I don’t fight to stay alive. I fight to function.
I fight for those who need me, for those who would blame themselves.
I fight for those good days.
The ones where my body is my friend.
The memories I can make on those days are the ones that keep me going.

I don’t want to be a prisoner of my past.
I am building my life on the foundation of rock bottom.  
My house has windows that look out over the meadows of the future where my children will play.
My house has a front porch painted yellow, where my husband and I will sit and rock in our chairs singing the songs of happier days yet to come.
I am building my house on this solid rock, reaching up to the heavens for guidance.
I will not be a prisoner of things I cannot change.
I am a survivor, I am strong, and I am building my house.

I drink so I don’t want to **** myself.
I drink to forget the day.
My sorrows are washed away with each sip I take
Of that magical nectar.
Sobriety is hard.
When the alcohol is like a siren
Calling out for just one more date
It’ll be the death of me one day
But at least it won’t hurt.

I don’t want to be sober.
I don’t want to have to be sober.
But I want to be healthy and if I can’t control my drinking then I need help.
Self control has never been what I’m best at.
I want to go out to the bars with my friends and enjoy alcohol that way.
Not drink myself into the next dimension at 1am so that I don’t **** myself.
I want to tell my parents.
But I can’t stand the thought of adding another reason for them to be disappointed in me.
I’m not ready for the accountability and pressure of someone breathing down my neck.
I don’t want to be sober.
I just want to be normal.

I’m tired of writing poems about suicide. I want to write about the trees, how they dance in the wind, and how mother nature’s artistry shows through the leaves as autumn approaches. But it’s hard to write about the beauty of this world when every thought is consuming you, telling you to leave.

I want you to know
You are stronger than you think
You will be okay

Even with me gone
Hold close to our memories
They’re all you have left

Thanks for the flowers
And the bruises you left me
May they never fade

I want you to know
I loved you in so many ways
But I’m letting go

So goodbye to you
My dearest almost lover
My heart still awaits

I am so tired.
I wake up every day more exhausted than the last.
I’m tired of fighting my body,
Through a war I know I cannot win.
I feel like I’m constantly fighting gravity just to stand on my own two feet.
I don’t trust myself when I’m alone,
And I only feel alive when I’m with you,
So please don’t get mad if I hug you a little bit longer,
Or ask to hold your hand,
Because I am so tired
And you are what I’m fighting for.

I like my body when it's with you. You make me feel perfectly imperfect. You're my greatest cheerleader and my worst critic. You know me better than anyone else. You've seen me at my worst, and somehow still want to stick around to see me at my best. You hold the roadmap to my body, knowing every curve, taking some at 110 miles per hour. You know my boundaries and you push my limits. I feel on top of the world when I'm with you. There are days where I'm starved for your touch, the same one that makes me feel loved. You took the quiet girl and made her scream. "Scream for daddy." I've told you once, and I'll say it again. You've got me ******. I've tried. I can't kiss anyone else without thinking of you. You're my best friend, and I wouldn't trade you for the world. But you've got me ******. You make me want to scream in frustration, in excitement, in moans of pleasure, in gasps of pain. Your hands feel like lightning and they're just as powerful with each strike. You take my breath away in a heartbeat. Each shake of my leg is beg for your touch. Is that what I have to do? Beg? Please daddy, harder. You make me want you in every way.

To my sobriety:
I am afraid.
But I am brave.
I hate you.
But I will not misbehave.
I am broken.
I am determined.
I am tempted.
But I maintain my distance from bourbon.
For once my mind is clear.
But there’s a new kind of turmoil in my head.
I’m afraid of the fire.
But I have made my bed.

I don't know how to express to you in a non-toxic way that you make me want to **** myself. And I know that isn't your responsibility to carry, but I swore there was some part of you that cared about me.

You are not physically sick.
--- Its anxiety making you sick.
You are not lazy, you are not pathetic.
--- Its depression whispering in your ear.
Everyone does not hate you.
--- You are just insecure and fear abandonment.

