nothing.

i was ****** knuckles and
bruised wrists
hiding beneath broken tables
and a heart beating too fast
to keep up with.

she lived in lies
while i was busy building walls to
barricade the battle cries
haunting me at night.

he was beer bottles and
a brazen tongue twisting
words into bullets,
firing empty threats
at a child far too gone.

i didn’t ask for
reckless rages and
abuse that left me
struggling to stay alive
nor did i want to experience
the epitome of a nightmare.

i was afraid.
love was an unfamiliar concept,
spilling out of their skulls,
staining the tile floor
and there’s no way to pour
it all back,
so im left homeless
in a dark alley way,
begging for a miracle
i know won’t come.

some churches have bones,
and a graveyard for all the prayers
god didn't answer

I call the men who have ran off
with my affections
phantoms,
and rightfully so;
for they often say my name
as though it was another
way to sigh and let
a little breeze come into the room,
and they press their hands
against me so gently,
that I couldn't tell the difference
if they had never
touched me at all.

yet I still find myself
whispering their names
against my pillow
in angelic tongue,
waiting to feel their flesh once more
beneath my sheets
when I am hoping for one night
where it isn't just me
lying in the dark.

this is what my end looks like.
trembling fingers echoing with the marching beat on my chest,
half-finished sentences written on crumpled papers,
in an attempt to make something that might make sense.
but as i feel people’s attention on me or an unknown number calls,
the ghosts of anxiety shows up like a VIP on my guest list.
i mean, there was no party but i let them in anyway.
they start to claw on my arms like a dog preying on a bone,
and dig their teeth in as they start to unravel their poison inside.
a fair warning that they will never leave you until the party’s done.
so, start cancelling the plans you’ve just made with your friends,
and dance with them instead.

they are the half-finished sentences on the back of my notebooks,
written in attempt to give life some sense.
but my body is too worn out with all the dancing,
when the truth is all i’ve really wanted was to vanish.
pop me out like a bubble, so i’ll be out in a glance.
at least then you’ll smile than feel my sadness.

i’ve tried to be on my own,
even when being alone in public feels like you’re in an unfamiliar zone,
with nothing but strangers ready to pounce at you any given moment.
it makes me count my money at least four times
even when i am five people away from paying,
just to make sure i can actually buy it.
(even when it’s the reason i fell in line for)
and when it’s my turn,
i suddenly feel the bucket of ice water being poured unto me,
its coldness seeping through my bones
and ******* the life out of me.
it steals what is left of my voice,
and takes away the thin blanket i’ve shielded upon myself.

the battlefield is an ocean and they are the great whites.
they have eaten the goodness left in my mind,
and as sun sets in the background,
i cannot help but drown with it.
because honestly, drowning is better than having to actually face the situation.
‘cause even when i’ve rehearsed this over and over and over and
i still stumble between the pages of my journal with my too scattered thoughts
yet i try to spill what is left of my ink because this battle is not even half over.
they might have pointed the gun on my chest,
and stabbed me with their words.
though they have forgotten that the party is still alive until i get the courage
to check them off my guest list,
to the parties i never even set up to begin with.
i will continue to dance with my ghosts until they get weary.
they tried to damage my soul,
but just because i let myself get dragged down,
doesn’t mean i won’t resurface.
the ocean might engulf the sun everyday,
but the sky never stops shining.

the ocean is my battlefield and you are the great whites.
but i am the ******* sun.
you cannot drown me all at once.

a ghost once spoke to me,
that early morning in January.
and she was not ****** and pale and white
she was beautiful
like fireworks on new year’s eve

she told me lies
and whispers spilled from her pink, pink lips
a thirsty man got drunk on this
but i did not fall asleep
even when he vomited on the pavement.

because my favorite color is pink,
and the sun and the skies will never be pink
even when all the poets sing of it,
it will not turn cotton candy love

it is not my sister's lip gloss.

ghosts lie and they never appear
in the mirror behind you.
and she will never be ****** and pale and white

she will be beautiful.
and her lips are pink,
her cheeks are pink

i keep her in my late December night,
when I am white and pale and ******
i am drunk with her secrets
confessions of a ghost.

but i am not asleep.

begin with a
disinfectant wipe
and wash your eyes
right off your face

(it might sting a little
but that's a small
price we all must pay
before we die)

next grind your
toenails down to a fine
sheen using only the
shower curtain

(it may take hundreds
of years and that's why
i'm telling you to
begin immediately)

let the roots of your
hair dig down into
the ground and slowly
bury your face

(at this point in the
procedure you may
pass out from lack of
air or lack of hope)

finally tattoo morse code
messages behind your ears
with a rusty safety pin and
old charcoal art pencils

(it doesn't matter what it
says because nobody can
read it back there nor
do they actually care to)

and submerge your
nose into isopropyl
rubbing alcohol just
to smell poisoned

but most importantly
of all when you begin
to experience pain so
intense you do not
have words with
which to describe it

always tell yourself
that nothing is real

n o t  y o u
n o t  a g o n y
n o t h i n g
i s  r e a l.

then take down the
noose hanging in
the back of your closet
turn off the light and
fall into the deepest
sleep of your life

*(whether or not you're
real or not doesn't matter
it just matters what you're
telling yourself to stay alive.)