I have never been quite sure why I like
To press my teeth into skin just like so

Maybe some animalistic instinct, as lionesses in heat bite the ***** of males when they want to mate

Maybe some innate claim to be made to the world, in dental record no less, that I have made this one my own

Marked. Claimed.

I still have a bruise on my arm, still feel your hair in my fingers

Smitten. Bitten.

I want so much, much more than I deserve

I want your time, and your energy. More than you're willing to invest.

I want your opinions and your flirtations and your humor and your giggles and silly noises, not that I am even worthy.

You see, I want. I covet. I wish. If I could, I'd take without a second thought. But I cannot be that person, I am not that person.

So I want. And yet, that is still a sin.

So I burn, I writhe, I want, I need

my heart beats so fast whenever you're near me, my body temperature rises, my face flushes... of course I'll go to hell for this

I want to tell you how much I want you. But fear leaves the words ash in my mouth.

Never me, questioning if the giving up is worth it
                             I **** well know I'm worth it

Never me, questioning if the fire really is as hot as I think
                             I can't and won't be burned again

Never me, questioning if this is really what I'm meant to be doing
                             Flee to the woods, girl, run yelling

Never me, pretending my feelings are erasable and mundane
                             Scream, let it out, you know you want to

Never me, logic and feeling arguing past the point of insanity
                             You were meant for bigger things, girl

Never me, trying to fuse all my feelings into a cohesive thought.

My body is not a burial ground for
someone else's wasted potential
and I really wish men would stop
assuming that it is.

I hate to be that girl
But I'd really like for someone to just
Actually pick me for once.

It's waiting on the sidelines of every ******* dance, praying that someone would see the brilliance of my soul,
Under this ******* skin suit
Forever and ever

Repeat, replay, again and again
I just hope that the stars or the moon or whatever Gods I believe in today will just,
******* have faith in me,
Like I try to have faith in them.

If the lesson is that I need to be comfortable with being alone,
Then I'm unwilling to be the student. I'm unchanging and unwavering.
I just want to be ******* loved,
The way I ******* deserve by someone that I actually want to be loved by.
It's really not that much to ask

I am not the woman men stay with,

I am just the woman men stay the night with.

Just, you know,
How desperately I yearn for human connection
Or how impossible I think I am to love
Or how I find the best in absolutely everyone
Or how I'm out to heal every broken person I've ever touched

Or maybe how hands look like necklaces in just the right setting
Or how I yearn for someone to just take my breath away
Literally, figuratively, all of the above
How I wish to be claimed, marked

Or how the wild side of me tames in the mundane
And I loved being a wife, I just had a husband that never loved me
That I would lay the world open for the right man, that I would create a thousand universes and souls for the right man...

But no. We keep those things to ourselves.

If there is one thing that I know,
it's that the throbbing ache that's in
the cavern beneath my sternum

Feels a lot like my heart is held
Captive, prisoner, rattling
Against the rib-bone bars of jail

Humans weren't meant to be alone
I know this in the empty pit of my soul,
I know it in the desperate ache in my chest
The burning in my eyes as I stare into the ever after

I fixate on it, so much, the empty darkness,
the last gasp of breath with no comfort,
the burning in my throat as I struggle to breathe
My one true fear is drowning in my own lungs.

But this, reaching for someone who isn't there,
who may never be there
This terrifying yearning to connect,
to feel like I won't ever ******* connect.
This is my damnation.

Sleep would be a literal dream
But I play it over and over and over again
Sitting in the dark, staring at the ugly pattern stamped into the ceiling
It just doesn't make sense.

How can you tell me to take up space,
But get frustrated when my feelings get
Too big, too chaotic?
I guess I'll always be too much.

I grew so big, I guess I'm the one that somehow created
This canyon between us
Where there was once mere centimeters.

I thought I knew who I was,
But that's just something I tell myself
When I need to feel better I guess
Because I've never known who I am
Without loving someone else.

So the minutes tick on, and I'm not sure whether or not to text you.
So the sun goes down, and minutes turn to hours turn to days.
And I blink again, again. Beg sleep to find me.
Call out for the sandman.
Or any man, I guess.
It doesn't seem I know how to choose.

