For once I wanted to be
Someone worth fighting for.

For once I wanted to be able to look into someones eyes,
And not be so absolutely petrified of what it will feel like
When I lose them.

And for once I wanted someone else
To be afraid of losing me.

But I realize, upon feeling much lighter and sure of myself,
That it is a mark of maturity
When you don't want to be the storm that they chase,
Rather, you'd prefer to be the book they curl up with by the fire,
While the storm rages on outside their window.

And upon this realization
It occurred to me,
I am not on the brink of disappearing,
So there is no use fighting,
Nor am I close to losing the one
I love the most,
So the fear of losing him
Is senseless.

And for once,
I feel like I'm not out of place,
And I know I'm worth it,
And it's all because
I have found a truth
Within the likes of you.

“Nobody the dead man & Nobody the living
Nobody is giving in & Nobody is giving
Nobody hears me but just Nobody cares
Nobody fears me but Nobody just stares
Nobody belongs to me & Nobody remains
No Nobody knows nothing
All that remains are remains”

I was sixteen-- No, seventeen
When I first read that poem,
And I had memorized it
And could repeat it at will,
But nobody asked me
What the point was.

I'll let you in on a secret,
I'll let you in on the game:
I was just a child,
And yet I was a face without a name.

And here came the demon in my veins,
From my mother and her mother and
My mother's father's mother,
And it wrapped me in darkness,
It wrapped me in shame,
Why feel a thing,
When life is but a game?

And no, nobody asks you
Nobody wants to
Protect you
When it's dark
And you're alone
And everything bad
Comes out to play,
But people change.

And people change,
And I swear to God it's for the better,
And people will give up on you,
But some will stick around,
See it through,
As long as it means
Some type of happiness with you.

The poem was right,
No nobody knows nothing because nobody knows anything at all,
And all that remains
Will only ever be remains,
But I'd rather be a remainder,
Than a reminder.

it's been two years since i died.
730 days since i took my own life.
and i never fell in love.
i was never kissed under the stars,
never found the place that was ours.
i never travelled to that far away paradise,
or fell asleep in his arms.
i never met her,
never saw her smile,
never made love,
never read all those books.
i didn't get my grades,
never went to festivals,
never drank too much,
never felt that pang of loss.
there is so much i never experienced.
i wish i never swallowed those pills.

Sometimes feelings don't hit you until you're ready.

In the midst of battle, we have to be strong. We cannot be vulnerable when we are being watched, being attacked, being torn apart.

You cannot shed tears when your enemy is standing in front of you, yelling words that might as well be bullets because they sting when they hit your body.

But you're strong. You're bulletproof.

You fight back with everything you have. You close your eyes, keep your mouth shut, tuck away all of the parts of you that are fragile.
You lock them inside of your chest, deep down, and throw away the key.

The enemy never leaves. They are always there.
Everyday is a battle - every moment is spent looking behind your shoulder, every second of every day is spent brandishing your weapon.

You cannot sleep. There is no such thing as being safe. You cannot do anything but survive.

One day, you will find yourself alone. You will continue to survive even if the enemy is not in front of you, no longer in sight.

We've been doing this for so long that it becomes a part of us.
Did you know things can become a part of you without you realizing it?

You should probably look down at yourself and see if you are wounded - if your body is littered with cuts and gunshot wounds and if your fingernails are caked with blood.

We don't realize how long we've been fighting. We'll **** anyone that tries to take our weapon, our last bit of primal defense. Every single person we see is the enemy and we are ready to fight them off.

We could never anticipate the feelings.

Feelings are snakes in the bushes, slithering their way across our bodies while we try to sleep. They bite and infect us with their poison until we wake up screaming, clawing at our chests to get the venom out.

Feelings are butterflies in the sun, coming closer to us and settling on our clothes. We try to step away and avoid them. They land in our hair and sit in the palms of our hands, content with a place to rest.

One day, we will find ourselves alone and it will be more terrifying than waiting for the enemy to appear.

We will bury our weapon in the dirt because the feeling that begins to bloom in our chest will be unbeatable. We will rest our head in our hands and bite our lip until it's bleeding. We will squeeze our eyes shut so the only thing we see is darkness.

When the feeling hits, there is no defending yourself.

*You have survived.

You're ten years old,
And it's your first day of fifth grade.
Your mom made you wear something feminine,
Not quite girly, because you would have thrown a fit
And she just doesn't have it in her anymore to fight with you.
You spent the last three days hiding in the corner of closet with your dog,
Crying because you don't want to grow up.
And this year, you have to. This year, it means you are doing just that.
Grown ups are never happy.
You don't want this.
You're nervous and insecure as you search for your name
Written in permanent marker on some laminated name tag
Taped to a desk made of linoleum that looks like wood.
When you find it, you cringe at the way the teacher wrote your last name.
All pretty and feminine, when "Blood" is nowhere near that,
But you sigh and accept it,
As you watch the other kids filter in.
Two boys walk in, they introduce themselves.
Another boy walks over, settles himself at the desk near yours,
You notice he's shorter than you,
And already being small, it makes you feel somewhat better.
He notices you staring,
And your father's voice echoes in your head,
"Staring is rude...!"
So you look at the book on your desk,
The one about cats that's below your reading level,
But thick enough to hide behind.
Sooner or later,
One of you introduces yourself to the other.
You only stop smiling that day when your older brother gets hold of you.

