when I was asked to talk
about my trauma,
I opened up again and
let the words spill out.

I didn't tell them how
badly it burns when
they come back up.

I talked about depression,
about feeling alone,
about attempting suicide.
I talked about deaths
and pain and everything
that I have witnessed.

and then I began to
talk about my assault,
and the men who still
haunt my dreams.

I started by saying,
"the first time I was *****..."

I paused there.

I realized I said
"the first time"

meaning there was
more than one time.

there was more than
one hospital visit,
more than one police report,
more than one court case
that went nowhere.

there is more than one
****** still walking free,
living his life and not caring
that he ended mine.

I said it so ******* casually,
the same way you'd make
small talk about the weather.

I said it like it was normal.

I suddenly felt nauseous.
I needed to spit out more
than just my words.

I spent the next hour
hunched over a toilet bowl.
I think that my body was
trying to ***** the memories
out of my system.

I said it like it was normal.

I said it like it was
an everyday occurrence,
like it's something
you hear about daily
and no one bats an eye.

I said it like it was normal.

I felt so sick, like
I had been poisoned.
I climbed into bed and
didn't get up for days.

I said it like it
was ******* normal,

and the worst part was
when I realized it is.

it's not that I don't
want to die anymore.
I still do some days.

I am still not okay,
but that's okay.

the way that I stay alive
when I want to disappear

is that I look for one good thing
in every day of my life.



this morning, I made
some pancakes with
blueberries in the batter.
I really like pancakes.

yesterday, the sunset
was gorgeous. it's usually
not so pretty this time of year.
I love watching sunsets.



I could hate every part
of my life, and honestly,
sometimes I still do.

and yes, there are still
bad things and scary moments
and breakdowns and pain.

and yes, sometimes there's
more bad than good,



but if I wasn't here,
I wouldn't have eaten
those pancakes this morning.

I wouldn't have seen that
beautiful sunset last night.

I would never have gone
on that impromptu road trip
to the city where I grew up in.

I would never have gone
to college, or even graduated
from my old high school.

I would never have learned
to speak Mandarin, or how
to play chess, or the way that
the gears look inside of those
antique grandfather clocks.

I would never have met
the love of my life.

I would never have realized
how amazing love can feel,
or that I am deserving of it.

I would never have seen
my friend's baby daughter.

he'd be telling her all about
how much I would've loved her,
and he would be right.

but I would never have
loved her, because we
would never have met.



there are so many things
that I still haven't done

and so many places
that I still haven't seen

and so many people
that I still haven't met

and so many memories
that I still haven't made.



and yes, maybe the truth
is that at the end of it all,
I will still hate it.

maybe ten years from now,
I'll still want to die some days.

maybe there will always
be more bad than good,

but there will always be good.



the reality is that I don't have
an endless amount of time.

the clock is ticking.
one day, I will die,
just like everyone else.
I can't change that.
none of us can.

when those thoughts
come creeping back in,
and I don't see the point in
anything anymore, I pause.

I remind myself that
it's not logical for me
to end my life any earlier
than it's meant to end.

death is inevitable.
eventually, it will
be my time to die.
but today is not that day.



so if I die, and one day I will,
it won't be at my own hands.

life is too short, and
I don't want to leave
depressed and crying.
I want to go out laughing.

I want to die with
some good memories,
not just bad ones.



so I stay alive for
all of the good things.
I stay alive for pancakes.
I stay alive for sunsets.

I stay alive for those moments
where I laugh so hard that
my stomach starts to hurt.

I stay alive for the sound
of raindrops hitting our roof.

I stay alive for all good things.
even if they're little, even if
most people would
find them insignificant.

and that's okay.



if you've ever felt
the way that I feel,

I'm not here to tell you
that life gets better.

I don't know anything
about your life, or
about the battles that
you are fighting inside.

I don't know you.
I can't promise you that
your life will get better.

but I can promise you
that if you look closer,
there will be good things.



stay alive because you
need to feed your cat.
stay alive to see the beach.
stay alive to find your
new favorite movie.
stay alive to read that
book that you keep
saying you'll read.
stay alive for the
warmth of your clothes
fresh out of the dryer.
stay alive because
the cactus on your
windowsill will die
without you there.
stay alive to see clouds
shaped like funny animals.
stay alive to find a
four-leaf clover.
stay alive because you
haven't beat your
high score yet in
that video game.

stay alive for yourself.
stay alive for your family.
stay alive for your friends.
stay alive for your pets.
stay alive for your children,
or your future children.
stay alive for your coworkers.
stay alive for the homeless man
who you give a dollar to when
you pass him every day.
stay alive for the people who
secretly rely on you, who
read your poetry and listen
to your songs and feel
changed by you, even
if you'll never meet them.



and if you have no one,
then stay alive for me.