Hearts have brain cells. They know. They warn you when **** is about to hit the fan.

That sinking feeling in your chest? That's intuition babe. It always has been.

But when that sinking feeling feels so much like that flying, falling feeling, it's hard to unravel which is really which.

So I'm done. I'm done. I give up. I can't trust myself, can't trust a man, can't trust the words that someone says, can't unravel the "I love you" from the "I don't know what I want."

I am chambers fully loaded, blood pumping, always ready. So willing. Send me into war for you, I'll come back a victor.

Send me away?

They'll write back home about my efforts and valiant attempts, but I will be nothing more than a story someone tells someday, disintegrated bones, sticks and stones, she who didn't need love anyway, wanted it so badly, didn't need it... But only ever got herself.

I will claim this, the power I have over you
The intense attraction that pulls me back to you
Onto you
Perfect fit, so easy, so simple

I don't have to think about how much I want you
That much is evident in the waterfall
At the end of the hike
Both of which I enjoy equally

But *******, the power to make you fall to your knees
The feast that you're willing to make of
The famished
The way you are so willing to drown
Just for me

How could I ever pretend not to feel like a
Goddess
again?

I miss my parents more than I thought I would at 30.

That's not to say I forgive them, or want to speak to them, or want to actually see them.

Maybe I don't miss my parents, but I miss the thought of having parents at all. The safety and idealism of being able to fall back into someone's loving arms.

Except, what I experienced wasn't love at all..  wasn't familial bonds, wasn't safety, wasn't security, wasn't the basic needs of my childhood being fulfilled...

I often joke I was raised by a wolf pack. But only if that wolf pack was a lone wolf, myself, by myself always as leader of a pack.

I still hoard canned goods like the apocalypse might happen, like I might not have money, like I might have to throw a couple things in a pan and make it edible for three kids

I miss my parents, or what should have been parents but was instead a cold dark cave with nothing but the growls of hungry bellies.

I miss the wolves, oh wait, my parents, oh wait, when I look in the mirror I see her cheekbones and his eyebrows and I can't help but want to push my fist right through the glass.

The wolves, I mean black sheep, I mean parents that begot me always haunt my reflection, always come through in the worst ways as I reflect on my life, how do you reflect on this and feel gratitude?

I miss my parents, or the idea of having parents, I guess.

I didn't realize that it would hurt to see your name.
Why do I always open my stupid ******* mouth?

I've only ever been good at ******* **** up for myself

Who needs a faux pas when your mouth opens and you should bury your head in the sand?

The four walls around me have felt like a prison for longer than I'm willing to admit on paper

But I'd do the time again and again if it meant I could spend one more minute hearing your laugh, one more second watching the sparkle in your eyes, one more hour holding you in my arms, our hearts beating against each other.

There is something insane about me, sure. You'll hear that a lot, my boy. I've made poor choices. I've done wild things. I've lived enough lives for seven people. I've gone through literal hell.

But it was all worth it to be your mom. It will all be worth it to watch you grow.

Prison, I suppose, isn't so bad with a cool bunkie.

The ring finger is supposed to be the loveline, the path right to the heart, the "right" line

But I've seen far more work from index fingers, middle fingers, the palm of a large calloused hand pressed just right...

The ring finger means so little in the frame of a life, marriage just a pretty little lie we tell ourselves to excuse lust, to pretend like we're not all animals ourselves

I'd wager the true loveline is the one that points arrows below the bellybutton, that makes a leg shoot out too straight, that curls toes

Is love even a line, or just a black hole leading to a womb, the place where all things begin?

Scene one, Childhood

I never really learned to emotionally regulate,
Taking clues from Nickelodeon more than parents who set good examples,
Screaming fights and bruises and broken glass
Too much drinking, the smell of cigarettes
Moms broken bones
Make yourself small, make yourself gone
They may not notice you.

We played family a lot, curtaining blankets over a bunk bed to block the outside, and in family, I always took care of my babies.

Scene two, 18

I never really learned to emotionally regulate, taking clues from the friends around me more than parents who set any example.
A false father leaving, a mom losing her cash cow
The smell of Arbor Mist and ***** still makes me sick, mom’s incoherent fists still make contact in my sleep, I still wouldn’t have given her the keys.

