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.

I hadn't yet grown into my body
or my mind,
but I never had the time
to worry about it.
I guess I can see it now
when I keep my eyes open,
and I remember it was such a hard habit to stop
sleeping with one eye open,
and I'm afraid of going back.
I know my mind is pretty enough
when I imagine a garden
and even though it might be dying,
I'll plant plastic flowers.
will anyone notice the difference?

He doesn't say my name anymore; not since the first time around. I am baby girl, angel, gorgeous. He hasn't said my name since that day.
"Well, ---, I don't think this is going to work."
That was the day I drove to the boat ramp at my lake, cut the brakes in my car, and waited.
The day I quit my job, dropped out of school, and deleted all of my social media account.
The time I dedicated all my free time - and time was all I had anymore - to researching how to recreate that fire in me and then how to treat third-degree burns.
The day I learned that time melts like chocolate when you hold it long enough, and it looks a lot like blood on my hands.
The day I learned white knuckling memories doesn't mean they seal the fractures between my fingers.
The day I learned some things just aren't mine to keep.
I've been touchier since that day; just one poke and I'm black and blue - yellow is rare, but it happens sometimes.
The doctor gave me some pills to help with the ache, and they keep me pretty full, so I don't know why I still have that gurgle in my stomach almost all the time, why I still have that itch in my veins when something is almost but not quite.
I tell myself constantly that a substitute can only hold off the craving for a little, but I need it now, and I never learn.

Jumpy. That’s what they’ll call me.
The girl who’s jumpy but doesn’t like to go too far from home or too far out of her own head. Jumpy. Around people. From conclusion to conclusion to somewhere way further outside the lines than I should be coloring. Hey, maybe someone came in and scared me and it all happened so fast. You can’t ever fully erase anything, you know?
What will they think of me?
Will they ask why I left?
“I was *****,” I will tell them. I may say more. I may not. Either way, my face will burn. Either way, I will regret it. Either way, they will be more lenient with me because I am glass and they don’t want to have to pay for what they break. I am not worth the extra $2.50 out of their bank accounts.
Do they all feel like this? This daze, where even when they’re wearing their glasses, the furniture blends into the floor blends into the walls blends into the ceiling blends into the doorways and they can’t see the exit either? The people moving in front of them are the ants that I stared at for hours at a time outside my father’s house in over 100 degree weather because anything is better than rat infestations. Anything is better than hands all over you. Anything is better than the drunkenness that permeates throughout the house, and yes, it is contagious.
Yes, I am contagious. You will want to wash me off of you before you even touch me. That’s okay, I do it too. Only it won’t stay off of me. I live inside of myself, but not really. There is not that solid final Russian doll inside the others. That is not me, and it never will be. And I’m sorry if you’re wasting your time looking, because you just will never find her. And that’s something you will have to either accept or move on from. So which will it be?

I.
Put a hand on your stomach.
Diaphragmatic breathing eases anxiety.
So does counting.
I count how many times my stomach rises
until my pulse lowers.

II.
Grounding keeps your feet on Earth,
your mind in the present.
It's called 5-4-3-2-1, but I never get to one.
Five things I see:
starting with all the ashes of things I've burned -
cigarettes to incense to old pictures of us;
posters haphazardly taped to my wall
threatening to fall off at any second;
feathers of my dreamcatcher tangling together;
my ceiling fan rocking from side to side;
an emptiness that fills the room,
painted in the white on the walls.
Four things I can touch:
grasping at words that are working against me;
the oils of my sweating hands,
nervously binding me to my human exterior;
everything else is too far away to touch.
Three things I hear:
the drumming of my anxious fingers
on anything nearby;
the scribble of my pen;
my thoughts demanding to find something
that will get me heard.
Hush, please. Hush.

III.
Your name still carves itself onto my tongue
and settles in my dreams.
You always were good at making yourself
feel at home.

IV.
I am the type of girl whose entire body
becomes whatever color I am dying my hair.
Today, I am red.

V.
I don't feel the words slide off my tongue anymore.
I barely notice them.
I watch them jab at you,
and I feel bad.
I don't mean them.

VI.
"You aren't looking at the whole picture."
The canvas is too big.
I'll take a step back.
My therapist says I take too many steps back.
I'm just trying to see the whole picture.

VII.
The foggy weather proves that I can keep my feet on Earth
and my head in the clouds.
I feel my eyes wide as a deer
as I remember my first love telling me
deer are the most stupid animals,
that they deserve to die,
hours after telling me I remind him of one.

VIII.
That sinking feeling in your stomach
doesn't only occur on roller coasters.

IX.
My head rests in the space behind closed eyes,
the one where shapes and faces appear and disappear
as they please.
I see a door floating in that space,
and I lock my emotions in there
since you hand me the ones I should feel
as necessary.

X.
There are days I see people as people
instead of the feelings they give me -
dread, anger, fear, love.
Their ****** features soften and become more human.
Today is one of those days.

XI.
Today, I see you as human instead of the feelings you give me.
Your ****** features harden,
the look you give me is literally shocking.
I feel more fear than love.

XII.
I fear the sound of slamming doors.
They sound like you.
They are rough,
and I am weak.

XIII.
She showed me a song while singing along.
I wanted to hang onto that feeling,
so I listened to it alone.
It's not the same.

XIV.
I'm talking right now,
but they're unimportant words.
They'll be forgotten in the next five minutes.
Would you believe me,
saying that I once had gardens in my mind?

i went looking for my home and wound up in a hotel room for one -
what does that say about me?
the view is nice -
no oceans in sight,
rather tall buildings that add daylight to the night sky.
when my mom and i rent a hotel room,
we get a room with a queen bed and share it;
tonight, i went looking for my home and i ended up in a hotel room for one
with a king-sized bed big enough for three,
but i'm the only one here.
i went looking for my home and i wound up in a hotel room for one -
what does that say about me?

if i tattoo a one-way ticket to heaven on my wrist,
will god remember me as an angel
and accept me back into heaven?
will he make me a priority
and guide me by the hand
and help me back to my home?
on earth, i am so close to hell,
and while i'm also so close to heaven (home), but i'm so far from it.
and i constantly have nightmares that you'll forget me
long before sleep caresses your brain.
how could falling for a human have made me fall? you have dreams! and wishes! and fears!
i have so many new fears;
they drag me down, keep me close to earth.
this new heart creates a melody i don't recognize.
i don't feel real.
and these nightmares won't stop.
i think it was when i forgot to wish her sweet dreams -
her nightmares denied me sleep for an entire week.
and god clipped my wings before i fell so i'd have to exist here,
and they fell off feather by feather.
and i've been trying to piece myself back together,
but there are fragments of me everywhere,
pieces of myself in everyone,
and i can't get them back; all i can do is cut myself on the memories.
all i do now is drive.
i wait for it to storm,
and last night the sky kept lighting up
while it was midnight,
and i swear storms are the closest any of us will ever get to heaven
unless i can convince god that i no longer wish to be fallen.