They say that you can count the things you really care about in your life on one hand

I guess every time you lose something you care about, you have to put a finger down

When everything is gone you're just left staring at a fist

Maybe that's why people are so mad at the world

I've learned that happiness
cannot be found in the form of a little
purple capsule.
I've learned that Pisa will have to wait until next time.
I've learned that the third mushroom
held in my sweaty palm was not as
big a deal compared to the other two opening my mind.
I've learned that a part of me
died that night where we ****** in a
room with no furniture.
I've learned that life is work and that
the molotov cocktail of Dubrah and eay mac
that came spewing from me left an orange tang
upon the floor.
I've learned that pain is better than numbness
and that jabbing a sewing needle repeatedly in my arm
was an educated decision.
Most importantly I've learned that together we are better than alone.

I fell for him three times
The first time I fell for him he captivated me with his words. He had mastered the twenty six letters and all their possible combinations and could play them better than any instrument. He could create laughter, happiness, joy in me, effortlessly, continuously, endlessly. When we conversed between days, without voices, it was like he already knew what I sounded like despite never hearing me speak a word. It was like he had browsed through my collection of tattered books and torn sketches and scratched cds despite never having stepped foot in my room. It was like he had watched me during moonlit hours while I watched each raindrop kiss the earth goodnight despite never having seen the moon dance across my skin.  He didn't know this though. I was timid, consumed entirely by doubt and insecurity, fearful that my arms could not yet quite reach out far enough and it was early spring and the sun and breeze were gentle and couldn't push me quite yet. I had fallen though, the bruises were on my grazed knees to mark the occasion. He took my hand in his own, lingered, and pulled me up.
The second time I fell for him he captivated me with his presence. People terrified me. People could make the air cling to me and I would quickly be submerged but never quite manage to drown, but not him. No, not him. When he entered a room, it seemed bigger, there was more air. When he entered a room, the colours were brighter, there were so many more colours. When he entered a room, the music played loud, the beat got faster. This should have terrified me, but it mesmerised me. They say that people have smiles that can light up rooms, his smile could light up a thousand rooms all at once, and that's what he did. He lit up every chamber of my heart and old, dusty corners that hadn't seen light in years were suddenly graced with his wonderful presence. Watching his hands tap the surfaces around him made me realised how empty the spaces between my fingers were. He could never leave a surface without making sure he'd tapped out a rhythm on to it, like he was creating his own song in each moment, in each day, and leaving pieces of it behind for others to find and when he tapped out a rhythm on to me for the first time I knew that I wanted to hear how it ended even if it meant I needed to be in every moment and every day. I wanted him to collect the pieces.
The third time I fell for him he captivated me with his heart. My heart was brightly lit near him now, and it yearned to stay that way. The light brought heat and instead of shivering my heart could beat like it should. I needed to be closer. My heart desired to leave my chest and move into his and it was something I could no longer fight. The sun magnified this new warmth in me and pushed me further. I led him through and he followed. No one followed. He always followed. I fell then in front of him and he followed still. We fell into place like puzzle pieces, a natural event, words spilling out from me in an order that even I struggled to untangle and what should have been a jumbled mess as I hit the floor he had smoothed out without a second thought. Still a master of those twenty six letters, but instead of words he spilled tears as we lay in tall grass that was wet with the rain we had already missed. I knew then that I was in love with him, without doubt.

Some days, I wake up flighty and itchy.

Crawling out of my skin and jumping at every last inhale and exhale. 

Crying at every last brush of my fingers on my scars.

Whimpering at having to be surrounded by a writhing mass of people.



These are the days when I’m most reminded of you.

Reminded of how you used to love me.

Reminded of how you used to hold me.

Reminded that you don’t care about me anymore.



These are the days when I wish I could still talk to you.

That you would still care about what I had to say.

I would probably ask you to hand me a scalpel and some scissors and the rubbing alcohol,
 because I need to cut you and your scar tissue permanently away from my heart. 

And even on these days I remember that you would have looked at me in anger and pity for saying such things (i.e. self-harm)



But these are also the days when I want to cut all of my emotions out.

Slice them away from my veins word by word.

Watch apathetically as I bleed the letters out.

All of these words and letters we have assigned to emotions, to try to describe the uncontrollable reactions we have in life.

Anger, Betrayal, Compassion, Exhaustion, Frustration, Guilt, Happiness, Indifference, Jealousy, Kindness, Love, Morbidity, Nervousness, Oppression, Peace, Remorse, Spite, Tranquility, Uncertainty, Vexation, and Yearning.
For, surely, it would be easier to be numb, than to go through all of these and many, many more?



To go through the long, unending cycles of good weeks, good months, and then bad days.

Sure, they’re less frequent than they used to be.
Sure, they’re few and far between.
Sure, it’s only 24 to 48 hours.

Sure, the medication quells the panic attacks and violent mood swings and poisonous thoughts.


But that just makes them worse when they surface.

Makes the paranoia worse.

Makes the anxiety worse.

Makes the self-abuse worse.

Makes me worse. 



On these days I remember,
That you ran away from me because I’m broken
,
and you aren’t a handy man capable of fixing me.

I can spend all of my time loving you, 
fixing you,
singing to you, worshiping you,
And in the end you cannot give these things back.


You aren’t perfect.
You aren’t chained to me.
You didn’t even want to claim me.
And after all, on these days,
Everything is my fault anyways.



Some days, 

The days when I wake up,
Begging to be locked in a sanitarium,
Sobbing and biting and kicking and screaming,
I’m reminded that you,
And no one else,
Will ever love me.

The time I live in is not what it used to be
Social networking is the new talk
Texting is the new writing
Skype is the new "hello"

In the midst of all of this I'm caught in a parallel of do's and don't
Lies and untold truths
And then I realize these kids are only speaking from what they see
Not from what they actually know

The words they speak is out of vanity
Insanity, really
And it's as if they have lost all sight of communication
Forced to find a new way

Teens find ways other than physical confrontation to get their point across
Whether it's harass or some picture their parents wouldn't approve of
Their words are no longer something spoken
But, something thought of and hoped to be understood

This day and time isn't anything "normal"
But, what is normal anyway?
Their violent words scar the heart of others
The things they say will never actually come out of their mouths

When you think about it, who really speaks anymore?
Kids use everything else to say what they "feel"
When it's not really what they feel at all
Just a disguise to be someone they aren't, but to gain attention in the process.

Trapped
In his own corrupt self-deprecation.
“Where am I now?
Where have I gone to?
This is not foreign.”

His face,
Beaten.
His clothes,
Tattered.
Desolate in four dimensions.

Not abandoned,
For he has the company of a thousand thoughts teetering on transmission.

I need to breathe

I fear the muscles and tendons and organs are closing in on me

Almost like I’m drowning

But more like the weight of the moist soil suffocating me

Underground

With the worms and the fossils

Ancient bones that tell so many stories

Sometimes my bones feel ancient too

And brittle

But they tell no stories

They are just too weak from holding up my flesh

This useless body of flesh that has so many functions

Yet why is it still so hard to breathe?

I can feel them working

My lungs

They heat up the air and push life into my body

Yet they cannot force the pressure off my heart

Let them burst

Let the air flow into the crevices of my body

Cooling my muscles

Relieving my heart