We don’t play anymore. We’re mostly estranged. But we work. And in family, I always took care of my babies.

Scene three, 28

I’m trying to learn to emotionally regulate, the slideshow of couches and faces of therapists trying to set an example.
A son born to trauma, a marriage of consequence, I’m still learning to love myself, please, the sound of yelling still makes me sick,
I don’t know how to do this.

We are grown now, we are mostly put together. And now we live. But this is my family, and I will always take care of my babies

I was conceived on acid and whippets, the drugs a kaleidoscope of umbilical dreams.
I was conceived on bad luck and lust, from darkness and sexually exploitive childhood trauma.
I was conceived on teenage dreams and difficult childhoods, to black sheep children of 17.

I was raised on addiction and narcissism, a love bomb here and authoritarian abuse there.
I was raised on the chess long game, to lose a piece here means to win at the end.
I was raised on 2000s tv, Lorelei Gilmore my wish for a mother, Rory my idol.

I taught myself strength in building up a fantasy on the outside while my castle crumbled within.
I picked myself up by the tendrils of a lost childhood, by the whispers of good memories, by the hiding places I found in pages upon pages of someone else’s imagination.

And I let it all go at 28. To find peace. To start over. To build myself a new castle with no more haunted corners or echoes of pill bottles or smells of ***** and orange juice permeating the breaths of those who walk these sacred halls.
Rib cage cut open, heart destroyed and renewed, ancient umbilical nooses cut with teeth.

I will no longer fall victim to my mother’s circumstances or my father’s mistakes, I will never have the soul I’ve created look at me and ask himself if he is loved or safe.

I am cycle breaker,
I am generational karma’s worst ******* fear,
I am no longer frightened maiden,
I am fearsome mother.
I am new.

I wonder if you remember, sitting on your porch smoking a cigarette while I sat on mine

It took me this long to sit back and think about who you used to be.
It's been hard to pick through all of the ****, rotting away the parts of my brain
that have forgotten who we used to be.

It wasn't always this vat of putrid waste, of tossed away hopes, of the essence of failure, of distrust and hatred.

Once before, a fire burning warm, hands held tight, drowning beers and speaking over the dead.

Now the castaways of a shadow's burden, haunting the spirits of the back of our minds.

I'd forgotten what you were like before this, but I can remember now.

Time is the thing that ruins us all, I think.

We hold too much faith on a timeline. "You can't text a boy until after 3 days," "don't have *** with someone you just met," "you barely know each other, don't get too close."

But time has never stopped to look around and cease what its doing so I could collect my ****, why should I wait for time to collect his?

We all live until we die, but with a false timeline narrative in place, keeping up with Mr. Jones and his wife, watching my friends have more babies around me, are we really living if we're in a constant battle that resets every 24 hours?

525,600 minutes and I want to spend them all crushing and rushing and running towards my goals, towards my dreams, towards my love.

"You don't love him, you barely know him, you haven't spent enough time together."

Time is just an illusion of your making, a figment of our shared consciousness. And I have always been a little off beat, a little out of sync.

Move in. Share the bed. The smell of coffee in the morning to wake. The sound of footsteps to the shower.

I'm not giving away any of my minutes with you.

The way my name wraps around his mouth
is the same way I've wrapped my mouth
around him, 100 times, probably more, I stopped keeping track.

What do I have to change?
                             everything
          nothing

And we have been down this road, with its curves and twists, at least 100 times, maybe less, I stopped keeping track.

And I fail to squash it every ******* day, but I will never not miss him. Never not hear his laugh in my dreams.

What do I need to work on?
                             everything
            nothing

Happily ever after seems far away.

I wonder if you remember some of the things I do...
The way your name tumbled out of my mouth as I took careful instruction
on just where to touch...
Or the hours we spent talking about nothing.
Or the way I used to be...
Or if I am just the me I am now,
still lost but still bold and unafraid,
with different scars and deeper forehead wrinkles.
Aging is irrelevant in this part of my head, you're still just as much welcome to this body as you were before.
But I don't need instructions on how to make myself scream your name anymore, I can do that all on my own...