Reasons to stay alive:
1. It would hurt those close to me.
2. No more adventures.
3. I would miss graduating from college.
4. I would miss out on my future family.
5. Because I promised.

You can't just lock people out of your life every time something goes wrong. Instead, set your boundaries and discuss them with the people in your life. You can't get mad at people for crossing boundaries they didn't know where there to begin with.

Change does not come from a place of comfort.

You won't be sad for the rest of your life. Yes, there will be sad days, but there will also be happy ones. Live for the memories you have yet to make.

I asked you what you were doing
Because I wanted to **** myself
And I was looking for something
Anything
For a reason not to do it
I’m looking for a sign
But I can’t see through my own smoke
There’s blood on the floor
There’s bruises around my neck
Maybe those are the signs meant for me.

My heart aches for you, and she’s out there broken into dust, floating among the stars. If you ever go out looking, she’s sitting just above the tree line on the horizon of the place where I fell in love with you. I hope you find your heart, I hope you find your peace, I hope you find the one that you kiss like you care, even if that ones not me.

I’m sick. I’m tired of breathing. It feels heavy and thick and I’m so tired of fighting. I’m exhausted. I don’t give in because complacency is easier than action. They say to take action and make your own destiny when it comes to your mental health. If I take action that means I’ll be dead. So for now I sit and wait for the storm to pass. But I keep crying and those tears are the rain. My screams are the thunder. These bruises are the craters on the mountain side made from the electrical power of the neurological lightening. I’m just tired. I miss my sunshine. I’m fried and I’m burnt. I’m so scared of dying but I think I’m more scared of trying to fight this and losing myself.

Thank God for rainy autumn mornings,
where the mist lies just above the amber leaves,
Lord, for the dragging dreary days,
to remind me of your peace.
For the mountains that blend into the sky,
like an ocean on the darkening horizon,
the morning turns to day, and the day turns to night,
then you emerge, God, showing your stars like diamonds.

And if you choose to stay,
Mark my words:
"I AM LOVE; and my love will not stray."
My breath is like the wind; my lips are the sky.
Be careful where the words of lighting strikes,
Love will not die.

August 30th 2017
I woke up missing you today.
I could feel your hand on my hip and your breath on my neck.
I could hear your lullabies of sweet seduction whispering in the background.
I woke up missing the way you made me feel.
Waking up beside you was like waking up in Heaven.
I felt nothing but bliss and all the happiness in the world was held in your eyes.
Those galaxies of wonder.
You held the sun in your smile and I always enjoyed how I could stare at the sun without getting burnt.
But one day came where I got burnt.
I would give anything for just one more day to wake up beside you and for all to be okay.
But alas, your mouth no longer holds the sun, only empty promises.
Your hands haven't touched my body in almost 3 months. I can still feel them as if I was being taunted by a ghost.
But your eyes are still the keeper of the galaxies.
And somewhere out there floating among the stars is my broken heart.
If you find her, treat her well. I don't want her back. She was always yours after all.

August 30th 2017
I woke up missing you today.
I wiped away my tears and just as the sun rose, I let it wash away.
Because the sun is the sun. And you are not the sun.

You become annoyed by a flash,
make a rude comment,
and go on with our day.
A wasted breath,
The pictures you hate are the ones I savor.

Let me tell you a little story.
A story of a girl named Rose.
She was my best friend.
The quiet girl with the kindest soul.
She never spoke in public but once we were alone she would never shut up.
She was the prettiest girl I have ever laid my eyes upon, the prettiest girl I have ever laid my hands on.
The prettiest girl I have ever loved.

When I met her, she was cliche.
She had stick straight red hair, glasses, freckles, skinny, and always had a book in her hand.

When she died she looked like death was her personal designer with a gay sidekick.

I could spend years describing this beautiful girl I called Rosie, but you would never be able to fully comprehend her beauty because I have no proof of the girl she once was.

A beautiful red rose.

Alcohol calls me like a siren to the sea.

