I look for you
in the background of
photos of our mutual friends.

For some reason I want
to see you and know
that you are okay,
despite the fact that
you hurt me so bad.

I guess we can’t choose who hurts us,
but we can choose who we love.

If I dissociate any longer
I’m scared that there will
not be anything left to come
back to.

I burned my hand making Christmas cookies
for my small chosen family-
hoping that it is enough to thank them
for keeping me from falling headfirst
and loosing myself to my own mind.

The world is heavy
and so is my spirit.

I thought I made a mistake today when I again equated  my self worth to numerics.

However, my life is worth more than numbers on a scale.

I have spent years learning to love myself.
I have spent months teaching myself helpful and safe patterns that honor myself.
I have spent weeks unlearning all the negative things I have heard from society about what a body should look like.
I have spent days helping others do the same through talking, art, music, and drama.
I have spent hours exploring my body- my temple.
I have spent minuetes unconsciously making new positive associations.

And I will spend no more seconds hating numerics in relation to my body.

The growth I wish for you will burn strong-
just like your picture and the dried rosemary did tonight.

The words flutter out of your mouth and burn themselves into my back, scarring me forever with the feeling of kindness.

I want to write you messages
on small pieces of paper
and put them in the corners
of the advertisements on the A train
in the hopes that you will see them
and recognize my handwriting
and think of me.

The stretch marks on my thighs prove that I am a descendant of the mermaids and the gods.

They shine and appear light on my skin like how the sunlight dances on the top of the water.

They are signs that my body has endured and will continue to survive as the world moves on.

They weave across my skin like the beginning of a beautiful tapestry that will only become complete in time.

Learning to love myself again is hard, but my naked body is slowly becoming mine again.

The stretch marks are art on my skin, my own natural tattoos.

Let them show.

The world is silent but my thoughts are so loud.

My body aches from being forced to be still.

My hair is greasy.

From day to day I fluctuate in everything.

Forcing myself to present an image to others so I can be left in solitude.

I long to run, to be wild, to escape. To push myself until I can’t breathe and my body heaves and I feel more accomplished in a few moments than I have in months.

I want to go to the beach. Lay in the sand, let the waves crash on the shore and soothe my mind and soul.

I want my creativity to come back.

I want to love.

Two weeks [redacted] you.


I think I said that out of anger-

but I don’t think you could blame me-

or maybe you do-

because I know now how it feels-

to have spent two weeks [redacted] you.


I can’t even say the words because

I don’t want anyone to judge me-

rather that’s the last thing I need-

as while I was [redacted] you I wasn’t

[redacted] myself.

I was mean.

I was harsh.

If that’s what [redacted] you was-

then well, maybe I’m better off.


I did [redacted] you. I think I have for a while-

and people say that to [redacted] someone else you have to [redacted]

yourself but that’s not true because I hated myself when I [redacted]

you.


I thought everything I did was wrong-

I said this-

I did that-

did you think I meant that-

and even if you understood what you think I said-

could you tell that I [redacted] the idea of being with you like that?


Why can’t I [redacted] the idea of [redacted] myself the way that I so

desperately wanted to [redacted] you

This is all me in my head-
the shaking hands and the
emptiness that I feel
but is it just that I don't feel enough
or so much
that I'm shutting down-
sleeping away my days
going into nights where I stare up
at the sky and wonder why
my life is the way that it is.

I can't tell why I'm crying- because
I feel nothing
empty
hollow
empty
nothing
complete loss of anything-
but I know that things will not alway be this way because
I remember times when I did feel-
so hard
so fast
so intense
that this all must just be my body
trying to react to something
that it does not know what it is reacting to

What is going on
why am I so numb?
This is all in my head-
this is on me-
it will be okay-
the feeling will come back-
but for now I'll sit.

Oh no-
Is that what this is?
If I think about kissing you-
Or I think of us surviving a hostage situation-
Or if I think of us cuddling-
Or if I think of you walking me home when I’m drunk and me getting inside okay-
Or if I think of a theme for our hypothetical wedding-
Or if I think about what you smell like-
Am I just smitten?
Or am I in deep?
Or are these just one in the morning thoughts that I’ll never repeat?