I care about you.
I don't have to know you
to be inspired by you.

it takes strength to
stay alive when you
don't want to live,

and for that, you are braver
than you will ever know.



so stay alive because
you still have a life.

stay alive for whatever
you'd miss if you weren't.

stay alive because maybe
it's true. maybe you're right.
maybe things won't get better,

but you won't know that
if you aren't here to see it.

have you ever felt a relationship die,
gasping for its last breath
between scattered texts
and awkward conversations?

have you ever paused
to find the words that you want to say
and force them out of your mouth,
or to find the words that
maybe you don’t want to say
but you know that they need to be said?

you wince in pain at each breath you inhale
because you know that the air
you are breathing into your lungs
is from a world where you are alone.
you are hurt and confused
and scared in this world,
and this world is no longer fictional.
this is your reality now.

you thought you had made
the right choice by not speaking,
but now you think that maybe
the silence is louder than
the words would have been.

you go to bed alone.
you struggle to fall asleep,
and sometimes you still wake up
screaming from the trauma
that broke you so long ago.

now, you turn over,
and no one is lying next to you.
no one is comforting you.
no one is holding you.
no one is telling you
that things are going to be ok.
and you can tell yourself
as many times as you want,
but you can’t believe it
when it isn’t said aloud.

you know that
you weren’t perfect, far from it.
you know how many
mistakes you made.
you know that
you are difficult to love.

you knew from the very start
that this wasn’t going to last forever,
yet somehow, you still
planned out your future as if it would.

you’re looking back on the memories,
mapping them out like a final road trip.
you can’t seem to pinpoint the exact
moment when things went wrong.

and you’re not sure if that’s good,
because it would mean that this
wasn’t caused by a single action
or mistake that you made,

or if that’s bad, because
it would mean that
somewhere along the way,
he fell out of love
and you didn’t even notice.

there are situations you
keep imagining in your mind,
ones where everything
magically returns to normal.

or where all of a sudden, you move on,
and love again, and trust again,
and it stops hurting and
it never hurts again.

those aren’t real. they’re not real,
but the pain is. it hurts. badly.
you’re angry, but you
don’t even know who you’re angry at.
you’re not angry at him, despite it all.
maybe you’re angry at the world,
at the injustice and unfairness
that your life has dealt you.

or maybe you’re angry at yourself.
you feel pathetic.
you don’t like to shower alone
because the razors used to call to you,
and now you don’t have anyone
to stand there by the bathroom door.

you don’t like to go to bed alone.
you don’t like to wake up alone.

these irrational fears that
you have absorbed from the years
of your traumatic past are still there.

he’s gone, but you are still afraid.
you’re not any more afraid
than you were before.
it’s the same. but now,
you have no one battling
those fears alongside you.

you feel incapable
and weak and childish,
and you don’t know what to do.

if you’ve ever felt like this,
then you understand.
if you’ve ever felt like this,
I’m sorry.

*******

for preying on my naïveté
and the innocence
that I hadn't lost yet

and destroying my trust
when I idolized you
like a ******* god

and taking my heart
knowing **** well that
you planned to break it.




but also,
thank you

for showing me how to
spot those red flags

and teaching me
the lessons that I would
eventually need to learn
with or without you

and proving to me that
I deserve so much better.

I went on a date today.
this isn’t going to be a poem
about how I found true love,
or how I met someone and
suddenly my problems all disappeared.

none of that happened.
this isn’t some fairytale and
I won’t sugarcoat my words.
I’m still hurting. I’m still furious
and confused and so, so tired.
these past few months
have not been pretty.
there is no way to
romanticize this pain,
and there is no reason to.

these past few months have been
breakup ***, followed by regret,
and then a rush of hope.
they have been relearning life
and drinking far too much,
blackouts and breakdowns
and *****.

I am healing, and that takes time.
I’m still emotional.

but I went on a date today.
it’s not a remedy for
magically forgetting. I didn’t forget.
it didn’t bring me total closure.

but I laughed today.
I listened today.
I was listened to today.
I talked about myself and my interests,
and my trauma wasn’t a
topic of discussion for the
first time in a very long time.
it was refreshing.

I went on a date today.
this isn’t something that
would be front-page news.
there wasn’t some
earth-shattering, incredible moment.
my life has not changed.

but today I had fun.
I felt relaxed and worry-free

and for the first time
in a very long time,
I went to bed
reflecting on my day
and not about all of
the days I spent
with you.

if you step on a twig while
walking through the woods,

you'll see all of the deer
look up and run off.



if you drive your car down
a windy, forested road

and a deer suddenly appears
in the path of your headlights,

you'll see its eyes grow large
and afraid, glowing in the dark

but the deer won't run off.



a deer will flee at the sound
of a single branch snapping,

but it will stand still and
let a car crunch all of its bones
without trying to leave at all.



we consider ourselves to be
the dominant species.

we claim to be the smartest,
bravest, strongest, most intelligent
beings that walk this earth.



so why are we afraid to die?

if a deer can accept its fate
and stare straight back at death
when they stand face-to-face,

then why can't we?
why do we cry and scream
and feel sorrow when death
finally comes to visit us?



