Panic attack
They told me to calm down.
Told me relax and breathe.
But how does one do that?

Panic attack.
Watch my blood flow.
Carrying the pain that exists.
Watch it run down my throat.

Panic attack.
The red colour overwhelms me.
It carries the colour coded pain we both had.
Trust me to believe the pain flows away.

Panic attack.
They told me to breathe.
But how does one do that when it suffocates.
When the grievances overwhelms me?
When my pain belongs to their happiness.

Panic attack.
Stop asking me to breathe and relax.
My mind is messed up to listen.
My entire body is tired of those words.
I'm surrounded by my horrid past.
Please stop asking me to relax.

Panic attack.
They watched the pain consume me.
They watched my entire self collapse.
They cautiously prayed for my relapse.

Panic attack.

'I never meant to hurt you'

The last words that echoed from her letter.

'I Love you'

Her words lingered in my mind.

'Bang Bang!'

The sound stained my heart.

Send me your suicidal letter and lead me to self harm.

But to commit the crime infront of me, lead me to an asylum

Let me

take

something.

anything

I need to feel     alive? Don't you.

Because we all do.

Don't judge simply because someone sins differently than you.

I’ve been wrestling this since last fall,
peeling my socks off around 2a.m.
and crawling into my nightmares
like a child on her hands and knees.
I’ve tossed my hair in the towel,
examined the scratches on my back
or the bite mark on my shoulder,
juxtaposing them to my flaws,
prying myself open and watching
the little memories flood
from my arteries like insects.
I’ve ******

the energy from my cheeks and given it
to my bones so they may carry
the weight of last year into this year,
the heavy balance between leaving your room
and sitting myself against the frame,
legs to my chest, listening to the unheard voices
telling me to stop loving you.
I’ve cut

you out like bruises on a strawberry,
throwing the bad parts into the black hole
to be grinded and deposited as to be rightfully
grown into something new. But this time,

after we made love on your floor
and counted the stars that left my mouth
every time you touched me like that,

I let myself cling to the light.
I stuffed the empty parts with your remnants,
and latched onto the goodbye kiss.
I’ve been wrestling with you

our bodies so close

since the summer ended and we rejoined
the feelings we spared just to pretend
that we didn’t hear the kettle roar
when we were finished.

Please don’t call me beautiful
when your hands are between my legs,
and god forbid you say it as a seg-way
between you’re so hot
and my caution, your response
you’re sure you don’t want to?
I’m pretty sure the way my body looks,
nineteen and stress-infused with an Oreo belly
isn’t really what you pictured beneath my blouse,
and I’m positive you didn’t listen
to the story about my dad and the bad prom dress
because you cared. It was just sentiment. You said it was beautiful,
but really you wanted me to believe the act
like a description in the Playbill
and ride that trust all the way until the curtain dropped.
Please don’t call me beautiful
when the word ******* is before it
or if we are ******* because making love
is for married couples and you don’t even want me
sticking around for the ****** sunrise that peers
underneath your shade every morning.

Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m crying—
crack me open and watch the colors bleed
like a painting that hasn’t dried. Admire
the light that peaks through the clear parts
like a windowpane, no blinds.
Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m laughing,
when I’m reading my favorite part of a book,
when I’m stuffing my face with peanut-butter
pretzel bites and I haven’t washed my sheets in weeks,
and I’ll know you can’t be lying
because I’ve listened to the waves your heart makes
when you’re sleeping and I’ve called your smile
to the surface many times when you’ve tried
to deflect it back inside. You’ll know that
and you’ll know I’m beautiful.  
Call me beautiful
when you’re not even trying.
Call me beautiful when you’re by yourself
and the smell of my hair is still on your pillow,
or the memory of how dumb I sounded
singing my favorite song breaks your heart back
to the best little pieces.