To the ******* a diet, temptation is a cupcake.
To the recovering alcoholic, temptation is a cold one.
To the gay girl trying not to be gay, temptation comes in the form of a red head with freckles.
To the red head with freckles, temptation is the girl with the Jesus tattoo and piercings.


I am no cupcake. I am the devil personified. Perhaps a demon in her eyes.
I am her temptation and its a nasty place to be.

I think I'd just rather be a cupcake.

Anxiety is rocking back and forth at 1am like a small frightened child.
It's slowly pulling every single hair out of your arms.
It's biting your nails, and picking at your skin.
It's those tiny snaps that make no noise.

Anxiety is taking a curve at 110 mph.

Anxiety is my red hair.
Its the first thing that people see about me, and the first thing they assume is fake.

Anxiety is puking. Having no control over your body and becoming physically ill.

Its replying to a text message .2 seconds after it was received and then turning off your phone because you don't want to see the other persons response to your swift reply.

Anxiety is noticing. Its noticing the minute changes in tone, posture, manurisims and ticks, music choices when you are around, and how often they use descriptive words that could subconsciously be describing you.

Anxiety is failed medications, after failure, after failure, after failure, after failure, after failure. You become the failure.

Anxiety is a broken record.
Knowing that everything is fine, still panicking at the drop of a pin.
Its replaying conversations you've had with others over the mental dispute of one tiny word, even years after the conversation occurred.
Its overthinking.
It's constantly wondering if your hands are in the right position, if your resting ***** face is showing, or if you have a hair on the wrong side of your part.
It's locking the door, both locks, checking the locks, leaving, turning around and checking the locks again, leaving, and then turning around to make sure the iron is off.

Anxiety is not ordering food because you don't want to talk to the wait staff, nor eat infront of others because you know you will make a mess of yourself.

Anxiety is constantly being a clumsy fool. It's things you can't control and it's faceplants on concrete.
It's making plans in advance, way in advance. It's asking your friends what their plans for New Year's Eve are, even though it's only March.
It's wanting to ask a girl out on a date, even though you have been on multiple with her, and trying to schedule it two and a half months in advance.

Anxiety is lists.
It's remembering what time you brushed your teeth this morning, but forgetting the childhood story your friend told you 5 minutes ago.
It's repeating yourself because you forget your own words from 5 minutes ago.
It's looking in the mirror and seeing a stranger.
It's waking up while driving down the road, having no clue what's went on in the past 24 hours.

Anxiety is like drinking on a hangover.
It's mental, it's physical, it's psychotic.
It's seizures, it's palpitations, it's hospital trips with whispers of a straight jacket.

Anxiety is more than being afraid of a stage, anxiety is the downfall of me.

To 2016:
I'd love to say that I hated you, but to be honest, you made me grow.
You gave me direction. You pulled me out of a 4 month long rock bottom depression, showed me what I wanted to do in my life and sent me on my way.
You gave me two semesters of college, and a decision.
You gave me my first teaching experience, and you taught me the true value of patience.
You brought some new friends into my life and reunited me with old ones. You also got rid of a few, but I trust that's for the best.
You explained to me how easily I can be used.
You showed me that relationships don't define me, and that even if I think I am in love, life goes on and that I am an independent woman.
You blessed me with a baby, and then you took it away. But within that you gave me hope.
You sent me through hookups, drunken texts, hospital trips, gallons of tears and two D&Cs.;
You helped me on my wavering journey in my walk with God. You led me to being Baptized and you gave me the one chance in my life to feel that I was my family's priority.  
You taught me that it's okay to not always have the answer to everything, including the question of "who are you?".
You taught me to accept the word queer and make it my own. Like a beautiful pair of glasses, this is how I see the world.
You taught me the value of family after my dads accident, and then again after the baby.
And even after all the drama, fights, murders, and injustices, 2016, you taught me that a bad year isn't always a bad as we make it seem, and that even on our darkest days, there is a lesson to be learned.
And to 2016: Thank you.

I have replaced my liquor with hot herbal tea,
the lines on my skin with lines on the paper,
my razor blade with a pencil,
and this time I'm not using the sharp metal end as something destructive.