we are smart and we are strong
and we think in a way that
other creatures cannot think,

but we also have fears that
other creatures do not have.



this is the price we pay to
have those traits we say
that only humans have.

as humans, we trade our
innocence for knowledge,
learning about war and
early death and suffering
at the hands of fellow humans.

this knowledge is a burden,
more of a curse than a blessing.



we consider ourselves to be
superior to the other creatures
who we share this planet with.

but is that true? is that a fact
or a product of human ego?



as humans, we **** animals
and we **** each other.

we are the creators of
mass extinction and genocide.

we have designed weapons
and the ideas of warfare.



yes, we are strong
and we are smart,
but we are violent.

sometimes I think that
a deer is more human
than a human being.

a deer is smart and
strong enough to survive.

it might not have the
same level of intelligence,

but it also doesn't have the
same amount of violence
etched into its genes.



sometimes I think that
any creature is better
than a human being.

fall in love with yourself
the way that you want
to be loved.

stop letting strangers take
refuge in your body.

you are not a
momentary place.

you were not built to be
someone’s hideaway
or vacation house.

you were not designed
to handle people
walking in and out
of your life.

your body is tired
of hurting.

tell these short-term
visitors to leave.

the scratches and
scuff marks left by
their careless actions
do not define you.

you expect abandonment.
permanence feels foreign.
someone staying feels
unnatural to you.

but please remember that
you deserve to be
so much more than a
resting spot for someone
to briefly stop at, and
continue on their way.

despite what you may
believe about yourself,
you are not temporary.

please, be kind to yourself.

as you travel through life,
remember that it doesn’t matter
whether you believe it or not.
you are worth it.
and not believing that doesn’t
make it any less true.

please, stop searching
for another guest.

find someone who
feels less like a tourist,
and more like a home.

I'm not expecting
to go to heaven.

the truth is that
I don't even
want to die.

I just want to
be someone new
with a fresh start.

I just want to
leave this life behind.

if I have to die to leave,
I can't promise you
that I won't.

I need to leave.
I need to go

to heaven or hell
or a forgotten town
off the grid somewhere.
I don't care.
I just need to go.

anywhere but here...
anywhere but here...
a n y w h e r e   b u t   h e r e

I keep telling people
I’ve moved on.

but every time
I close my eyes,
I still see you.

there are visions of you
still trapped in the
back of my eyelids.

you’re gone.
you’re not coming back.
you’re not here.
I know that.
so why haven’t you left me?

I keep telling people
I’ve moved on.
and I’m not lying
when I say that.

I’m telling the truth.
I have moved on.

...but maybe my mind hasn’t.

don't you understand?
I am happy.

but your happiness
tastes like friendship and laughter,

and my happiness
tastes like antidepressants.

one month:

we went mini-golfing
and then to the movies.

you were so nervous.
it was adorable.

you texted me
halfway through the movie

“can I hold your hand?”

I said yes.



two months:

I had an emergency removal
of my wisdom teeth.

you came and took care of me.
I was embarrassed, but
you didn’t care.

with swollen jaws and
slurred speech and a
mouthful of ****** gauze,

you still looked at me
like I was the most
beautiful woman
you had ever met.



three months:

you weren’t paying attention
and you crashed your car.

the car was totaled.
the airbags went off,
the windshield cracked.

I wasn’t hurt at all.
you hurt your neck.

the first thing you did
was get me out of the car
and onto the side of the road

even though you were
the one who was hurting.



four months:

I spent nights at your place.
we made it official.

I let you touch me.
I wanted you to touch me.
I hadn’t felt that way
in a very long time.

we drank.
we kissed.
we had ***.

the next morning,
you weren’t gone like
I thought you would be.

you had your arm
wrapped around me.

you’re a heavy sleeper.
I smiled and went
right back to sleep.



five months:

it was my birthday.
I told you that I never really
celebrated my birthday.

I was still in school,
but I didn’t go that day.
I spent the day
with you instead.

before you,
I never felt so loved.

I spent Christmas
with your family.
I had never
celebrated Christmas.



six months:

I took my shirt off
in front of you.

I hadn’t done that yet.
for half a year,
I slept with my shirt on.
we had *** with my shirt on.
you didn’t push me to.

you saw my scars.
I thought for sure
you would leave.

you didn’t even blink.
you hugged me and
you kissed me and
you didn’t see me
any differently.



seven months:

not much happened
that month.

I got close with
your family.

you’re not American.
you had lived here before
but you had moved back
only seven months earlier.
you weren’t planning
on staying, so you were
living in your parents’ house.

it was awkward
because they were
so nice to me.
I kept waiting for
something bad to happen.
nothing did.

