You make me feel like I don't matter.
And that.
Really.
*****.

what's the point
of all this passive, tight-lipped anger?
it doesn't arrive as a heated storm,
pounding heart, bath of red, poison-tipped tongue.
it sits calm and constant,
and rots,
rots away my chest until there are too many holes to fix.
besides, you've long since stopped trying,
or stopped looking,
whichever fits you best.
but maybe one day- if i'm lucky-
this anger will eat me away entirely.

When you break a mirror
You don't dust off your hands
and say "Well,
I'd better glue this back together."
No.

You replace it,
Because even though you've picked up every tiny shard,
Even though you've painstakingly fit together
Every last splinter,
It's still just
A broken mirror.

So I hope you know,
After all this time you've wasted,
All this glue you've slathered on,
This project only ends
With me
Bearing my own cracked reflection.

And I wonder,

Is that enough for you?

some days they are sad. sad about the weather, sad about the thing that happened last night, sad about losing their favorite book, sad about their coffee being cold, sad about the fact that they can't find matching socks. lots of things make them sad, lots of nothings make them sad too. you see, when you have a predisposition for being sad, every little thing counts.  so when you ask her why she is sad and she cannot answer, do not press further. do not go looking for a reason that just isn't there. when you ask what you can do and she says nothing, do not be hurt. do not feel useless. when she wakes in the middle of the night and she is silent, but you can feel the bed shaking as she cries, do not assume you know what she is feeling. you don't. hold her if she wants it, don't touch her if she doesn't. if you ask her if she wants you to stay and she says yes, do. but if she tells you to walk away, do not listen. stay with her, because if you don't, she might not be there in the morning .

Sometimes I feel like there is someone inside of me and she's scratching at the walls of my mind and struggling against all the knots I've tied her in. Sometimes I can't fight anymore and she walks around wearing my skin and my clothes and talking like me and laughing like me and breathing like me. Sometimes I know she will do things that I would never do- she screams and cries and cuts us apart and says things just to hurt you and pushes everyone who's trying to help us away and gets angry at nothing and breaks everything. Sometimes I hate everything about her especially how she hates everyone she's ever known and how well she knows how much the lines of love and hate intersect. Sometimes she blurs us together until we can no longer recognize ourselves as separate. Sometimes I am her. Sometimes she is me. And sometimes,
We are us.