i watched my mother crack her ribs open to pour out her heart to someone whos love language was violence.
his hands too rough to piece her tender skin back together again.
she pulled my sleeve down over my heart,
and pointed to her bleeding one,
and told me that this is where love will get you.
now i wonder if i'll ever let a boy hold my hand,
with out feeling like my fingers are breaking,
feeling like i can hear my heart screaming at me
i wonder if words of love will ever taste like anything other than poison sliding idly down my throat,
a drawn out pain that settles in the bottom of your stomach
and stirs every time you smile back at him.
i wonder if i'll always be too scared to let myself be pulled apart,
trust me, these inner workings are not beautiful
i get so lonely hiding within myself,
but better to be lonely and whole than lonely and left with half of a heart

I have learned that solitude is a company all by itself.
My emptiness has grown to fill rooms
The sadness on the back of my tongue leaves an aftertaste like a bitter lover.
The day i learned my depression takes up more room than me,
We became friendly.
With a mental illness bigger than the space you carry it in
You learn a lot about how to shrink yourself into something more convenient,
As if your mere existence speaks volumes too many.
Solitude becomes more familiar the longer you spend with it.
And that Solitude has become as familiar as the warm lover on the other side of your bed.
Unzip your skin and step out
to make more room for the anxiety to fit comfortably.
youll leave a bag of skin and bones and misery on the floor.
my mental illness doesnt feel like a hovering shadow,
it feels more like an extra piece of my brain that the doctors overlooked.
tell me again that im just tired,
im just lazy,
im just unmotivated.
id try to draw you a map of my mind but lately its been just static.
maybe it isnt the solitude ive grown used to,
maybe its my elephant in the room,
maybe its the never ending presence of my mental illness in the room,
my overwhelming need to no longer exist in the room.

.
ink bleeds dry in my veins
the words coiled around my tongue lie still for a moment
the quiet hush of happiness settles in my lungs
and i find myself aching to reach inside of my chest and break my heart again until it remembers what it is to bleed.
there is no beautiful metaphor for the way joy feels coiled beneath your ribs
there is no sonnets written about the steady rhythm of life working itself out again.
i dont beg for his lips on mine anymore
i beg for his fingers digging into my neck
and his cigarette smoke to linger in my hair and stain me for months after.
im no longer yearning to be complete
but im ripping out my stitches and cracking healed bones again
scrambling to find whatever i lost inside of myself.
Saturday night i lay broken on the bathroom tiles
my heart barely fluttering
my eyes too heavy to hold open.
words spilled from my wrists onto pages and i cried out everything i ever felt for you.
sunday morning i woke up in bed again
and i havent felt that way since
blank pages blank mind blank heart
who knew happiness would make me feel so empty

ink bleeds dry in my veins
the words coiled around my tongue lie still for a moment
the quiet hush of happiness settles in my lungs
and i find myself aching to reach inside of my chest and break my heart again until it remembers what it is to bleed.
there is no beautiful metaphor for the way joy feels coiled beneath your ribs
there is no sonnets written about the steady rhythm of life working itself out again.
i dont beg for his lips on mine anymore
i beg for his fingers digging into my neck
and his cigarette smoke to linger in my hair and stain me for months after.
im no longer yearning to be complete
but im ripping out my stitches and cracking healed bones again
scrambling to find whatever i lost inside of myself.
Saturday night i lay broken on the bathroom tiles
my heart barely fluttering
my eyes too heavy to hold open.
words spilled from my wrists onto pages and i cried out everything i ever felt for you.
sunday morning i woke up in bed again
and i havent felt that way since
blank pages blank mind blank heart
who knew happiness would make me feel so empty

When you feel weak,
remember that your body is made of the same elements
that you see in a lioness’  fearless eyes
and hear in her echoing roar.
Your voice is just as loud,
it will always be heard.
When you feel weak,
remember that your DNA translates into the same
twenty amino acids that wolf genes code for,
the same ones that hunt like silent shadows,
ghosts children of the moon,
and sink their teeth into silver slivers of the night.
You will find harmony in red blood against
****** white snow
you will snap necks with jaws that open to the stars and sing.
When you feel weak,
remember that you are made of three quarters of the same water
that is carving canyons from stone,
that is beating away shore lines
and swallowing land whole.
Remember that the depths in you are as cavernous
as the bottomless ocean.
When you feel weak,
remember that your faint breaths and your wrenching sobs
fuel forest fires of the same degree
each alike in it’s power,
capable of destroying everything that they touch.
Know that you are the same;
just as fearless in your weakest moments as you are in your strongest.
When you feel weak,
on the mornings that the covers are heavier than the burden on your shoulders,
when the mirror is an enemy and the hole that you’ve dug for yourself
feels like a friend,
remember that diamonds are just carbon,
galaxies are just stardust,
but you
are
so
much
more.

you said you had been a mess lately.
i ran my fingers through your tangled hair and agreed.
the unorganized chaos in your head sent me into a whirl.
you said that old wounds dont heal,
i said that im just cleaning the cut.
ive always had a habit of disturbing things better left in the dark,
and i don’t think that there is any part of you that i left untouched.
childhood memories and things you had long since forgotten stirring in the dust
i took the paint splattered across your heart
and turned it into a masterpiece,
you said you had always liked abstract better than realism.
the neat rows that i stacked you in feel heavy on your tongue,
and you told me with words that i had already prepared for you
that the messiest thing about ocd,
is that nothing can ever be left alone.

light your cigarette again
i'll try to breathe toxic air like im the one addicted.
i found myself in the flicker of your lighter,
only warm when your fingers were on me
i used to be forest fires
volcanoes
heat waves
now i am the dying ember in your ash bowl.
forgive me for wanting to feel your lips against my skin
ice melts in the presence of heat,
and you could never be less then me.
cigarette breaks are temporary
but the black in your lung is permanent.
you lit me with the intentions of putting me out
but I promise my flame will kindle every time you try to exhale me out