from catching up
times moth decay
filling
paper

cups

pin me
stitch
me
see my form

curtains under marooned

swallowin
an
other
mood

swoosh swoosh swoosh
let me hear your song
dividers
on
the
highway
tell me nothing
is
wrong


read me from the left
read me from the right
come
on
pretty baby

love me
in
the
light

broken back sorrow
wounded sparrow wings
hope lost
in
tomorrow
futures
yet
to
sing

me an lullaby

yet to sing me from this hole
pipers flute bloeing
the
wrong
direction
affection
has been
wind blown

perhaps the breeze likes sitting
on
my
lap

who
am
i
to say
as if
you are just
one thought way
?



















...
..
.

sometimes,
i smile at the mirror,
to remind myself that i can.
because i've forgotten what it feels like.

sometimes,
i spend hours repeating the same phrase in my head,
just to make sure it sounds right.
"hi... could i please have the-"
it never does.

sometimes,
i stare at the crimson lines on my wrists,
and try to convince myself that they're beautiful.
no one else thinks that though,
so why should i?

sometimes,
i check my pulse,
because i need to know that life is temporary.
i need to know that one day it'll be over.

sometimes,
i stare at my reflection,
but i don't recognize the girl looking back at me.
why is she so broken?
she follows me like a ghost.

sometimes,
the time passes so slow,
that a minute feels like a day,
and i wonder if it'll ever end.
will it ever end?

sometimes,
i wake up with tear stains on my pillow,
blood soaked sheets.
i don't remember though.
regret is not an easy feeling to deal with.

sometimes,
i watch mouths move in front of me,
but the screams in my head take up too much space.
so i hear nothing.
"can you repeat that please?"
"sorry."

sometimes,
my hands are raw and tired, scratched away to nothingness.
"how'd you get that burn?'
all i can say is that it was an accident.
was it?

sometimes...
sometimes a lot of things.
sometimes i wish i wasn't here.
sometimes my body doesn't feel like mine.
sometimes i want to cut the pain out of my body.
is that possible?
sometimes.

I knew there was something wrong with her when I was 10
I found a magazine report about borderline personality disorder
I was reading in the school library and I started crying
I could never have put a word on what was different about my mother
But there it was, plain as day
The way she could stay in bed till 3 in the afternoon with the blinds closed
The way some days we would laugh as she asked me if I wanted to play hooky and skip out on school
We would go grab frappucinos at Starbucks and rummage through countless thrift store shelves
But some days, some days I would be screamed at until I cried
Some days I would lock myself in the bedroom until I needed to come out
Some days I would stay at school extra long and just put off going home altogether
Some days my brother and I were burdens
Some nights we would get to order pizzas and drink Coke and some nights we were told to find food for ourselves
Always with the paranoia and the headaches and the inability to do anything
Consistent with the anger and the depression
Consistent with the exhaustion and the impulsive natures
The pills never helped, the pills never made things better
Fourteen years later and things are no better, things are no easier
Things have made no progression
Fourteen years later and we don’t speak