortunate results
of relatively harmless careless actions
and playful worth-it memories.

I’m sorry for the other things.

I don’t mean running
or swimming
or dancing
until the soreness embedded itself in my muscles, my
heart racing, pulse pounding
in my ears.
I don’t regret that.

I’m sorry
for the other things.

I’m sorry for hating you.
I’m sorry for all of the
preening and plucking and
shaving and waxing and
hair burning.

I’m sorry for the countless repulsed glances at the spot
where my stomach puffs out
and all of the daggers I stared into the place
where my thighs meet.

I am sorry for getting slashed at
by the perfectly intact glass
of the bathroom mirror, for feeling severed,
just by seeing its reflective surface.

I’m not sorry for taking up space,
but I’m sorry I ever was.

I am sorry for
switch off the light,
lock the door,
the scratch of fingers in my throat
and the starkness of the cold linoleum floor
routines
I practiced because I loathed
the way you curved
and the fatness of my pseudo-waist.

I’m sorry for falling into patterns of self-hate
that I aimed at you. Patterns
not unlike that of an alcoholic,
commencing with afternoon drinks or slightly restricted meals
and ending with wildly depressing stories to tell
and crying on stranger’s floors—
but there is no Lackers of Self-Esteem Anonymous,
no chips to collect
for every time I tell myself I’m beautiful
or, better yet, value more
than my appearance.

I am sorry for thin red lines that ran deep into my wrists
and I am sorry for the faint-inducing heat
that followed,
caused by the oversized and long-sleeved sweatshirts I hopelessly donned
to cover you up.

I’m sorry for discarding that one dress
(that you looked stellar in, by the way)
because I had degenerated into such an unhealthy
and addictively abhorrent relationship with you
that I feared
even the slightest tightness
in my attire.

I’m sorry for habitual body monitoring. I’m sorry
for using my fingers to count calories
and not positive attributes. I’m sorry
for all of the aforementioned repugnant routines
I’ve picked up over the past few years,
whether I’ve stopped them or not,
I’m sorry.

I am.

So, body, when I say
that this is an apology note,
I don’t mean I’m sorry for  the time
I skipped salad and went straight to pizza,
or even the countless dinners when
I put an extra brownie on my plate.

No, I have no remorse for that.
I don’t regret that.

I’m sorry for hating you.

But, like a sinner coming up after sinking
in a blessed lake of holy water,
I am ready to fill my lungs with new breath. I will repent
with the radical act of self-love

and I promise that I will treat you better.

when it's late at night i want you; i crave you
and your beautiful smile and the way you joke
and how when you laugh your whole body moves
with it.

i crave those moments when you're most vulnerable
and sincere, the moments when it's so early in the
morning you can no longer pick out the ugly
thoughts from the pretty ones; the moment
when everything just gets thrown down onto
the screen like a huge pile of confusion and thoughts.

i crave those moments when you look at me for
a split second and seem to care about me more than
just as that person always there for you. the moments
when you look at me and seem to want me too, under
all the confusion and pain.

i crave those moments when you two are away, and
i don't have to be reminded that the moments we have are
mediocre in comparison. completely and utterly mediocre.

i crave those moments when i can go to sleep and enter my
own reality, where i can just forget it all and not have to pretend
any longer about anything.

i crave those moments when your eyes form gentle creases
on the side of your face when you finally are not smiling to
please, but because you are actually happy.

i crave those moments when i write and i am not forced
to cry; those moments when i can write about 1am and
almost 1am and talking to you and being happy, those
moments when i have hopes for the future.

but i also crave those moments when i cannot crave anymore,
because the pain seems to be too much for me to handle

They said she wore:
A ballgown of sadness
With a beautifully sad bow on her waist
And dark blue melancholic gloves
Her skin sparkled with wretchedness
And on her ears glittered joyless earrings
She wore her sadness well
But it didn't matter
Because no matter how stunningly they thought she wore her sorrow
She knew the truth:
Pain is never beautiful
So she stepped into a fire
So everyone could see:
"Depression's never pretty
And now it has killed me
Don't put flowers on my grave, please
I want everyone to know I died in hideous sadness"

me.gs

Stuttered breathing but no ribs broken. All limbs still intact-

Could I stand? Yes.

All motion functions seemed to be in order-all in place-all as they had always been in this unique vessel he had chosen as his own.

But then it hit him-like a silver knife to the chest-
he was falling,

                       falling,

                  ­                    falling.

Spiraling out of control with no way to halt-all the pressure of his divine being-stripped with a waxen blade-he was a shell…he was nothing now.

Snapping out of his spasm, Castiel attempted to take in his surroundings again-the realization not yet hitting his aching chest. Aching… Well that was a new feeling.

It was as if his bones were weak from all the pressure he had never felt in all his being since he sprung from existence, at the beginning of the world itself. Mind racing yet numbing, he stumbled, trying to heal his aching, his aching what? He could no longer pinpoint the pain-it was new and fresh like a wound but deceased as well-as if it had long been dead inside with daffodils tossed casually by the grave.

Was this what it was like?

To be human? To no longer feel the rush and pressure of his wings upon his back, never visible unless he chose so; the ache of a human heart pounding in his chest cavity, unnerving and rattling; and the silence-no more of the noise of his divine celestial being; no more being able to answer his friends…

He snapped then and there from his newfound musings of what humanity felt like-

Dean.

Sam.

He could no longer hear their call. Attempting to summon all the remnants of what little remained of his grace-he rose to his feet-he had to find them-he had to find his friends.

Yet silence was the only call that answered him, ringing with the final yell of "CASTIEL!" as the final sound he had heard as he hurtled to the rocky hard earth.

Dean had been calling but he had no way to answer now-
and…
it was useless.
He was branded with the absolute of nothing now.

He was nothing without his grace-nothing…and who could ever want such a monster as he had become anyway?

His grace had been his final stand, his anchor-and all was now lost as he had fallen.

But now-now something just remained-as tears pulled at his eyes-guiding him unwillingly to stare up at the midnight indigo sky.

Falling-all were falling-as if shooting stars had all been drawn to this one night.

There, there was the final proof as he stared up at the sky, the misery now fully realized. His family-all of them-were dying right before his eyes.

And it was again-
as it always was
and always will be-

all. his. fault.

----------

*What a heavy burden
his new heart would have to bear-
Knowing it was
in his name
that all the angels
were stripped bare.

i have a habit of
forming habits of
doing the same thing
until i feel safe

If toys could speak,
I think they'd cry,
when left in the  basement,
to wither and die.

No longer needed,
not exciting,
not new,

that's why I feel like a toy,
whenever I think of you.