I started leaving
my toothbrush
in your bathroom.



eight months:

you wanted to meet
my family.

family has always been
important to you.

we drove out to Ohio
to meet my uncle
and my little cousins.

they’re the least eccentric
members of my family,
but they’re still dysfunctional.
I didn’t know how
to warn you. so I didn’t.

you met my cousin.
you realized he was nonverbal.
you sat with him and you
talked to him like he was
any other twelve-year-old.

you both played video games.
more like you played, and
he watched. but I had
never seen him so happy.
he didn’t have to talk.
his smile showed me everything.

my youngest cousin
loved you too.
you played with her dolls
and you gave them
funny voices when you did.
she laughed every time.



nine months:

we got into an argument.
it was nothing serious,
but we hadn’t argued before.

you didn’t hit me.
you got up and walked away.
somehow that scared
me even more.

I waited for you to
come back with something
worse than a punch.

you came back
with a hug and an
“I love you.”



ten months:

we went to a
fertility clinic.

obviously we didn’t
want children yet,
but my friend told me
that early treatment might
be the key to helping me.

I didn’t want you
to come with me,
but you insisted.

it was bad news.
I cried. you wiped my tears
and told me that
if we ever had a baby,
it doesn’t matter how.

what would matter
is how we raise that child,
blood or not. I told you again
how much I love you.



eleven months:

I relapsed with
my self-harm addiction.

eighteen new scars
and over sixty stitches later,
I came home.

you took care of me.
you never should’ve had
to do that, but you did.

I healed with you
by my side.



one year:

we moved in together.
you met my brothers.

you weren’t intimidated
by my brother. he tried.

he was so rude to you
and eventually you
snapped and told him
to shut the **** up.
he smiled and so did I.
he said that
you were a keeper.

you weren’t afraid to
stand up to him, even
though he was my brother.
no one had done that before.

your love for me
outweighed your
fear of my family.

my brother loved you
after that.



years:

I graduated school
and you went back
to get another degree.

we hit hard times
and we had great times
and through it all,
we were happy.

it wasn’t easy to stay.
sometimes I felt like
running so that you
couldn’t leave me first.
I stayed. so did you.

you wrote me a letter
and you asked,

“will you marry me?”

I said yes.

you say that it
can't happen to you.

oh honey,
that's what we all say.

this isn't real.
this isn't real.
t h i s   i s n ' t   r e a l .



you place another tab
of acid on your tongue,
at least you think it's acid,

and the earth begins
to distort itself.



trees with pink trunks
and leaves with faces

and the ground shakes,
or maybe it only feels
like it's shaking,

and everything is loud
and quiet all at once.

the strangeness of it all
is somehow so comforting.



Addiction smiles at you
like The Cheshire Cat,

a character that seems
only fictional

in a world that
doesn't seem like ours.



Addiction's voice
is suddenly everywhere.

you hear it in the gusts
of hurricane winds,

or maybe they're nothing
but zephyrs, and maybe the
calm breeze feels stronger
than it actually is.



you hear it from the clouds
above your head

from the ground
beneath your feet

from all around you,
and maybe even
from inside of you,

and it doesn't stop.



it gets louder
and  l o u d e r
and   l  o  u  d  e  r

and soon, you won't know
if this is your world
or Addiction's world.



you won't know
what is real

and what is imaginary

and soon, it will
all feel the same.



soon, it won't matter
whose mind this is

or what dream you're in

or whether or not this
is even a dream.

soon, all that will matter
is where you can get
your next high.



you'll walk to the corner
and buy another bag
or another needle.

you'll pump that feeling
into your veins

and it will come rushing
right back to you.



trees with pink trunks
and leaves with faces

and the ground shakes,
or maybe it only feels
like it's shaking,

and everything is loud
and quiet all at once.

the strangeness of it all
is somehow so comforting.



this isn't real.
this isn't real.
t h i s   i s n ' t   r e a l .



but even if it is,
even if this is real
and this is your world now,

it doesn't matter anymore.
it doesn't matter anymore.



you see, honey,

i t   d o e s n ' t   m a t t e r
a n y m o r e.

my intrusive thoughts tell me
that I'll never be good enough.

but I have so many people
who love me, and who show it,
so clearly that isn't true.

I am more than enough
to be loved by those around me.


now, all I need to do
is love myself too.

I'm working on it.

to cross the earth,
you'd need to travel
over 24,901 miles.

there are over
7,800,000,000 humans
in 193 countries
on 7 continents.

the average person meets
less than 80,000 people
during their lifetime.

statistically speaking,
you will meet less than
0.001% of the people
walking this planet.



I've always had trouble
believing in the things
that we cannot prove.

from mythical creatures
to certain phenomena to
bible stories and religion,

faith is something that
I can't seem to find.



but statistically speaking,
we should have never met.

statistically, we should still be
two strangers living our lives
thousands of miles apart.



right now, I am looking
over at you and realizing
just how ******* lucky I am.

there are over
7,800,000,000 humans
in 193 countries
on 7 continents.

yet somehow, we defied
those statistics and
we found each other.



maybe I won't ever
believe in religion
or phenomena or fate,

but I do believe that
sometimes miracles happen

and the most unexpected
feelings can become reality.