Did anyone ever stop to think that maybe mother earth has anxiety?
We say that nature can be cruel and work in mysterious ways, but she is mute. A language is always mysterious to a foreign tongue.
Perhaps my dear mother earth has anxiety.
The earthquakes are outbursts like an autistic child’s, she is begging to be heard.
She screams with thunder and any words she can muster up are nothing but whispers in the wind.
Tsunamis are angry fists slamming down on the dining room table, but no one cares to listen.
She grasps towards the heavens in attempts for everything to stop spinning, so that maybe the chaos within her will depart in one single blow.
No one cared to listen to the mute child in the corner or the room, who has always been in the corner of the room, who has been ignored and forgotten, only acknowledged when something is needed from her.

We were the voices in her head.
Each individual person chipping away at her sanity, and leaving tire tracks in her down trodden forests.
Maybe mother earth had anxiety,
maybe mother earth is dead.

You are still the pain in my chest.
You are the person I long for on cold winter nights and I dream of you arms around my waist.
I still ache for your lips on mine and those three simple words.
I wish I had the strength to hate you, but it's taking everything I have not to love you with every breath.
You are the knots in my stomach and tear on my cheek.
You are still the pain in my chest.
You are every part of me that I loathe.

You told me to write about the trees and the flowers.
But what you didn't realize is its winter.
The trees are bare
The flowers are dead
And so am I.

"God. You're so ugly without your makeup. You know you really shouldn't show your face in public. You don't want to end up on that People of Walmart website."

Yeah I know.

"No seriously. You look like you've been hit by a bus."

Nope. Not hit by a bus. Just your ****** comments.

"You know they say sarcasm is just a deflection of an internal struggle, it's an underling issue to something bigger. Maybe you're going crazy."

I'm not going crazy. I'm getting my **** together. I'm in college now.

"Yeah, sure."

No. I wake up at a reasonable hour everyday. I take a shower and do my hair and make up. I do my homework and I make good grades. How can I be crazy when I'm getting my **** together. I have my **** together!

"Look at your room."

What about it?

"It's a mess."

So what?

"It's a mess. Just like you are. You are a mess."

I am not.

"You can shut the door and pretend it doesn't exist. Just like you're doing with that mask you put on every morning. Beyond these walls you're a fake. But behind them, they show who you truly are."

And what's that?

"That you're crazy and chaos. Your room represents what's on the inside. You're falling apart."

I am not crazy.

"Not crazy? As if. You've just been talking to your reflection for the past 10 minutes. Just like you have every day for the past four years. Just wait sweetie, one day I'll come out and play."

After that night the bags under my eyes never went away and streams of white hair made their appearance.
My insides felt like they were planning a revolt and every bit of humanity I had left vanished with a siren like shriek.
My tears felt like acid and the carpet still looks bleached where they fell from the waterfall on my face.
My breath had been stolen by the two ton weight on my chest and I didn't want it back.
My heart had proclaimed its demise because surely nothing can strive after being torn in two.
My eyes wept, my mind wept, even the hands that you used to hold so dear have wept.
After that night my fear has never went away, and even with death, my love never will.

*Some broken hearts just cannot mend.

I can't tell you what it's like to feel like dying.
I can't tell you how I'm so afraid of death but I play with it like its a childhood friend.
I can't tell you what it's like to cry yourself to sleep for the 47th night in a row.
I can't tell you how I feel when I wake up screaming in the middle of the night.
I can't tell you, but I can show you.
I can show you what it's like to feel like dying in my playful smile and dull eyes.
I can show you what it's like to be afraid of death but play with it because I have scars on my body but I refuse to go to a funeral.
I can show you what it's like to cry yourself to sleep for 47 nights in a row by my blood shot eyes and bags underneath with tear stains covering my pillow.
And I can show you how It feels to wake up in the middle of the night screaming by the empty Xanax bottle in the bottom of my purse.
I can't always tell you the things that are going through my mind, but you can't say that I never showed you.