I don't know why I'm feeling this way,
and as the rain pours out of the open sky,
I have to remind myself that you were never mine
to begin with.

I'm disgusted with the skeleton that shows through my skin,
and my heart palpitates to a beat that I cannot trace,
I feel so weak and you stand so tall,
and I wonder if the roles were reversed,
if I could stand up as straight as you,
and if you would be able to keep yourself stitched together,
because I am always trapped in a state of frigid failure and I think
that I might be falling apart on the inside and out but
yet I never change and nothing ever happens
to make anyone notice tha-
I wonder if I will ever be whole because some days I cannot
even decide what to wear in the morning and I always,
always think about perception and things like that,
for example I accidentally dropped my earring down the sink
yesterday and I just started sobbing into the mirror and I wonder
what people thought about me,
like maybe I was having a mental
breakdown but then again,
perhaps that earring was a family heirloom that was worth
more money than a lawyer would ever make,
yet seeing yourself from the outside is different
than seeing your own reflection,
Jesus I never wanted to admit this but I think that I am dying
but I cannot stop myself from keeping the same habits and patterns
and the feeling never leaves anyway
and I always wondered how people had the time
to pray to a higher power
because I could never even wake up in
the morning without four alarms set just in case,
if Jesus decides to come down from chilling up on a cloud and talk
to a little person such as me,
I wonder if he would be able to see all the emotions
that I carry or if he would try to convert me to Christianity,
even though I was raised that way I always just felt lost
and I just could not wrap my head around self-sacrifice like that
until I met you and I realized that your life was most defiantly
worth at least ten of mine,
I'm frightened to think that one day I could end up all alone,
even though I'm pretty sure that I already am because
I push everyone away that does not understand the way that I feel.

My hands shake and tremble even when I am holding yours
and I'm sorry that you are trapped by someone like me.

The day the angels came for you,
I was wearing a lipstick that stained my mouth
the color of raspberries.
When I came into the room,
we both ignored the fact that the monitor showed
that your heartrate jumped when you saw me,
and that my body instantly began to tingle.

I brought yellow roses
because I thought red would have been inappropriate,
and you giggled and made them into a flower-crown for me.
You remembered that yellow stood for friendship and admiration,
and I only nodded in response.

The get well soon cards were stapled to the walls of your room,
but only the outside of them showed,
and we were surrounded by teddy bears and balloons that
did not show the tastes of a twenty year old boy.
The nurse came in and when she saw the holes in the walls,
you shrugged and said that we ran out of tape.
She left in a hurry.

You said that you were excited to leave your body and go to heaven,
because you wondered if the "land of milk and honey"
was really all it is cracked up to be.
I sighed, and slowly asked the clouds
to keep you with me for another day.

You told me you were tired,
but you asked me if I would stay while you took a quick "siesta",
I said I would and when you drifted off,
I fought off my better judgment
and left a mark of raspberries on your forehead,
so when I sneaked out you would wake up
and look in the mirror and see that I told you goodbye.

My lips were still stained the color of berries
when I left red roses on your gravestone two weeks later,
and I wondered if you knew that all this time
I thought you would outlive me.

Feathers dance across my vision, and I want to gather them all up and store them inside of me.

Maybe they will make me float.

I think that you only care about the relationship you have with flames and desperation.

You told me once that you got so high off a blunt that you floated up into the sky and tapped danced with Jesus on a cloud.  When I inquired about his appearance, you lite a match off your shoe and nonchalantly said that he looked like the love child of Patrick Swayze and the curly haired Jonas Brother.

I hid your demons under the broken steps that you used to climb to catch the morning train, as I know that you would rather die that feel that suffocated once again. Of course, I still watch you fill your lungs with smoke, but your mother sighs and whispers that you have been improving. I choke on the air you breathe.