I believe that love
and happiness do exist,
and I believe that
all because of you.

this world is not
as bad as it may seem.

hope is not as dim
as it may appear.



sometimes, statistics
don't matter at all

and life gets better
even if you didn't
think that it could.

I believe that now,
and you are my proof.

you taught her
to shut up

to keep quiet

to know her place

to nod and agree

and to never, ever
disobey you.



when the police
came knocking
on your door

and they asked her
where you had been,

you expected her
to state your alibi.



you expected her
to speak up for you,

but you had taught her
to never speak at all.



that was your
fatal mistake.

he was smiling
and we were laughing
and then he was gone.

there was a loud noise
that made my ears ring.
I didn't realize what
had happened, but
I knew it was bad.

I ran as fast as I could.
I didn't look back.

my legs burned
but I knew that I
had to keep running,
no matter what.

I burst through the
door to our apartment,
panting and crying.

my family stared at me
and it took me a minute
to understand why.

I went to wipe my tears
with the back of my hand,
and the liquid was red.

those weren't my tears.
that wasn't my blood.
the realization hit me
like one punch after another.

a random car had
pulled up next to us.
my friend's brother was shot.
I was standing next to him.
I ran. he wasn't behind me.

as my fear faded,
my memory became clearer.
the realizations that hit
my mind must have
punched my stomach too.
I was suddenly sick.

my ***** coated our kitchen floor
and my family took me into
our bathroom to clean myself up.

my friend and his brother
had known me since I was born.
I grew up with them.
I would continue growing,
but now he wouldn't.

I watched as his blood
blended with the water
in our apartment's shower.
I watched as it swirled
down the drain until
the red was all gone.

my last memory of
the kid I grew up with
is watching his blood swirl
down my shower drain.

it's been years since that day.
I've grown up. I moved out
of the city a long time ago.

it's over. he's gone.
there is nothing I can do,
and there was nothing
that I could have done.

but somehow, I still feel guilty
for washing him off of me.

I am broken.

there is nothing
beautiful about that.

brokenness is painful
and ugly and terrifying.

but no matter what,
I do not need you to
piece me back together.



yes, I am broken.

but I don't need
to be fixed.

you like to pretend
that you are blind.
your friends like
to believe you.

but you can't keep up
this act forever.

soon, you will need
to open your eyes.
you will need
to look around.

you will start reading
that newspaper left
decaying on your doorstep.


when you finally see
the pain that you've
been privileged enough
to never feel,

when you've read
about enough pain
to put that gun
in your own mouth,

don't pull the trigger.
the world doesn't need
any more violence.

soon, you won't be able
to ignore the screams.
you will see how
the world is hurting,
and how your ignorance
has helped cause this.

you won't be able
to live with yourself.

but when you turn that gun
towards your own head,

don't pull the trigger.
the world doesn't need
any more bullets.

what it needs is
for you to help ensure
that no more triggers are pulled.

I won't say "no" twice.

if you didn't listen
the first time,

then I have no reason
to believe that you'll
listen to the second.

and you cannot
complain that you
were not warned
before I scorched
every inch of
your skin.

that one "no"
was your warning.

you won't feel
those warm breaths
you expected to feel
against your neck.

you will feel pain,
because I will
breathe fire.

I will watch
as your life
goes up in flames

and I will smile
the same sadistic smile
that you thought you
would have right now.

the tables have turned.
now, you are the person
coated in fear and gasoline

and I am the person
holding the matches.

I was your typical angsty teenager,
lust and recklessness personified
into a human body.

I never called myself a poet,
but I spent my days
writing to boys who never loved me
and parents who were never there.

I went through a photography phase.
I cut images from magazines,
women with stick-figure shapes
and too much makeup and sad eyes
that everyone seemed to love staring at.
I took pictures of people
when they weren’t looking,
found beauty in others
when I needed to find beauty in myself.

I went through a rebellious phase.
I shaved the side of my head
and dyed my hair blue, and then black.
I tattooed my skin and
pierced crazy places on my body.
I smiled at adults walking by
because they fell silent,
and I knew that they were judging me
but didn’t have the
courage to say anything.
I liked thinking that
I was braver and louder
and more confident at seventeen,
than these people were at sixty-four.

I snuck out and went
for long walks in the dark,
because the nighttime air
felt peaceful and still.
and when the world was fast asleep,
I could let go of my attitude.
for a few hours, I could feel calm
because nobody was watching.

I was walking home one night
with Molly in my bloodstream
and adrenaline in my bones
but I got trapped in my mind
somewhere along the way,
stuck floating in between
self-worship and self-loathing.

I ran away a few times,
usually ending up at my friends’ houses.
I drank from blue Solo cups
not knowing what I was drinking
and not caring enough to know
as long as it got me drunk enough
to dance all night
and not remember a single thing
the next morning.

I watched my best friend
sneak away, not so stealthily,
to go have ***
with boys twice her age.
I think she snuck away loudly
on purpose so that
we would all know  
she was capable of
getting boys to
pound her senseless.
I don’t think she was capable of
getting boys to love her
for more than her body,
but I don’t think she ever tried.

