This disease struck me
Like a brick on pavement
Hard

Everything was
Perfect
Then that brick came along
And with the slightest movement
Destroyed everything

“Count it
Perfect it
Measure it
Clean it”
The voices say

Why can’t I let them go?
They keep repeating:

“Count it
Perfect it
Measure it
Clean it”
Why won’t they stop

“Count it
Perfect it
Measure it
Clean it”
I don’t understand

“Count it
Perfect it
Measure it
Clean it”
Someone just HELP me understand

This disease is about
Perfection
But it's the biggest
Imperfection about me

Existing in a house with an alcoholic isn't quite existing. It's tiptoeing around corners and walking on broken glass. It's waiting for the bomb to drop with the closest shelter miles out of reach.

I try to shed my skin but it sticks like glue. It covers me in shame and pain and the irreversible smell of ***** and *****.

I don't exist. I just simply am.

I am the daughter of a drunkard.

I am covered in guilt.

I am.

I mold myself to fit into a box that's half my size. I rip my own words out of my own mouth so I don't hurt the feeling of the people who have mutilated mine.  

I haven't existed yet, but someday I will.

The tide is pulling in,
and splashing out again.
How can we affect
the path the ocean treks?
We really can't,
but we can rant
for hours on end
about the way things have been.
But what does that do
besides mess with you?
You can't stop the wave
or hope it'll act your slave.
Everyone says it's necessary
to hold the weight you're meant to carry,
but if it's not the way the tide flows,
don't be afraid to let go.

When that blood flowed green
And trees were red
Skin was bark all hard
weathered showing
The marks of hurricanes
The dearths of rain
Skies glowed orange in night
And gray each day
The lakes all turned inside
Out where blues were down
And brown silt atop
The roots of things grew up
And flowers down
Bodies dead were above ground
People like moles once did
When the sun was yellow
And not her now deathly gray
People went underground
To live
Where dirt was white and grass
Was the ceiling
And not a day was recorded since
The day the
Colours
Turned around.

I keep chasing my demons
afraid to watch them
tire of me and
leave,
Because what would I be
Without them?

There was never
a day that satiated
my being
till I found
my reflection
smiling
back
for
no
reason