January; a fresh start.
The time of year where I can feel clean again.
Like I was just tossed from the washer, into the dryer and set to tumble.
February; A cold descend. Eyelashes coated in snowflakes, and darkness comes at 4 o’clock.
March; An empty month.
The days drag by and you follow routine.
April; a month filled with teardrops falling from the sky,
And you stomp in puddles trying to find a reason as to why you feel this way.
May; flowers you thought were dead begin to bloom in your head again.
His smile has brightened your mind.
Providing sunshine and water for nurturing.
June; watermelon juice dribbling down your chin,
And a grin so wide, my cheeks hurt.
July; you told me you loved me and I swear there were fireworks in my chest.
August; starry nights, but those stars can’t provide the amount of light that you need to get better.
September; crisp wind and edgy tones.
Claw marks become present on your skin from trying so hard not to let go.
October; the leaves fall slowly, reminding me of February's downfall,
I didn’t think I’d get bad again.
November; a warm month, surrounded by family.
December; a bittersweet ending. A love put to rest.

I am a creaking staircase;
Letting others step on me and crack my wooden boards from their heavy weight and intimidating stomps.
I am only a passing marker to their final destination,
But nevertheless, they still need me.
And I try to convince myself that my worth means something,
Because without my support they wouldn’t get anywhere.

Without my support they would be stuck,
No staircase to guide them up and away.
So they wonder if it was all worth it;
Carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.
This shows me that I am necessary and I am needed,
For without me, they wouldn’t make it to their destination.

Because they are running for a reason.
And my staircase heart provides them the nurture they need to make it.
My worth is not decided by the amount of cracks I have in my structure,
Not by the weight I carry upon my steps,
Not by the need to feel useful,
But by the amount of souls I have helped reach their destination.

I have given my support to those that have used me,
And although I should feel bitter my creaking staircase continues to give.
Proving that I have worth, even if it's as much as a penny's.
Proving that the weight on my shoulders has worn me into a comfortable state, like those stubborn shoes your mother got you for church.
Proving that they need me, like a boat needs water
in order to reach its desired destination.

I am a support system,
A staircase to the places that people need to be.
I am worth it.
The weight that I carry is for a reason.
The people who stomp on my staircase heart, at one point needed me.
And although I am not their destination, I am part of their journey.

The weight that they are carrying is supported by my steps.

I’m not very good at talking, but I’ve always been good at talking in my head.
I’ve got exactly 6 and a half notebooks filled with the conversations I’ve had in my head for the past three years.
And this past month I’ve filled up 31 pages of my current journal.
Blurbs of ‘I really ****** up’ and 'today was really great’.
But now it all just meshes together and I keep ripping out page after page in hopes of forgetting.
My stomach burns where you touched me.
My eyes drop tears, right on cue for these April showers.
My hands are clenched into fists ready to strike whoever tries to lay a finger on me.
My mother can’t even kiss me goodnight without me crying because she’s triggering war flashbacks when her lips brush my head.
And my thighs are covered in slashes where I tried to cut off the skin you kissed.
And I keep trying to tell myself I’m better than this.
But the truth is, I’m not.
I got myself into this mess.
I brought this all upon myself.
All because I can’t talk.

A raw lip and ****** knuckles.
I never considered what the aftermath would be,
but if there's one thing I know for sure, it's that you are going to crush me like a small bug.
Guts splattered, heart flattened, dead.

I was just having a bad day for three years straight, but I'm better now,
I swear, I'm great.
I got the magic potion to take away the bad days,
Although it does put me in a little bit of a haze.
It takes away the dark parts in my brain,
It's a daily dosage that makes me just a little bit more sane.
I had to pay this witch fifty bucks an hour just to give mind a little power,
I  told her I wanted to blossom into a flower, but it wasn't possible because this darkness seemed to tower.
I told her that my head was fogged and I could barely see,
I'd toss and turn at night while my mind was screaming at me.
Now the screams are hushed and my thoughts are a little bit less rushed, but I still have feelings of my life being a bust.
I told her that when I consumed calories at night I had to purge them afterward to fight,
I just wanted to feel some might.
But when my teeth began to yellow that's when my feelings turned into jello,
And I couldn't put my thoughts into words because every time I tried it hurt.
So when that witch gave me that magic pill it gave me a slight thrill,
because I thought, finally, I wouldn't feel so ill.
And maybe now my life wouldn't keep spiraling downhill.
I was told that this pill was magic,
It would help me understand that my life isn't really all that tragic,
but now I just feel so plastic.
Instead of moving upward I'm on a plateau,
the days go by completely too slow.
And instead of just feeling so sad all the time, I'm feeling this numbness inside of my mind,
And I can stare at a wall for hours on end, all of my feelings just seem to blend.
Maybe I just need to make a friend?
Do you think you could whip up a potion for that?
Maybe then my feelings wouldn't be so splat, because I'd rather feel like crap than feel this emptiness inside my cap.
I know that I said I was better now,
but I'm not sure if that was a lie.

Shaky hands and an unsteady heart,
My mind jumps back and forth back and forth.
Fingers combing through knotted hair,
And body bags form under my eyes,
Ready to catch the fallen.

Cracked lips and thinning hair.
You get the shivers every four minutes,
You know because you check the clock constantly.
Waiting for the moment when your organs decide to finally fail you.

I had never seen you cry before,
And the funny thing is, you didn't cry because your life was coming to an end,
You cried because you were so heart broken to leave your loved ones behind.

A love so pure that on Easter you had us gather around you so you could give us our assignments on how to take care of one other once you were gone.
But it was her you were most worried about.
The woman you shared 50 beautiful years with.
The woman you should have shared 50 more with.

Cotton sheets and rickety breaths,
Pure terror fills your eyes and I can't bear to watch.
Skin and bones.
A rib cage that rises and falls,
But with far too many seconds in between.

A blue screen illuminating the room.
Tonight is the night, we already know.
So when I hear the faint knock on my door,
It's certain;
There aren't any more breaths left,
and these body bags must collect the fallen now.

Tangled sheets and coffee stains,
Foggy minds and opening blinds,
Sunshine devours your very being,
And you are overwhelmed by the innate warmth you feel.
Stretch out your limbs,
Open your eyes,
And prepare to face the day.
11 am.