he ripped the words from my throat
he locked them away
in a box that he calls a 'coffin'
he dug a pit
and buried them six-feet-under
next to the
grave where my innocence lay

Some people
will have you believe
that damage can be beautiful,
and it's true
that you can find
the sunlight through the clouds.
But my trauma is not pretty.
It is an ugly bruise
that everyone thinks is okay
to poke at,
and watch the black and blue
attempt to change colours
when it heals.
There is no beauty
in crying alone at 3am,
spilling alcohol down your shirt
at a party you're only attending
to drown your issues in,
swallowing tiny little pills
to feel somewhat okay,
avoiding any comfort
because you feel you deserve less.
It is a lonely place to be,
stuck in a broken mind
with one-way windows.
I can romanticise my pain
as much as i want,
but it will always be
a toxic relationship
i have with myself.
And it is not beautiful.

Noun, adjective and impossible to be is normal.
  It makes us hide our nervous tics and twitches.
  I have panic attacks and breakdowns and need
  pills, ***** and endless lovers to feel normal.
  I see shrinks and dealers for the drugs offered.
  I'm a one trick pony that wears out welcomes.