Do it out of love
or do it not at all
for the power in your heart
should not pull on the strings of mine
it should dance with them, tangle them
in a web that catches fallen pieces
when my paper skin loses integrity
it should color them
when the grey has covered everything

Do it out of love
or do it not at all
the force that drives your lips to mine
should not derive from the same place
that drives you to work in the morning
or to bed at night
for these are chores
and I have been there before
so I ask you to do it out of love
not habit, nor chore
do it out of love
I've never had that before

I spoke in broken notes
that came out flat and frugal
words got caught in hardened chords
each time your name rang through them

There was no music in my voice
no melody to soothe me
I could not carry a whole line
without a script to keep me moving

I spoke in broken notes
when I spoke of our older days
I spoke in battered, ugly shards
of words I'd since tucked away
I spoke in broken notes,
the sounds were all but lovely
but at least I spoke a word or two
that's better than nothing

The scrutiny is toxic,
it builds up like tar in her weakened lungs
she can't breathe
when everyone else steals the air right from her
and replaces the purity with rotten words that make her blood curdle
the scrutiny is toxic
she tries to brush it off
but it won't work
she can't breathe
please stop the scrutiny

The last time they fought
he told her that her ego ran her life
maybe he was right.

Was her mind too much
and that is why she hides
it away in a cage so no one else can
but still she craves the light so
she spends her time looking good in every one
forgetting to nourish her mind.

That is not the girl I know
faux passions
dragging out interactions for the sake of a boost
who knew she could turn out like this?
That is not the girl I know,
it is the girl he said she was,
and that is not the girl I loved.
I want her back, please.

I'm giving up on myself today
I'm jaded and sleepless and need a break
I'm giving up on my goals today
I'm sorry and hope you can forgive me
I'm giving up on myself today
I'm sick of this fog surrounding me
I'm giving up on everything today
I'm empty and can't fill up again
I'm giving up today,
and will try again tomorrow.

In school, I was always getting spoken to about the length of my sentences; I used semicolons more than anyone else my teacher had ever met and he always asked me why I didn't just end the sentence and begin again; I always told him that I was scared to end one if I wasn't sure it was finished yet; what if it wanted another chance? What if it was ready to start again? I wrote an essay in which the entire introduction was one long sentence, it went on for two pages and I had to rewrite it three times because it was not concise enough. I grew worried that I'd end up the same way the rest of my life; what if I was always too scared to end things because I wasn't sure if I would be able to start from scratch? What if I held on to one thing for too long and lost the chance of another one hatching and what if I never learned how to start fresh? I was always used to starting over, but it's different when you're older. You don't start over with the same white heart, you start over, carrying the bruises you got from fighting for years and you start over knowing that any move could be the one that ends your sentence and you start over knowing you're creating run-on after run on but you don't care as long as your words have somewhere safe to go; you don't care as long as they know they're welcome there, because god knows they weren't anywhere else.

Remind me* what warm, sandy days in early July are like when the creases in my mattress make their mark on my skin so deep I forget how to stand up straight on my own. Remind me what 72 degrees at 50 miles per hour in my hair feels like when the shades will not open themselves and the piles of ***** dishes and wrinkled clothing have created their own escape route from my bedroom. Remind me what holding hands with someone who would rather hold your soul feels like when I crave human touch but shut out everyone that comes within a mile of my heart because I'm just so scared to break again. Remind me what hot chamomile tea on a dewey August morning tastes and smells like when I am buried in pillows and have my eyes glued to the computer screen because they're too tired to search for anything beautiful; they couldn't stand to see something beautiful anyway, because they'd deliver the message to their owner that what they see is that which she is not. Remind me what laughter, on a trampoline, at 2 in the morning, that makes my stomach hurt feels like when the nostalgia sinks deep into my skin and draws blood, and I feel as though things won't ever be as golden as they once were. So please, remind me that better days lie ahead. Remind me how it feels to work for something, to put your heart and soul into a work of art when I feel like my insides have collapsed because trial and error is my only experience with love and error seems to have ******* all hope. Remind me that it isn't me who is broken, that it is the world who needs my love and remind me that if I would stop giving up, that I could feel all of these things again. Remind me to get up and try, and try, and try again. Even when the white walls hurt my eyes and the blanket clings to my skin, remind me what it feels like to live. And don't let me lose that feeling again.

I turn 20 in 3 months.

3 days ago, I **** my pants.
Yikes.

What? Ugh, I know. Well heck, dude.
It was an accident.
Or it was laughter mixed with Corona.
Or it was nervousness taking over,
lactose intolerance teamed up with people intolerance,
**** did it smell, but
we did try to make the best out of a sticky situation,
for lack of a better word.
The air was stale, but at least I could breathe at that point.
It's in our nature to coat our ugliest metals in gold.
Why do we do that and feel bad when the copper starts to shine through?

I beg you something, I plead.
Stop calling  anxiety beautiful. Please.
What's beautiful about air stabbing your chest like
shattered glass as you hug your own knees for comfort
and beg it to make it to your lungs in time to breathe?

What's so beautiful about bloodshot eyes so red that customers tell your boss you're surely high when you'd give your left leg to be low enough to calm down, even if for a minute.
What's so beautiful about burn marks from coffee pots your dropped while you were shaking?

And what is so beautiful about freezing in the heat,
or not being able to distinguish between the two because goosebumps cover your entire body. Anything over 72 degrees and you can't breathe
because the air

is just
so
heavy,
it sticks to your muggy lungs
but you still tremble from the cold because your body forgets how to adapt to certain situations as it's too busy remembering how to function at a very basic level to keep you alive to experience every aspect of this attack so tell me what is so ******* beautiful about colors getting trapped outside the fog in your brain like prisoners of war, the kind of fog that you can't even see but that ***** the vibrancy out of things you used to use to fill up your empty parts, so tell me what is so beautifully tragic about your favorite grass being grey instead of green?

You try to turn something ugly, something vengeful into something to roll into a ball and cradle like a blanket or a toy, something pretty and controlled,

and you end up cold on the tile floor of Cumberland Farms
in tears
at 20 years old
warking your mother up at 3 in the morning
with a screaming ringtone
only to forget how to speak
when she answers and her voice cracks
"what's wrong? what's going on?"
And you don't know
but you konw you have coffee to make
if you hands would just stop shaking
please for a second
and that's why you smell like coffee now,
because more grounds get on you than in the filter anyway,
you just never stop shaking
but when someone asks what's wrong and you can't identify the source you do your best to forget what's even causing this in the first place
so tell me what's beautiful about any of this.

About your heart beating so fast you
swear it's racing someone else,
maybe racing to get you some help,
but what would you say when they arrived?
Where did this derive from?
Every single hair on your body rises,
it's so hot,
you can't breathe,
but you still freeze,
or are those nervous bumps?
You feel every chill like waves under a full moon

Tell me what the most beautiful part about a girl you can't kiss is,
is it the chase? The same one that pumps through my blood.
I'd chase anything for one long breath I didn't have to fight for.

Please stop calling anxiety beautiful.
Please stop coating my copper in gold.
Please don't tell me that it's something tragic but that it makes me stronger,
because when you end up on the floor of a convenience store, crying into coffee you already ruined twice,
you'll hurt the person who was only trying to be nice.

My stomach drops
My heart stops
And starts again
And stops again
Unsteady beating
My skin is peeling
My face is stinging
My hands are clinging
To anything that feels real
I'm breathing sharp air
My lungs feel heavy
My eyelids pulsate to a steady beat
I can feel every single drop of blood course through my veins
My stomach tightens
My fingers ache
I can't describe how this feels
Just please hold me until it's over