Out of all the words in the human languages, almost is the cruelest.
                                              I almost loved you.
                                              I almost won.
                                              I was almost there.


                                              I was almost *****.

When he snuck into the room like a wolf stalking its prey, my stomach didn’t almost tie in knots.
            It became a sailor’s masterpiece.

When he laid beside me as quiet as a stone, I wasn’t almost shaking.
            I was a leaf on the San Andreas Fault.

When his long, spidery fingers began trailing down my back, it didn’t almost feel like razors.
            He cut so deep the skin began to peel back and expose every    
            insecurity that I’ve hidden away between my vertebrae.

His fingers didn’t almost dig into my arm,
            they became shovels that dug a hole big enough for a casket.

Bruises didn’t almost blossom across my skin,
            I was a primrose bush in full bloom and he was the gardener.

When he coerced himself between my thighs, I didn’t almost scream.
            Years of ancestral abuse surged through my lungs and out my lips  
            into a battle cry.

When he tried to force his hand inside of me I didn’t almost feel spoiled.      
             I was a fruit rotting from the inside out, something that no one  
            would ever want.

And when my screams finally drove him off of me, I wasn’t almost okay.
             I was paralyzed with fear and disgust and shame.

Everything I’ve ever believed in slapped me in the face as I told myself:
                                      This is what I get for liking ***.
                                      I shouldn’t be so easy.
                                      I was asking for it.


                                      It was my fault.

I felt like a butterfly, beautiful but ruined by a man’s touch.
             Never to fly again.

But the truth is, a butterfly sheds scales throughout its lifetime,          
             regenerating its wings.

So when a man reaches for your wings in attempts to rip them off
             remember that you are not what he thinks you are.

Remember that it is never your fault.
             Not even almost.

She wore flowers in her hair
And anger in her eyes
Had a strong hate for her father
And thought birthdays were stupid

He memorized every notch in her spine
And made a home for himself in the gaps between her fingers
Playing dot-to-dot with her freckles,
Became his new favorite hobby

Tattoos adorned his arms
Expressing himself in ways words never could, for ink could not stutter
He smoked too many cigarettes, and gazed at her through hooded eyes
The kind that could only be found in the depths of the alleyways you avoided

She looked at him as if he had hand selected the stars,
And was responsible for the moon
Right next to her love for the Rolling Stones, he was there
Swimming through her bloodstream

He had deceived himself into believing he did not love her
For she was his Abigail Williams
And she always said,
"God damns all liars"

No one
Needs someone
To complete them.

You just
Need yourself
To complete you.

Compare me to a winter's day
My insides are icicles
Threatening to drop, to shatter at the slightest disturbance
My demons are hibernating, hungry and wrapped in fur
Anticipating the first sight of spring
                     Fullness
My heart is bleak
                     Barren
A cracked stone wall runs along its edges
Flowers could bloom there, but not in this coldness
Not in this absence
My blood is screaming as it ravages inside of this empty shell
"I just want to die. I just want to die. I just want to die." it howls
Where is my spring?
Where is my solace?