There are things you come to accept when you live in a small town south of the Mason Dixon Line,
not being able to speak out about liberal policies is one of these things.

Even at nearly 19 years old I have a hard time grasping at the reality of death.
Yes it happens to everyone, the thief in the night who claims the old and the sick as easy prey.
But when it comes to the death of a young person, my mind can't process it. They weren't old, or sick. They were healthy and laughing, and now they cease to exist.
I still have moments where I'll pick up my phone and go to text that young person.
The one that I feel like moved across country or just doesn't come around anymore.
It's hard to believe that it's been 3 years...
And even at almost 19 I still have a hard time grasping at the reality of your death.

Hi, this isn't a poem, and I apologize if that is what you expected.
I have had a couple of you guys messaging me, asking what happened, and why I haven't been posting like I used to.
Poetry is my outlet and way of expression. I don't have much to write about, and I'm not going to force a poem to make some of you happy.
I appreciate all the love and comments I have been receiving on the poems I have posted so far this year, but as time goes on, I have less time to write. College is crazy and a new chapter of my life is beginning.
I am by no means leaving Hello Poetry, however my writings will be sparse, saved for when I have a true story to share.

Never give up on your prayers. Even if you've been praying for the same thing for the past 5 years, don't give up. They eventually do get answered in due time. That's what I went through and I felt like God wasn't listening or like He had gave up on me. No. He was just waiting for the full lesson to be taught.
For the person out there who might be struggling with their faith, you are most certainly not alone in this. My faith has been like a roller coaster and I just now feel like I'm where I'm supposed to be.
I knew I needed change in my life, and I knew that change needed to happen before I would be secured in my faith. I gave up and gave it to God. I was trying to figure it all out on my own, and I didn't need to. Just lay the broken pieces at the Saviors feet!

Those stretch marks are not tiger stripes.
Instead, they are the waves and ripples in the reflection of the ocean on the side of a boat.
They are proof,
of a death before birth.
Proof of a still born baby's water birth,
and how the pool of blood and fluid leftover from the trauma,
became salt water poisoned by tears.
The red lines are the way her eyes looked.
Blood shot and bruised from the previous blows.
They are proof that she lived.
That the ***** donor that does not deserve the title of father, lived.  
And that the baby girl is dead.
She never got to see her eyes open.
Do not romanticize those stretch marks,
saying that they are stripes that were earned.
They are nothing but scars of a horrifying event that she is reminded of every time she sees a baby,
and every time she looks at her body,
because she is no tiger.

Will I walk by the river,
with you by my side?
Or will I lift my eyes in Hell,
for believing in a lie?
I love you more than anything,
I'm not ashamed of where we've been,
but I'm afraid of the fire,
if our love is a sin.

You ask me why I'm so guarded,
Why I won't let you in,
And why I stayed in bed for three months after my 18th birthday.
Maybe you should be asking why my favorite movie is perks.

We love the things we relate with.

I wish to get out and do things with my life,
before tomorrow becomes today,
and the future is here.
My youth is fleeting.
My body is aging.

It's a liberating experience. Leaving the house for the first time in eight years without something constricting my ******* that are supposed to be shamed by society if I left them to go free range. My body is not something I will let be shamed by society. I am a grown woman and I will not be constricted, I will not be hooked in
My ******* and my body are not something that I should be ashamed of. This summer I will be free. This summer they will be free.
Summer is not only for the men with flat chests and leg hair. Summer is for the women with curves and fat and stretch marks from bearing life. Summer is for fat girls in bikins and sunbathing **** within the proper setting with no shame.
Because our bodies....no matter what size, shape or color are something to be worshiped and loved. Not constricted.
So this summer I will be free, and this summer I will finally show the hidden and best parts of me.

I feel like I've forgotten how to breathe. Like the wave is coming down on me and I've forgotten how to swim.

Time may heal all wounds,
But it kisses goodbye with scars.