I fell in love,
or at least I thought I did.
I had my heart broken
and healed and broken again.
at one point, there was a boy
who taught me how to kiss,
and that the backseats of cars
are rarely as spacious as they look.

through our conversations,
I learned that this boy believed
in extraterrestrial life,
and that he hated the color orange
for reasons he could not explain,
and that when he imagined the future,
he saw me in it.

through my own heartbreak,
I learned that sometimes
words mean nothing,
and that people can lie,
and that we were too young
to imagine any future at all.

I made memories
that still haunt me,
and promises that
I broke long ago.
I lived in the moment
and didn’t want to
think about growing up,
or what my plans would be
one year from then, or five, or ten.

I didn’t want to think
about anything farther away
than the weekend,
because nothing was guaranteed,
and nothing ever stayed the same.

change is constant
and, to me, that is both
beautiful and terrifying
at the same time.

it is gray outside
of my window,

and it is also
gray in this room.



but outside,
the gray is obvious.

the clouds are
blocking out the sun.



and inside,
the gray is irrelevant
because you shine
so bright that

I am only ever
looking at you.



the world outside
fades away in here.

it is beautiful and
sunny and vibrant.



here, the stress of
the world outside
can't touch me.

I see no sadness
or pain or fear.



I only see you.
I only ever see you.

I am addicted to
rough *** and masochism.

I used to be addicted
to self-harm.

I learned to live without the feeling
of a blade against my skin,

but now I need the feeling
of warm hands against my skin
where my blade used to be.

I'm not recovering.
I'm still hurting myself.
all that changed is the weapon
that I choose to do it with.

I’m alright, I promise. You don’t have to worry.

I know that every note I give to you now sparks fear in the pit of your stomach, and you skim over my sentences looking for words like “suicide” and “I’m sorry.”

When I hand you a note, you examine every word. From my handwriting to the ink I use, you take in every detail. You read between the lines now even on a blank sheet of paper, where there aren’t any lines to read between.

Your eyes are trained to spot the differences now. My life has become a game of Clue where you are the only player.

When my voice cracks, even the slightest bit, your ears have been conditioned to tune in immediately. You are constantly scanning for hesitation when I talk. You watch me to see if my hands shake, or if I bite my lip. You are searching for the warning signs that you think you missed last time, even though I never showed any.

They say that when you lose one sense, your other senses grow stronger to compensate. We say that we’ve become so close, but what we mean is that we’ve always been codependent. We did not bond over shared trauma; we bonded over a mutual fear of being alone. Our anxieties have molded into one huge, chaotic mess. Our fears have become so tangled that neither of us know who is afraid of what anymore. The only fear I am certain of is the fear of losing you.

I lost my ability to feel anything, and you developed a sense of hypersensitivity to balance out my numbness. I stopped caring about myself, so you started caring about me even more. You feel too much when I feel nothing.

I know you won’t believe me, but this is not a suicide note. You don’t need to worry about me. I’d promise you, but I’ve broken so many promises that I know they have no meaning anymore.

I cause you pain. There’s no use in denying it; we both know it’s true. I’m not trying to push you away. Even if I did, I know you’d come back. I have been draining your happiness and health slowly. Now, I am trying to rip off this bandaid all at once.

I’d rather you hurt from this revelation of who I really am. I’d rather you hate me for being someone who takes the easy way out, than hurt you by letting you believe that I have the potential to be in love.

I am capable of loving, and maybe I don’t show it the way that I should, but I love you. God, you have no idea how much I love you.

What I am not capable of is trusting. I love you, but I can’t trust you. I have no trust left, not even for myself.

And what is there without trust? Love itself isn’t enough to build a relationship off of. We talk about love as if it is a miracle. In every fairytale, true love is what saves the princess. Love breaks the curse. Love can turn a frog into a prince, a beast into a man. We talk about love as if it cures all. But love isn’t as powerful as we make it sound. You can’t love someone back to life.

I don’t know if I even want to save myself anymore, and you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. I am so grateful for your love, but your love alone is not enough.

I’ve always said I’m a realist; you’ve always said I’m nothing more than a pessimist in disguise. Maybe that’s true, maybe I do see only the negative side of things. But those negatives have kept me safe. I prepare myself for the worst so that I can never be disappointed, only pleasantly surprised. I can never be let down. In a way, I guess we’re both right. Pessimism has been my reality. This numbness has been my reality.

When you’re done reading this note, please tear it up into a thousand tiny pieces. Rip it, crumble it, destroy it. Make it impossible to reread. Please throw it away and don’t dig it back up. Please walk away and don’t look back.

If you turn back around, and if I look into your eyes again, I know that I will not let you leave. I will pull you back to me and let this cycle of destruction begin all over again. I hurt myself, which hurts you, which hurts me. It will not end.

