“i’ve had hallucinations like that”
no really
and i don’t even need drugs to do it
my brain used to give me all
that nightmare **** for free

but when it happens all the time
everyday is like a bad trip
and it just keeps getting worse
and it left dark circles under my eyes
and shaking hands
and so many cuts on my arm

because there is nothing poetic
about watching great black and bony
wings rip themselves out of someone's back
and you swear that it is snowing inside
since the cold flakes feel so real
and the wall inhales and exhales
against your back as you slide down it
to the floor

and it’s really ******* hard
to find a boy or a girl
that will save you from yourself
when you don’t even know if the
chair that you’re sitting in is real

and it’s really ******* hard
to be saved by someone when that
isn’t realistic in the slightest
and hollywood knows that as well
because mental illness is not a thing
that can be cured by sappy poems
and chocolate and being told
that you are beautiful

because i was not beautiful
i was chewing holes into
the insides of my cheeks
and worrying ****** grooves into
my lips and dried blood
stuck to all the sleeves of my shirts
and so many sleepless nights
because even with my eyes closed
i still saw every horrible thing

and there was no one to save me
because when i told my mother
between sobbing and shaking so much
that my teeth chattered she looked right at me
and told me that i just had an overactive imagination

and that was when the question of
if i knew that the things i saw weren’t real
became so many other moot points
because crazy is as crazy does
and the things i saw
the things i saw
put so many scars on my arms
because blood is real
and if it bleeds it has to be real
it just has to be

----
1. i dream of breaking off needles in my thigh
2. twelve years old was the first time that i wanted to die
3. maybe the needles are a way of making that feeling stay away
4. because there is something inside of me that needs to get out
5. i refuse to die inside of myself
6. and i already tried cutting it out
7. and i already tried taking so many pills that i would sleep forever
8. and i already put so many notes into so many words
9. but that’s all just scars and potentially messed up organs now
10. though much of my writing still reads like a goodbye
11. but old habits die hard
12. and sometimes the only reason i don’t go back is because of the dates on my arm
13. and the ink is not a way of mutilating myself
14. it’s a way to cover up my past mistakes
15. because even though the scars have faded i know they’re there
16. and i am ready to have new scars that do not signify pain
17. but a way of finding my true self under all of that

new place
new home
not so new city
but newly living there
and riding city busses
in the dark
and the near
and the dusk
makes for new feelings
of trepidation
of fear
of anxiety
of nakedness without
someone there beside

so son
he asked father for a knife
not to use on anyone
and the father asked if the son
would use it on himself

and the
son looked down
bare arms on desktop
six years of hurting himself
and he promised that no
he would not use the knife
on himself
not then or ever again

the knife
given then was a truly beautiful
thing with all that blade
and for an instant the old need
to make bleed flooded
the son like water through a ravine
long since gone to cracked mud

but the
son refrained from that
because cracked mud can
surely be beautiful too
and even dead things can
bring forth life
from what they used to be

but then
time passed as it so often
does in seconds and minutes
and days and weeks
and months and then
the father and the son
were not under the same roof

and then
came the days and weeks
and finally months of silence

but that
knife oh the knife it stayed
not against flesh because that was
one promise that would no longer be broken
but instead inside of zipper shoulder bag pockets
and tucked under couch cushions and shoved
to the back of piles on top of a new desk

and time
how it continued to pass
until the son had graduated
and there was no father
to watch him as he walked down
that aisle and to the row of seats
all proud and head held high
in his black gown that
officially marked the son
as being a male

and time
how it continued to pass
until the son stopped answering
the father’s phone calls
and who can blame the son
because the child should not have to
continuously hold together
that lame excuse for
a father and son relationship

and time
it is still passing
and the son well he still has
that knife in his life
constantly moving around places
in his room that is not just a corner
of the living room and a desk and a bed
because he has all those things now
but the father is not in his life

and knives
and tattoos even gifted
from father to son
are not the same as having
a father that actually wants you

is my body a temple
a church
a cathedral
a shrine?

that may be the case
but i am the god
that it was built for

and more often than not
my fingers are knives
and when i spit
it comes out as acid

the walls are melting
the pews are burning
everything is splintered wood
and broken bone

because as a god
i am cruel
i am vindictive
i am capricious
my self-destruction is on a global scale

and there is nothing beautiful
about this mess that
this so called temple is

because i am trying to make
the scars on my arms into
railroad tracks that will take me
far away from this place
i do not want this anymore

and it is easier to
kneel when your kneecaps
have been shattered
but i do not believe in myself
enough to do that

and if my body truly is
a temple
a church
a cathedral
a shrine
it went up in flames years ago

you say “man up”
like that is not what i am doing
because i am preparing to mourn
breast tissue that i never wanted
and i am going to stick a needle in my thigh
my stomach or maybe even my *** cheek
for the rest of my life
to make my outsides look like my insides feel

