i didn't cry today
my mother did though
she says i've changed
it happened a long time ago

my thoughts are sad
they burn like coal
my words have changed
i am not whole

my wrists are sore
decorated red with fear
or is it blood
i won't last a year

i haven't eaten today
my ribs are showing
i smile at my reflection
my future is closing

The day has come
i have gone to sleep
my mother cried
i'm just another soul to reap

I am clean.
I have walked home in the rain.
I've never done so before.
Hood down, chin up, pants sopping.
I've never seen what I looked like, dripping rain water and mascara, with a look of peace in my stormy eyes.

I am new
because I have walked home in the rain.
With every boom of crashing thunder, I was re-baptized in the purest of conditions.
I, myself, have been denied such a cleaning for so long.

But now that I have walked home in the rain,  my mind is fresh. I am acutely aware of all senses and emotion, like someone has cleared my mind's plate of old and set a new table of knowing before it.
When the drops hit my skin, and I felt my pores pucker, I was tingling in my very bones, and I no longer felt the need to crawl out of my own casing.

Now that I have walked through the emerald grass, wet with purity, over the hills of the silent past, and in the pouring rain of new, I praise my content stay.

I walked home in the rain, and I am whole.
I walked home in the rain and found the sun.

We sweat out the holy stuff.
You used my ribs like one uses
the rough side of a matchbox
striking up your fingertips
to light the rest of my skin on fire.

I'm glad I was just another burnt tip
in your collection.
I'm glad it was an easy discard.

I took a mental photograph
of you in that moment--
Bare chest, pulling down your boxers,
holding my face like one molds a statue,
bite marks on my jaw line.

I smoldered in your sheets,
you kicked me out of bed.
This must be what Pompeii  looked like
after all the ashes cleared.

I'm glad I was just another pretty girl
you liked to watch go up in flames.

I'm glad you didn't ask me to stay.

I can barely bear to talk to anyone,
so focused am I on my work,
night after night staring down the computer screen,
day after day lost in books,
any information is a chance to get distracted,
any communication is a snap back to the present.

"Are you alright?" I asked.
"Pardon?  You're a bit behind on that one," said the blue-boxed response.
"I know.  I'm behind on everything."

I don't know how long it's been,
for no longer can I measure in hours spent asleep
nor hours spent procrastinating.
Every minute is either reading or not reading,
and I can say for certain only that I have more reading minutes to account for.

"It's fine.  You're fine."
It's never fine.
"I'm sorry. "

I don't know what time it is,
or how the rock in my hand made it across the room.
I run across to the curtained-off closet
and kneel down next to my forgotten projects,
wire and beads echoing past happiness.

"Why are you sorry?" asks the confused message.
"Because I was stupid.  I thought..."
No I didn't
"You're fine."

The room is blurry, fuzzy, shaking,
and I don't want to leave this corner of my closet.
I forgot I was wearing headphones but now
all I can think is the lyrics coming through
and they're not the cheerful kind,
they're the kind that let me cry for once,
at least till I get a grip.

"How was your day?"
It's got to have been days, weeks, months,
and I still avoid contact
"Hello?"
"Fun fact:  about 1% of the world population identifies as asexual."
If I don't respond she'll leave me alone
If I don't respond she'll know something's wrong
"Night."

The adults in the living room
don't bother to keep their voices down,
and I'm the topic of conversation
and they're both wrong.
The memory of the sensation (but not the act) of
stumbling around the yard, desperate for respite,
and of falling in front of my bed and sobbing
without knowing how I got there
is fresh in my mind.

"Maybe we advanced her too fast."
"She's never had an issue before and I don't see why her grade should be so low all of a sudden."

I know that mine is not the worst of situations.
Sleep deprivation and academic stress
are not unique problems,
and the blue message box tells stories from an imperfect existence,
but somehow I can not face my life
and I dwell in the green message box,
and in whatever else I can find to hide in.

"Are you up for a mission?"
I can't see straight, I'm so tired
"What sort of mission?"
"I'll share you the instructions.  I need some made up words."
I'm still at a charity astronomy show.
"As soon as I get home I'll hop on."
It's after 9:00 pm

I've spent nights staring at the message boxes
on my green Pantech's screen,
ready with a shoulder and a slap in the face
when I need a hand myself
because when you can't have help all you can do
to distract from your own trouble
is focus on someone else's.

"It's a cry for help."
"I get it but I can't emotionally connect to it."
"I'm sorry...  I'm getting too involved in this stupid story."
"No!  I'm just emotionally inept."
"I need help and trying to explain emotions to Abby is like talking to a brick wall."
"Sorry... I'll just go to bed now.  Night."

There's a spider on the ceiling
so I have yet another excuse not to sleep
as if I needed one.
I want to be there for everyone so no one will ever have to be there for me,
but of course,
I need something to be there for me.*

"Do you have your history book on you?"
"What chapter, what topic, and what format?"

open your ribs
and let me breathe my love
into your lungs

slit your veins
and let me paint my passion
across your chest

part your lips
and let me snake my tongue
all the way down to your heart

spill your mind
and let me see
what a lovely mind dares accompany
such a lovely face


-jd

we grew up surrounded
by boys who taste like *****
and smell like cigars
or girls with too many playthings
and not enough decency
we grew up thinking that
no one will ever fall in love with us
because lust is often mistaken for a connection
and there are only words to get what you want
we grew up with empty bottles
and broken hearts
because love? Love is great when it lasts;
but it never lasts.