I’ve been scarred from head to toe so many times, it’s impossible to tell the old me from my recent history

My mind scarred from disease
                                       My feet from anxiety
My hands from guilt
                         My stomach from impurities


My heart scarred from betrayal, never to trust again
My ears from stupidity that never fails to turn on me

                                   My face from insomnia
My arms from inability
                                             My gut from fear
My shoulders from loneliness
                                         My fists from fights
My eyes from violence
                                     My knees from failure
My bones from pain
                              My ankles from weakness
My reputation from mistakes

And my soul from these dark clouds that refuse to fade...

He's a crystal glass sitting on the kitchen table,
and he's sliding off 'cause the legs are too unstable.
So he shatters on the floor,
like so many times before,
the boy weeps.

Now I tell him to pick himself up and get on the table,
and he tells me he can't 'cause the legs are too unstable.
But he's just too small,
that's really all,
holding him back.

So I tell him to be the legs for the kitchen table,
'cause I didn't do my job and I couldn't be his savior.
I tried to hold him up,
but I let him down,
and I can't bear to tell him that it's my fault he's on the ground.

i spend my days lying down, motionless
for hours, staring at this too familiar ceiling

i spend my days doing nothing, brought by
a crippling inability to speak what I mean
or do what I wish (on things that matter
most to myself)

i spend my days reacting to your slightest movement,
with a doll's passivity bordering on disgusting

i spend my days being a mere watcher, a witness
to the wonder of how beauty grows

you are a sight to behold
and it must be such joy to be held

but i'd rather spend my days lying down, motionless
trying **** hard to dream of you
(but only nightmares come through)

An animal shriek
in the snowiest silence
is swallowed by eyes deep and brown,
                        not like mine.
Which're shallow and icy and
                                clouded with Sundays
                                shrugged off of shoulders
from peak down to plain.

These mornings are silent,
constructed from cinder blocks;
skeletal, rusting--yet inwardly
                                     wailing.
Why in the world can't I set those shouts free
when the achiest Mondays release
all their caltrops
               and I stagger through work weeks
on sore, shredded feet?

It's because of the way
      that your shrieks echo off
      of my wrought iron eyelids
      when frost fills your veins.

It's because of the way
      that I melt every Thursday
      and wash down the side
      of the night in cold sheets.

I can't shout out loud
and I can't melt the quiet
that screams from the mountains
to snow on the prairie below.

The floor is a mess,
clothes and papers scattered about.
No need to look at the rest,
please do not shout.

She's lost what mattered most,
him, her, them, they.
The shine her tousled hair, lost,
and gray clouds are her vision okay?

So please do not judge her inability to leave bed,
or her waist that's shrinking by the day.
Please just think about what you just read,
and fix her the right way.

each night I'm slowly dying
chocking on words I can’t say
racing from my brain
through my body until
they reach the edges of my fingers
the bottoms of my feet
the tip of my tongue
only to stay there and linger
unable to escape
unable to disappear from within