you say “man up”
and that was the last time
the first and the last time
that i cried in front of you
because when i let those tears
that saltiness spill over my lids and down
my cheeks i know that you didn’t see them
you only saw what made me a woman
and in your eyes
crying easily made me less of a man

you say “man up”
like that is an easy thing to do
like i know how to do that
like i know how it feels
to forcibly stamp down on
everything that i feel that
isn’t a hunger
for meat so rare it bleeds
or wanting to open up a woman from
her thighs onward
or wanting a truck with wheels so big
i cannot even climb up into it
but i must need it
all of those things
to compensate for the **** that i do not have

you say “man up”
and when i say no
you laugh at me
and tell me i am sensitive and silly
and need to learn to take a joke
but these things that you find humorous
are what got me called a freak in middle school
to the point where i took a blade to my skin
for six years because i was always
too much of a boy to be a girl
and too much of a girl to be a boy
and my haircut makes me look like a lesbian
and wanting to wear skirts makes me a girl
and for some reason you seem to think
that it is you and your opinion that
has the ability and the power and the right
to dictate who i am as a person

so when you say to me “man up”
i want you to look not at my *******
or picture what you assume is in my pants
look me in the eye ******
because i want you to see how much your
words hurt and you will watch as i cry
because being told that for so long
is what those words make me want to do
you make me want to cry
your trying to push me into a box
that makes me easier to define
erases who i am as a person

so when you say to me “man up”
just go ahead and assume that my answer
will be no
because i see no shame
in liking skirts
in liking the color pink
in crying easily
in gesticulating when i talk
because there is no shame
there is no shame
in being soft
in being gentle
in being a ******* *****
because now i wear that label with pride
and it no longer hurts
because i am comfortable in myself
because there is no shame
there is no shame in being me
and i am done apologizing

i could tell you you’re beautiful
hell, i have before
a lot of times
and you still don’t believe me
and i don’t know why

but that’s a lie
i know exactly why
because i used to think
i was ugly too

i was an ugly girl
with glasses and nobody
noticed me until i starved myself
down to a double zero because
they all kept bullying me for being fat

and now i’m an ugly boy
but that’s okay
because even dead trees have the
ability to nurture beautiful
life out of their stumps

so no, i will not tell you
that you are beautiful because that
word is used so much and has so many
different definitions of what it is
and isn’t that who is to say what
it really even means anymore

because to me
you are so much more than a pretty face
and kind words

you are the sunrise after a bad night
where i thought i would die
before the sun rose above the tree line again

you are the rain after
a scorching hot day that makes it too
hot to wear my binder

you are the forgiveness
after i tried to leave
and still you stayed
even when i kept on
trying to go

you are the food
that i am still learning not to
be ashamed about eating and enjoying
because weight is just a ****** social
construct like so many other things

you are the calm voice
and steady hands
holding my own shaking ones
when you bring me back
from my anxiety attacks
and promise me it will be okay

you are there
you are here
you are
you are
so much more than beautiful

you are my friend
my confidant
the love blossoming behind my ribs
the scars that wounds become
the pain and happiness and tears

you are so much more
than you think you are

there are three words
on the tip of your tongue
waiting to be grouped into
whatever you want them to be
and they can mean anything
they can heal
they can maim
they can ****
because words scar just like knives

“i love you”
and god did you ever
his eyes that shone with kindness and light
her lips that were always so soft
the first time you kissed a boy
and you held her hand in the mall
not caring who saw you
you have so much love to give
and that makes the past tense
hurt even more

“i’m right here”
and you were
and so were they
when the nightmares got really bad
so bad that they bled over into the day
and seeing great black wings bursting out of
someone's back
sends you reaching out for a hand to hold
something to ground you
because it’s not real
and you’re not crazy

“i need you”
and you always have been selfish
not wanting to be in a world where they
aren’t a text message, a call, or a letter away
because they’ve always been there
even when you hardly were yourself
and you need them
you do
and you probably always will
and that is not a bad thing

“i’m so sorry”
and those three words
are said with tears in your eyes
snot dripping from your nose
and it does not matter why
you are saying sorry
be it because of self-infliction
or otherwise
because you’ve hurt them
but you just don’t want them to go

“please don’t go”
and these words are said
in so many contexts and settings
like reaching out from the bed
and grabbing onto them
because sleeping alone is too quiet
or you run after them
leaving food and drinks to cool
because what good is food
and sleep and drink
if you’ve gotta go it alone

“i love you”
and aren’t those the most
important words that you will ever say
to her and him and them
because they will linger
in the best and worst ways
through years and cities and states
they never go away
because baring your heart and soul
to another person
another being
like that is both the greatest sacrifice
and greatest thing you will ever do

“you’ll be okay”
and a parting gift for you
dear reader and viewer of this work
because even though those three
words do sound cliche
they are the most true things
that have ever been spoken
because you will heal
wounds will scar over
sleepless nights will stop adding up
and you will be so happy to be alive
you’ll be okay
i know it