Though help is always appreciated.

Can I just
                 S
                    t
                      u
                 ­       m
                           b
                             l
                               e
                   into your arms again and again?

Hear me out,
5 years will pass quickly and slowly.
A jumble of seconds, slow and steady to create another 525,600 minutes to close out this last chapter.

Growth comes and goes in waves, realization its steady companion. We are still so ******* young.

Perhaps Peter Pan had it right. I do not want to be grown yet, stuck between birth and death; I watch time tumble treacherously through my fingers like quicksand, no where to go but down.

Yet I can pick you up like a favorite book. I've seen all the creases and fades and lines and letters before, but it's been 5 long years and there's something exciting about you still.

If this steady crawl to the end is it for all of us, perhaps I'll meet you in the next life. Maybe next time, we can get it right.

Laid up on the couch with one leg casually tossed over yours,
the room still vaguely spinning with one eye open.
Maybe downing 4 beers in an hour wasn't such a good idea, but my anxiety got the better of me, and I didn't know what else to do while everyone else stared at their phones and I stared at you, memorizing the planes of your face so I won't forget them again.
My head is pounding and I doze, YouTube in the background. It has to be late, or early.
The fan blows against my skin and I peek to see if you are still there. Yup. Okay. Breathe, Mel, breathe.
The nauseating feeling of being left again roils my stomach. Or maybe that's the beer again.
It has to be early, or late. But this moment will burn in my memory for days as I psychoanalyze everything I've done wrong that could make you want to run.
Is it early or late?
I wake up and you're not there, but when I stumble to the bathroom you're laying in your bed and I would join you but the room is still spinning and I need to just lay back down.

It has long been time to say goodnight,
The hands of the clock caressing my face, lulling me into secluded silence.
But I can still smell your skin on me, feel the bite of the binds.
And so the cigarette still burns. On. And on. And on. And the tears still fall. On. And on. And on.
Agony is telling the same story over and over until you believe it. "I'm fine, I don't think about it anymore. I'm over it."
And then you see something. Or hear something. Or read the ******* newspaper. And your name is never under arrest.
Maybe you never hurt anyone again. Maybe you only took my voice.
Maybe the cigarette still burns so close to my fingers that I have scars. Maybe I still wait for sleep. Maybe you'll catch fire to that bed dropping a cigarette. Maybe the flames will take you.
Maybe I can wait for the next time the pain will hit. Maybe I can smoke another cigarette.

I married the knight
instead of my Prince Charming.
My heart is empty.

There is no way to get rid of your demons besides exorcism.
Mine must be as buff as Marines the way I talk about them,
Exercising, jumping jacks, squats.
Those ******* have been around as long as my gap tooth has been closed.
I have given them pet names. One is "What If," the other "Past." They like to dance merrily on my tongue as I talk to myself wandering around my house.
They like to be written about, self absorbed and aware as they are that they exist.
What If is the one that yells "hey, hey, look over here!" Past is an introvert, hiding shyly among my innermost workings.
Occasionally, like most super buff dudes do, they get drunk and want to play. That's when the danger starts.
What If is a flirter. He really likes to hit it and quit it with my emotions. Past is that sappy guy that sits at the end of the bar and doesn't say a whole lot, but you can tell he just broke up with his girlfriend by the way he sighs into his drink.
These drunk ******* really need to knock their **** off, if only to let me sleep soundly for a single night.

This is for the people who don't have the suicide hotline number memorized just in case.
For the people who have never cried sitting across from a counselor because their lives are actually perfect.
For the people who have never chainsmoked a pack of cigarettes while their brain flirts with the danger of "what if..."
Whose hands don't shake uncontrollably with the memories of what used to be.
This is for the people who haven't drank an entire bottle just for the peace of sleep
The people who haven't wondered if waking up isn't the scariest part of their day
This is for the people who weren't diagnosed with PTSD, Anxiety, and Depression all in a spin of words.
The people who don't have to hold themselves together with fake promises that survival is only half the battle.
To the people who have never met the call of a razor blade with the skin of their bodies.
This is for the people who say that mental illness is just whining.
Do you realize just how lucky you actually are?