Poetry was her lifeline. If she did not write, her voice would suffocate her, and her screams would silence her. Her hands would shake and her lungs would break.

why am i dead?
i ask
no,
not dead
just really close to it
my lungs are failing
and every light
is too bright
and every noise is too loud
or too quiet
and i'm seeing things
that aren't there
and i confide
in friends that don't
exist

i'm not dead

i don't know what is real
and what is not
convincing myself that death only comes
once my heart stops beating
it's dumb
you can die when you are wide awake
you can die when you are breathing
but i'm dead and its all just
definitions in some student dictionary
sitting in an old library
keeping me believing
and it's okay

i'm not dead

i lie
a lot
i never pick up the phone
i'm scared of talking on the phone
i don't like my friends
they don't know anything about me
they don't know that i'm afraid of stairs
and bicycle riding
and crossing the street
and medicine
i'm afraid of everything
my hands won't stop shaking
i think that means i'm not dead
because my hands are moving
right?

i'm not dead

it takes me hours to fall asleep
and i usually wake up a few times
after i do
and i wear sweatshirts in the summer
because i think it's always cold
even when it's not
my hands are always cold
like a corpse
and i'm always angry
but i don't cry
i wish i could
but i can't

Tight frayed nerves
Agitation lives in my veins
The pain in my hands keeps me awake
Begging the dark to put me at ease
Pushing consciousness away
Please make it go away
Relieve my tight skin and stifled breath
Panic clenching my lungs in its fist

Baby kiss me
like we're on Mars and the only breath
we have is from
each other's lungs.

In my family
If your lungs don't **** you,
Your heart will.

My lungs don't work
To full capacity,
And my breathings heavey.

But my heart is clenched
Within a fist, crushed and twisted,
Only getting every other hit.

My lungs can't breathe,
And my hearts been abused -
Question is which will **** me first?

"my chest fluttered like a rose or a daisy and i think my lungs are full of those works of life because i can breathe now and you told me i was your goddess and i looked up at the stars and whispered a thank you to the heavens for giving me you and i think i have flowers growing in my lungs and i'm not imagining whether or not to have melted candles or cold lilys at my funeral anymore i'm imagining how my life will be like when the patches of "accidents" and "it's nothing's" clear away and leave me clean and i dont think i'm sad anymore because there are flowers in my lungs and i'm pretty sure you're the seed."

Less than a month ago, I lay on a cold slab in a dark room, convinced I was dying. Tonight I lay still in my soft bed and realize, maybe I still am.

Its like suffocating, you know? Being drowned in your own ******* emotions. Only fitting that the bad blood in my veins decides to clot right there, in my lungs, in the sickest poetic justice imaginable. I couldn't breathe. Am I even breathing now?

Don't get me wrong, the doctors filled me up with pills and good fortunes, telling me I would be fine if I was careful, cautious, a perfect little good girl. And I smiled and took deep breaths even though every breath killed me. So if my lungs are fine, then why am I not breathing?

Looking back, that morning I woke with sharp pains in my sides I told the doctors I had never felt something like that before. And in a way, I wasn't lying. It had never been so physical before. But the pain, the crying, the inability to breathe, well those were things I was far too familiar with. So doctor, if I'm going to live, why am I not breathing?

****, the writer of my story is one sadistic *******. I mean, that symbolism. Choking on your own lifeblood? **** near perfect. It would have been the perfect turnaround story. The mentally unstable girl finally truly stands at death's doorstep when she doesn't want to, and she realizes maybe life is worth it. That maybe even a **** up deserves dreams, deserves happiness. The tale should have ended there, right? I learned, I had that moment when I knew I didn't want to die. I felt changed. So if I am so changed, if that is my happy ending, then why am I not breathing?

Happily ever after doesn't exist. Life doesn't work that way. Tragedy is around every corner, particularly when your chemical makeup is in a constant struggle with your will to live. But everyone is so thankful, so happy I am safe and well and normal again. **** normal. **** safe. ******* **** well. If I am so well, then why am I not breathing?

Its great, you know, knowing that the "thankful for being alive" feeling will never last for me. My wiring won't allow it. All around me everyone is so proud. They say I'm strong and brave and better. Funny thing is they totally missed the metaphor. **** my facades, **** my brain, because my blood is thinning, and my world is spinning, and I'm not breathing.