I've been the best friend,
the girlfriend,
the villain,
and the victim.
now I don't know who to become.

I miss the feelings I got from being high,
of belonging to the static in my mind.
I miss closing my eyes and just thinking,
waking up without a memory of anything
besides a feeling I only ever got with a pill
or two or ten,
but now I'm beside myself
feeling things I can't verbalize without beating the words to death,
and I can't handle any more death,
lost all my energy after creating a eulogy for everyone I tried to be.
all the butterflies in my stomach are words I swallowed once upon a time,
choked them down,
choked on them,
and I'm still trying to cough them out
all this time later.
I know breathing exercises,
but I don't think those matter when I can't catch my breath.
some things never change.

When I drive, I spend more time looking in the rearview mirror than I do in front of me.
No, that isn’t a metaphor, I mean it literally.
It’s more appealing to live in memories, forget the trauma as it’s happening.
I may never change, but I like living in the illusion of safety.

I have magic in me.
I can change my memories
to see myself differently.

The arms of a stranger feel like home when they hold you just right.
I saw the devil in his eyes;
I knew he had a past deeper than I could comfortably swim,
but none of that matters when “home” feels like more than just a word again.
I wanted to feel this feeling before it forgot me
but time wouldn’t slow and I couldn’t go
anywhere with him holding me down
oh, God, why didn’t I just stay
home?

A pin dropped onto my carpet, but I thought it was a body hitting the floor,
ran to check the front door, stopped to watch the cars’ light show.
I found no danger but had to check again when I heard a voice two rooms and a floor away whisper,
“You don’t need to sleep;” it felt like a dream.
I laid back down. All the lullabies I sing when babysitting taste like caffeine.
I lie in bed, in between awake and asleep, somewhere between nightmares and reality.
The light switch won’t turn off, the sun is right in my eyes,
I thought sleep was supposed to come naturally.

Pin prickles in my **** hand again;
I should get a handle on this
before I completely forget how to hold things
together
and lose myself in tangled, labyrinth veins.
Sneaky, the past catches up,
grabs me by the throat, but I don't choke;
I don't feel it, but I do feel myself slipping down
into oblivion, further and further from help.
She watches, sinks further into her chair,
further into her shell, leaves before she can be
categorized "scathed."
Reality bit her hard long ago,
and she hasn't left her head since.
But this isn't about her;
it's about realizing the clock still says 12:21am
and only half comprehending
that it isn't "still,"
that 24 hours have passed
and I didn't notice a single second.
I sat here trying to shake off the pins and needles
in my foot
and wondering why I never find myself standing
after another loss.
I shake and quiver and try to breathe,
but I'm too busy holding my breath.
I complain because she could've been saved
but didn't want to be,
but I'm no different.
I'm at a loss for words – idiomatic, idiotic,
how does one explain a literal void?
I write the words, but they write themselves off,
they were never there.
I guess the same could be said about me – never there.
But there's physical proof that I was,
proof that I am not a figment of my own imagination,
though I am a victim of it.
A victim of a withering mind, a wandering heart;
isn't that what a writer is?
After I write this, I will scavenge for a needle
and a spool of thread –
after what's broken is fixed,
maybe I'll stop feeling these incessant pins and needles.