You are dying fast, yet this doesn't seem to bother you in the slightest, and you would rather lay in bed and watch your ceiling fan that climb out the window and see the sky. In your defense, the fan is a nice shade of blue, but the morning light is my preference.

You disappeared for a week in July and were labeled a missing person by the government. After you showed up on my doorstep half drunk and *****, I couldn't bare to tell you that I was so relieved that you were gone. I let you inside anyway, because seeing your brown puppy dog eyes makes me wish that I could save you.

I am watching you destroy yourself, and you don't even have the decency to remember my name.

I wonder how long it will take me to be whole.

You might think that this sounds odd or possibly vain, but it is a thought that torments me constantly as I am driving home in the wee hours of the morning.

I'm tired of being captured by the picture that others have of me, as I am more than a nervous disposition and a small frame.

Everyday I go through the motions, yet everyone I experience seems to see right through me. I am only a temporary splotch of paint that will be covered up on their canvas of convenience.

I finally reached my breaking point, and as I stood there with tears leaking through my closed eyes, you asked me if I was okay and at first I didn't even hear your voice.

I try to keep my emotions under control, but I have come to accept the fact that humans can only hold in so many different feelings before they explode.

You saw the small crumble of my body and mind, watched all of my colors pour out of me, and yet you stayed.

I am entirely grateful.

I wonder what it would be like to love you.

I don't think that it would be uncomfortable or forced, rather I believe that it would be revitalizing-like having finally found a glass of water after being thirsty for hours.

You once told me that in the night when you can't sleep that you put on gym shorts and walk around the streets contemplating the world. I laughed at first until I realized that I do the same thing from my bedroom, watching the light from car headlights drift in through my black curtains.

I wonder what it would be like to join you out in the brisk night, where I would reach out and grab your hand unashamed and we would just coexist together.

But sadly I am not one to dive into things head first, as I always fear the consequences of allowing others the peel back the layers of my mind.

I am scared of being destroyed by someone as human as you.

You only know what I want you to know,
as the fondness I feel for you is carefully hidden,
in the dark, small chambers of my heart.
Perhaps I have smothered my affections too much,
as you do not know how much I truly and utterly
need you in my life.

I put up a good mask, because it is easier to be someone else
than deal with the pains in my own life.
I have never allowed myself to lower my façade,
because I do not even know who I am without it.

Underneath-

I am lonely.
I am afraid.
I am needy.

I am scared of losing you.

You-

are my warmth.
are the sparkle in my eye.
are the sighs that coat my lips.

You and I will never be.

Because I am a coward.
A coward who is scared to love you.

The pieces of your time with me,
are scattered all around this cluttered room.
And now that we are distant, I somehow am unable to discover
what belonged to you
and what belongs to me.

I never thought that I would ever feel this way.
Hearing the beating of your heart as
we sit and watch movies in the dark
on a late Thursday night.

I miss the way that you looked at me.
I miss the way that your crooked smile seemed to
shine a glimmer of happiness on my face
as we would skip together down the hallway
hand and hand.

Today I woke up, and I realized
that while I thought that we had this "undying" love,
that all I really had all along,
was the closing of a book of fairy tales.
The prince decided that he was tried of trying,
and the princess did not even care.

Everything is gone.
And so am I.

She wonders who she really is.

To her parents, she is the "reliable child",
while her brother was off doing bath salts and fighting the "greater enemy",
she was at home reading books and tending to their every beckoning need,
with a smile plastered to her nimble face,
causing her features to slowly turn into a mask of perfection,
only to hide her yearning to escape,
and to taste the alcohol under the kitchen counter.

To her husband, she is the woman of his dreams,
with a graceful charm and a impeccable body,
she is the angle that awoke him from his long eternal slumber of loneliness,
and the one that is the biggest supporter of his dreams.
He never wonders if she does not love him as much as her loves her,
but the scrabble of her footsteps leaving the bedroom every-night,
are starting to weigh on his thought process.

