And like that
my voice has been stolen away
Anxiety barricades like invisible steel walls
Trapped, I’m left banging with clenched fists
A prisoner within my own head
My brain a chemically imbalanced warden
My mind in solitary confinement

I chew Nicorette gum -
I don't smoke cigarettes

I use safety razors (not for their intended purpose),
I draft suicide notes in an app

I won't overdose - reuse my organs,
I'll drive off a bridge in a Prius

I'll turn the lights off before I go,
Turn my ashes into a tree

There's popcorn on the ceiling,
a million bajillion clusters that I've spent days trying to count.
In the 1950's these ceilings exploded into popularity.
And until 1977, homeowners blasted asbestos covered popcorn toward the sky, letting mesothelioma fibers fall back to their floor like it was harmless dust.
I take a deep breath, letting the air settle deep in my chest before letting it back out.
My ceiling is probably not made of asbestos.
It's probably styrofoam or some other cheap, paper-based product.
I take another deep breath.
The EPA banned the use of asbestos in these ceilings.
Apparently, inhaled in large quantities, asbestos causes lung disease, lung scarring, and lung cancer.
Another deep, deep breath.
I continue counting the probably not cancer causing popcorn.
I wonder if I would be able to feel the particles swimming in my lungs like fiber glass–thin, delicate, sharp.
I wonder if it would **** me.
I wonder if my family would file a claim like you see on those old commercials screaming,
"If you or a loved one developed mesothelioma you, yes you, could be entitled to compensation."
Or, something like that.
Breathe.
The air tastes funny.
My ceiling is most likely not made of asbestos.
But, I probably wouldn't care if it was.

I dare you to peel away my skin,
dig in my flesh and pull me out
of this ******* shell I’m in.
Leave me raw and pink,
A sunburn from your soul,
that righteous light, the missing link.
Fill a hollow heart that doesn’t beat
but you’ll find in a corpse,
it just won’t keep

Stop with the self righteousness
with that **** of the hip, hair flip,
tongue click pettiness
A round of applause for that display of selfishness

Stop with the villainization
I am not on trial and you’re not the judge nor the jury
Call me in contempt of court
But the true crime here is your self-victimization

Stop with the alliterative grade school names
Petty Betty and Salty Sally perpetuate your immaturity
Childish Chelsea double dutching that rope
Spitting her rhymes like it’s all just a game

Stop pretending it’s a joke, like your words hold no meaning
We all know you sit at home sharpening your syllables like knives
But you’re not the only butcher in town, I’ve finally found my cleaver
I’m ready to fight, I’ll leave you reeling

i'm tired of treading lightly
scraping teeth against my tongue
to stifle the truth
exhausting a mind masquerading as a thesaurus
trying to find the prettiest words
to protect your heart

I found myself
driving down the road
with the wind blowing
cigarette smoke in my face

I found myself
in the passenger seat of her car
with the bass kicking louder
than the lyrics we screamed

I found myself
in the reflections of windows we passed
blurred by the downpour of rain
but not completely erased

I found myself
in her laughter and
my name passing through her lips
as if it were her song

I found myself
alone
her name floating through my mind
wondering where the hell it went wrong

Do you remember the last day?
Not the one where our words left burns on flesh
But the one where our tentative apologies became the salve
Where forgiveness became possible
And our future was suddenly not set in stone
We stole pens and wrote our sins on sweat coated skin
Our truths sinking into every wrinkle and every fold we created
But in the morning you were gone
And in the bathroom I found a washcloth stained with ink.

He snarls, his lips curling over his teeth. “You’ve pushed away everyone who ever loved you away, and laughed.”

I focused on the dust motes floating between us, willing his words to hurt. Willing for them to sting.

Nothing.

It’s always been nothing.

“It’s a shame I never loved you then, isn’t it?”