Our love was a secondhand shop.
Faded and used,
you left me there,
decided you no longer wanted me.
I sit among the other used items
broken
and bruised.
Memories line the walls
and stock the shelves
of empty promises
and broken hearts.
Our secondhand love
is being sold at a discount price
with burn marks
and ripped holes.
You were just another girl
with clumsy hands
and missing pieces.
I slipped through your bony fingers
and you watched me fall
onto the dirt brown carpet.
I still have the rug burn to this day.
Your eyes
could burn holes through my skin
and melt me into the ground.
Our love was a secondhand shop
with memories burned into me.

I see everything is a different way.
I am not here,
I am there.
Disassociation
is the enemy
that i fight every day.
I'm tired of being there.
Not here,
somewhere beyond here.
I often stand outside myself
and peer in,
trembling,
terrified of what i may find.
I am there,
beyond here,
trying to escape.