You have to learn to be content with sleeping on your own,
With sitting by yourself,
With singing by yourself.
You have to learn to be content with thinking on your own,
With singing by yourself,
With fighting by yourself.
You have to learn to be content with being on your own.

Your kisses used to taste like love,
But now kisses taste a lot like leaving.
When the past calls,
I will not answer.
I cannot let myself be toiled with delusions of grandeur,  
Sighing at a wilted garden once called Eden.
This garden, being the same one we built together,
Belonging to us both,
Has long been abandoned.  
I will let the wilting red roses die,
Just like the memory of the way your kisses taste,
Just like the way you let our love die.

The time has come again, where I have put down my pen,
my tool into the literary world.
I have betrayed myself as a poet, and my followers know it,
fighting with my words, forcing a sentence.

The time has come again, where I have put down my pen,
Goodbye.

Sometimes I wonder if I should leave,
and do what's right.
I can't stand the thought of sleeping alone...
Just me and my thoughts at night.

When you told me I was doing great for a woman my size, I passed you off and told myself that "compliment" had good intentions.
When you called me sweet cheeks I ignored you. A woman like me is used to men like you.
When you told me the stair master made my *** look bangin, I was both honored and appalled.  My *** may be my greatest feature but ****** comments have their place and the gym is not one of them.
When you asked me for my number, you were rude, acting in a way in which no gentleman should act. I told you no. And I meant no.
When you called me a ***** loud enough for the whole gym to hear, you were only making yourself look bad.
When you came up and wrapped your arm around my shoulder and told me you were going to take me out for a good time on friday night, I was terrified and suddenly praying for a **** whistle.
When you insisted I promptly informed you I was lesbian, and to let you down gently, not my type.
When you called me a **** I took no offense, that word has become meaningless. Then you told me it must be a phase, that I just hadn't been with a man like you. That you could change me.
When you said "hop on this **** ****" I was done with your games. I pushed you aside and when you ****** my shoulder back you were the one to end up with their *** on the ground.
Dear namless man at the gym,
When you said you could help me through my phase, you were wrong. Being gay is not my phase. Being straight was.

Cause it’s all just paper in the end,
Were all just stuck here playing pretend.
Some of us acting like we god,
While other have never even heard of a ****** iPod.
We pray to that god at the end of the day,
And then curse his name if things don’t go our way.
We’re corrupted and ****** up, dishin’ out blame,
Wishing for superman, left with some ******* named...
Who gives a **** with his name if they’re all just fuckboys ,
Woman pick yourself up you’re repressed by the man, part of his ploy!
And were all stuck here playing pretend,
Might as well make you name a story for the end.

But what if writing doesn't even help?

April 14, 2008 was a Monday. My family had just moved into a new house, we were starting a new life, and I was starting a new school. I was 10 years old then. I thought that moving schools and leaving all my friends behind was the worst thing in the world, the worst thing that could ever happen. I didn't realize it then, but moving was the best thing that ever could have happened to me. At Mulberry Elementary, I was put into Mrs. Bell's fourth grade class. I remember the principal standing behind me with her hand on my shoulder as I tried not to make eye contact with all the faces who were staring at me. I was terrified. I think the teacher could tell how scared I was. She sat me beside of a blonde haired girl named  Katlyn. I was an over weight, ginger kid with glasses; and Mrs. Bell knew she was the only one who would be nice to me. That year, she was the only one who was nice to me. I remember thinking how weird this girl was with all the faces she made. I also remember being confused, because the way she made me feel inside, was something I had never felt. Soon enough we became best friends. We were inseparable. Throughout the years we have gone our separate ways, had a couple of fights, and even more kisses. It was always you I came back to in the end. They say that love is kind, and patient, and works in mysterious ways. And now there's one more Love to add to that.
One day in fourth grade, I took her hand and looked her in the eye. I about broke down as we promised to be best friends for forever and sealed it with a pinkie promise. Today, I married my best friend and sealed it with a kiss...and a pinkie promise.

I love you with my thoughts and the deepest interwoven workings of my mind.
In my love for you, my heart is irrelevant.