To her work, she is the most valuable member of the team,
the one who always has the files organized by client last name in alphabetical order,
who can rattle off statistics and coffee orders as if they were the facts she learned in grade school,
and who always gives the best toasts at the yearly Christmas office party,
dressed perfectly with the smile frozen onto her face.
Little do they know, she has panic attacks in the bathroom between conference calls.

What astonishes me the most is when she needs a person to help her,
how all the people in her vicinity abruptly vanish,
and how she is able to blend in with the dark walls and floors,
and be completely out of sight.

She is the chameleon.

I had pictured that I would be strong enough to leave without remorse,
as I had to "challenge my prospects of life",
like everyone would say,
I needed to smoke out who I really was,
and not find myself crawling back to you,
but it was after I had packed up my life into small obsolete card-board boxes,
that I realized how trivial and small I really was.

I felt so alone.

I longed to feel the familiar shape of your body pressed up against mine,
to wake to your bright hazel eyes,
to the smell of your mango shampoo engolfing my senses,
to hear your breath harmonize with mine,
and to intertwine our legs into a maze that neither of us could escape from.

I missed you.

But you disconnected from me,
and when I rolled towards the middle of the bed,
and found it empty and alone,
experiencing for the first time that the receptivity of our hearts had grown apart,
like the un-uniformity of a puppeteer getting tired of old dolls,
and cutting the strings of the marionette,
at the perfect spot,
in order for me to feel the pain and deceptively obvious sadness,
of not wanting you to leave.

With you gone, I feel as though my world stopped.
Cliché as how I always thought that I would be the one to leave you,
but I was wrong.

I had hoped that you loved me,
and that that distant gleam I would see in your eyes,
was just you daydreaming about a world,
where you would not be able to hold your hand in mine.

I had hoped that one day I could take you home,
taking the three hour drive in your broken maroon car,
and have my parents beam with the fact that I had found someone,
with my brother murmuring under his breath,
that you looked "homeless" because your gorgeous long locks and band shirts,
that I suppose did not appear to appease him.
We would laugh about it later.

I had hoped that even though I knew all these things,
that at least you would care about my attached feelings,
and that you would not toss them away to the sharks,
in order to dance another dance with another girl,
someone prettier and who can tell better jokes,
who can make you smile and someone who completes the part of you,
that I guess I was never able to fill,
who you hoped would envelope the empty whole,
in your heart.

I wonder what it is like to been seen.

To be a regular at a coffee cafe,
where all the baristas know your order,
and they always have your grande nonfat extra shot white mocha ready for you,
with your name written on it in scratchy calligraphy,
when you walk through the door at 8:44 in the morning.

To be a drop dead beauty queen,
to walk down the street in the middle of the day,
with perfect hair and a dazzling smile,
and to have everyone turn to look at you as you go,
and to say "Wow, she sure is something special".

To be someone's everything,
who knows all of your little secerts and special quirks,
who can cheer you up with a stupid joke or a sappy love song,
someone your parents would approve of,
someone to love you till the day you die,
to have them look at you and breathe out a sigh,
and wonder how they ever lived a day with your body laying next to theirs.

I simply wonder what it is like to be anything at all.

Somedays I wake up,
and I pray to whatever is above me,
whether it be God or something else beyond my comprenesion,
isn't there to wake me up.

Somedays, I lay there,
In my bed,
surrounded by the warm layers of fabric that seem to hold me together,
and wish that they would just curl tighter around me,
and constrict me closer into myself,
and pray that they can gently convince my lungs to stop working,
so I can just not wake up.

Somedays, I wonder,
Just gazing around me,
If i can just stop the clock, and stay right where I am,
safe and sound comfortable in myself,
away from all of the anxiety I feel as it would
rise and fall in my chest and bury itself with the confides of my stomache,
and all the other nitches that it can find,
and I dream of not waking up

Somedays, I win.
Somedays, I lose.

I usually lose.

And I find myself uncurling from my happy prison of warmth,
and I feel my feet on the cold hardwood floors,
sighing as I run my finger thrugh my ***** hair,
wondering, not praying
how I ever was able to wake up.