words spill from the woman's lips,
but I cannot hear a thing.
my mother sits across the room,
nodding as if pleased with this verdict.
more medication.
more artificial happiness.
less control.
that's all I want. control.
something I know I will never have but need nonetheless.
this woman speaks the names of many, many drugs that she attempts to combine.
an artist of intoxication,
she mixes chemicals as if preparing to paint a picture,
but this picture must cover up the old masterpiece,
something so worn and faded
it must be replaced.
for how could anyone love
the crumbling portrait of a once
beautiful girl.

"I can see my door, my bed, my window, my chair, and my table.

"I can feel my spine against the wall, my feet against the floor, my jaw tightly shut, and my fingernails buried in my arms.

"I can hear the wind coming in from the open window, my heartbeat rapidly thumping, and that familiar voice in my head, shouting once again.

"I can smell the dampness of the ground outside as the breeze carries it to my room, and the sickly sweet odor from the soap used on my hands.

"I can ******* blood spilling from the bite in my lip; my last harsh reminder that
        I
        am      
        still
        alive.

Your tone
still cracking my bone
and never to postpone
From the moment, of that night alone

And if I were true, would it be forgotten?

Her favorite dress
hangs in her closet.
Just like her head
hangs to watch the floor.
The dress sparkles, and
her eyes used to shine
just as bright.
She no longer wears it
in fear that you’ll
be looking up or down it.
She’ll be taken advantage of
one more time
before she says
her final goodbyes.

i can't sleep.

the thought of you beside me is
possibly older than the night herself,
with only mere daydreams
to fill your absence.

who would've known
that you could feel so homeless,
in the comfort
of your own bed?