When you go through the photos of us on your phone, please go through them quickly. If you have to delete them, then delete them. Deleting a picture doesn’t delete the memory with it. I know that, but it’s a start. One less photograph is one less reminder of me. One day, when you’re strong enough, maybe you can go back and flip through our old albums. But by the time you are strong enough to live healthily without me, I doubt you’ll still have them saved. One day, you will leave me in the past. It’s hard for me to admit it, but I know that is where I belong.

When you climb into your bed at the end of the night, please do not remember me sleeping next to you. I know how wrong the bed will feel when you get up in the morning and notice that there is no warm spot left on the other side. I know how strange it will be to turn over and not roll into my arms. This loneliness will feel like a foreign language, but please, learn to understand it. The words will eventually feel natural on your tongue, even if it doesn’t happen until your tongue is in the mouth of someone new.

When what used to be our songs play on shuffle, please don’t ruin them with thoughts of me. I want you to be able to hear their lyrics without pain. You deserve to smile when songs begin to play. I don’t want you to have to turn the radio off. You deserve to blast your music loud, and to sing without embarrassment. You deserve someone who will dance with you around the kitchen the way that we did once. You deserve someone who makes you laugh, and who makes you feel loved. Despite what you have made yourself believe, you deserve better than this.

These songs deserve to mark happy occasions, not to bring up bad memories. They deserve to be sung to, not cried over. They deserve to be shared with someone who’d mention their titles to you in love letters, not someone who only writes you suicide notes.

my hands are in your hair
and your hands are around my neck,
and you’re choking me,
but I’m letting you choke me.
and it’s hard to explain
because I am not in control, you are.
but I am choosing to let you have control,
and that choice makes all the difference.
_________

my ****** did not listen
to my voice saying “no,”
but he did not take away
my ability to say “yes.”
I am a **** victim.
I am a woman who enjoys ***.
I am allowed to be both.
and if you can’t understand that,
you are part of the problem.

guests used to comment on
all of those picture frames
pinned proudly to the walls.

you would smile politely
and give them a tour.


“there’s my daughter
on her first birthday!”

“there’s my son building
a fort out of snow!”

“there’s our family
on vacation at the beach!”


you used to get so many
compliments on your
picture-perfect family.


I wonder what they
would have said if they
knew about the holes
punched into the wall
underneath those frames.

the walls here are thin
because we can't afford
to build them any stronger.

we can't afford to spend money
to test smoke detectors,
or to build new fire escapes.

if this building
goes up in flames,
we have accepted that
we will all burn with it.

we can't afford to
spend money on
our children's safety.

but even if we could,
would it matter?

money can buy teddy bears
and pretty flower bouquets.

money can beautify
our roadside memorials,

but lit candles and
decorated street corners
can't bring back the
children who died there.

every night, I hear the sirens
of an ambulance speeding
through our streets.

sirens are the lullaby
that this city sings to our children,
and to our children's children.

if I didn't hear them
when I close my eyes,
I would be afraid.

because no sirens
does not mean that
there is no crime.

no sirens means only
that no one has come
to clean up the scene.

someone told me once,
that in suburbia,

in the neighborhoods
where the houses are
built with thick walls
and strong foundations,

and the neighbors fight
over who can buy
the fanciest car,

and those fights end
with snarky comments
instead of gunshots,

their children
fall asleep listening
to the sound of crickets
instead of sirens.

in those neighborhoods,
they do not raise their children
to be afraid of drugs
and death and violence.

they raise their children
to be afraid of our children.

our children are buried
six feet beneath the ground,

before their children
even learn the meaning
of the word "death."

words were always being launched
across the rooms of my house.
insults and accusations were flung
from one room to the next.

it wasn’t long before those words
were replaced by objects.

whenever I came home,
ceramic plates and decorative vases
would already be splayed out across
our kitchen floor, wrecked and broken.

I learned quickly
how to tiptoe around the mess.
if I wasn’t careful, the soles
of my feet would drip blood.

I accidentally learned pointe
by avoiding broken glass.

until someone pointed it out,
I never realized I was dancing.

my movements were somehow
considered to be a performance,

but all they were ever meant to be
was an avoidance of pain.

when I found love,
it was nighttime.

I remember hoping that
maybe he couldn't see
what I looked like
in the darkness.
we laugh at that now.

it was a real fear then,
but now I realize how
irrational it was.

how does that make any sense?
someone who loves you
will see you eventually.
if they wouldn't want to see you,
then how can you call that love
in the first place?

you shouldn't need to
dress up and go on dates.
true love is found
wearing sweatpants
and a baggy shirt,
with no makeup on.

you shouldn't need to
go looking for love.

the truth is that
you will be alone
for a while, maybe even
for a long time.

and the truth is
that loneliness will hurt
and it will not be easy.

but if you go looking
for love before you are
meant to come across it,
you will only find it
in the wrong places.

when you do find love,
it won't be perfect.
it will be messy sometimes
and awkward and hard,
but don't throw it away.

it's that messiness and
that imperfection and
those awkward moments.

those are love.

love is being yourself
with someone who loves you
for being yourself,

and who doesn't
just want to love you.

they want you to love yourself
the same way that they love you.

they want you to see yourself
through their eyes,
so that you can finally know
how truly amazing you are.

I’m so tired
of feeling so tired

you can
pick me apart
piece by piece.

I promise you
that I can
handle the pain.

experiment on me,
sedate me,
cut me open
and study me.
I can take it.

all I ask is that
when you put me
back together again,
please leave my trauma
out on the operating table.

if you tell me that you want to know
what it’s like to live the way that I do,
I will laugh to myself, because
the truth is you don’t want to know.

you don’t want to live the way
that I live, or feel how I feel.

and even if you did, you can’t.
you can hear about it
and learn about it,
but you can never feel
the way that I do.

don’t keep trying to understand
the way that my mind operates.
don’t keep trying to feel like me.

be thankful that you can’t.

but if you must know,
imagine this:

it’s early in the morning
and you’re at the end of a dream,
or maybe a nightmare.

you’re kind of awake,
but not quite. you’re groggy.
you haven’t gotten out of bed yet,
and you don’t feel like it.

and then you hear your
alarm clock going off,
and you realize, oh ****,
you’re late to work.

you need to get up now
and you know that.
but when you try to,
you suddenly can’t.

you’re stuck in your bed,
unable to even open your eyes.
you’re not paralyzed.
you seem physically fine,
but you’re stuck there.
you have an overwhelming
need to wake yourself up.
you don’t know why you can’t.

you’re stuck in your bed for so long,
you begin to think that maybe
the dream that you’re in is now real.
maybe the real world isn’t there anymore. you can’t think of a logical explanation.
it doesn’t make any sense.

yesterday, you woke up
and got out of bed, and you
made it to work on time.
you were even a few minutes early.
there was no problem at all.

but wait, how long ago
was yesterday?
you don’t know
if yesterday was yesterday,
or if yesterday was a year ago.

you’ve been stuck here,
frozen in your bed while
the earth keeps spinning.
you have no way of knowing
what’s going on
in the world around you.

you know that this feels wrong.
you should’ve been able
to start your day.
you shouldn’t be stuck.

you know that you can’t
be living in a dream.
that’s not possible.

you know you’re not asleep.
you’re wide awake, but you’re stuck.
you can’t scream. you can’t move at all.
you’ve lost control over your body.
you can’t wake yourself up.

imagine that no matter what you do,
you can’t wake yourself up.

as you held me,
your hands moved across me,
your fingertips tracing
every curve of my body.

your hands wandered
until they found my scars.
every muscle in my body tensed up,
waiting for you to comment on them.

they weren’t new.
by this time, I had dealt
with all types of reactions.

there were the people
who were disgusted
and didn’t try to hide it,

the people who were made so
uncomfortable that
they didn’t know what to say,

the people who
insisted they understood
when it was obvious that they didn’t.

you were hard to read.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from you.
you pulled me closer to you
and held me tighter,
and I felt myself relax.

you didn’t tell me you were fine with them, you didn’t tell me you were sorry,
and you didn’t tell me they were beautiful.

you were honest,
and I loved that.

you weren’t fine with them,
but neither was I,
and that didn’t stop you
from caring about me.
you weren’t sorry,
you didn’t pity me,
and you didn’t change
the way you acted around me
like most people do.

but most importantly,
you did not call them beautiful.
they aren’t.

there is nothing beautiful
about self-hatred,
and these scars
are nothing more
than its byproducts.

self-harm is not pretty.
my past is not pretty.
my scars are not pretty.
I told you all of this.

you didn’t disagree with me,
you didn’t try to argue.
you simply held me.
you didn’t look at my scars,
you looked at me.
you didn’t say much.
you didn’t have to.

when you did finally speak,
you told me,

“you’re right.
your past isn’t pretty.
but that doesn’t mean
your future can’t be.”

he said, “stop apologizing.”

it’s a bad habit of mine.
I apologize even when
I know I’m not at fault.

he said, “stop apologizing.”

I didn’t even realize I was.
it’s an automatic response that
I’ve been programmed to use.

he said, “stop apologizing.”

I tried to notice when it happened,
but it’s not an easy habit
to unlearn after years of training.

he said, “seriously, stop apologizing.”
I said “I’m sorry.”

my therapist told me that I should
try to imagine my mental illness
in the form of a person.

she said that sometimes
it's easier to fight these things
when they aren't invisible.

she said that maybe
doing this would help me to
remember that I am not crazy,
and that a mental illness is
just as real as a physical one.

she's told me over and over
about the chemicals in my brain,
and how my ****** literally
changed the way that I function.

she told me that he put
my body into a chronic state
of fight-or-flight mode.

she made sure
to use the word "chronic"
and not "permanent."

she makes sure
to remind me that
recovery is possible.

but when I try to picture
my mental illness
in the form of a person,
it has his face.

all of my demons
have his face.