You're eleven, in sixth grade.
He's still your best friend,
And you were chattering all about him in the car to your dad
On the way home.
Mom's still sick.
Hasn't seemed to recover from the car accident last year that you still blame yourself for.
They've both come to the conclusion you have a crush on this boy,
And it's special. Your first crush.
You disagree wholeheartedly, but that will change.
You get home, into your room to start on homework,
But then your stomach starts hurting.
Everything starts hurting.
You're getting dizzy.
There's so much blood,
And it's making you queasy.
You scream and cry, you don't understand.
Your mother warned you that this is a big part of getting older,
But you don't want it.
You run to tell her,
She helps you clean up,
But you miss your chorus concert that night,
And the next two days of school
Because you can't get out of bed
It hurts so bad,
Worse than when big brother is mad.
You don't talk to him when you get back to school
For the next three days,
Because you're ashamed that this is part of you,
That you're grown up,
And if you talk to him he might find out
And not want to be your friend anymore.

You're twelve, and in seventh grade.
You came home from school,
A little bummed.
You barely got to see your friends that summer,
Definitely not him,
And you don't have any classes
With any friends
Or him.
But he was on your mind all summer,
So you've come to the conclusion that you'll just
Find him in the hallways
Or at lunch.
Your father comes to you with some bad news.
Mom's still sick. We don't know why.
You frown, but nod. It seems like he has more to say.
And he does,
"We're moving."
And you ask, calmly but your hands are shaking as you begin preparing a snack for your little brothers, "Will I stay in the same school?" Having been home schooled twice and sent to four different elementary schools (one of which you were sent to twice) you were genuinely worried. Not to mention you had no way of contacting him or anyone else.
"No, you'll be switching schools."
You give your brothers their snacks,
And you begin to walk to your room.
You have to get out of the room,
But you're already crying. "Are you sure?" You've already started the fight.
And from there insults are thrown, and it's an all out screaming match,
Who can be louder?
Who can be meaner?
Like wolves fighting for who should be alpha,
Who can bare more of their teeth
Before the other lunges for their throat.
It happens with similar personality types.
And finally,
The straw the breaks the camels back,
"What, are you in love with somebody?"
As though mocking your ability to care.
You go to your room,
And close the door without slamming it.
You look at your sketch book
Flip open to a page and draw.
Put on music.
Anything to drown out what you're feeling.
You look at the clock.
You look at the clock again.
It was six fifteen.
Now it's twelve forty five.
You're covered in your own blood and feel dizzy.
You cry harder,
As you pour hydrogen peroxide onto the scrapes and cuts on your arms, and bandage them up.
Put on your mother's old black hoodie,
And so it begins.

You're thirteen,
It's summer time.
A friend just texted you that his sister died.
You can't breathe. It's your fault, if you had only been there for both of them.
You should have been there.
You weren't, though.
It takes your little brothers waking you up at six am screaming
To get you to come out of your room after four days.
This time the screaming match is with your older brother,
And though you're terrified,
You win this one.
But he isn't happy,
And neither will you be.

You're fourteen, ninth grade. New friends that all adore your clothes and last name.
You're the new kid at a new school.
Again.
"Ask him out! He's your friend! That's how relationships start!"
You'll mull it over, but something in your gut says not to even stick around.

You're fourteen.
Going to your brother's old school's football game.
That boy from fifth grade? He's there.
You want to talk to him all night, but you realize he has his friends there.
You speak with him as much as you can,
But you can feel yourself fading out.
Brother isn't happy with you that night.

You're fourteen. One of your little brothers is sick in the hospital.
It's Christmas. You're all there to go see him.
They have to rush him to another hospital.
You're praying for an angel. You didn't even know you still believed in a God but
"Desperate times call for desperate measures," You sigh as you kneel to say another plea.
Your mother calls,
He's gone.
You can't breathe.
Things are going black,
But you can't do this.
Not here,
Not now.
Your mother gasps on the other line,
He's back.
Maybe God is real.

You're fifteen.
A boy touched you without asking.
You didn't like it.
You're at home and you can't stop throwing up.
Your brother's at-the-time girlfriend texts you,
You tell her you don't want to exist.
He figures out that you're purging.
No one ever asks why.

You're fifteen.
He hits you for the first time because you said no.
You go home,
And don't know what to do.
They all said this was normal,
And maybe it is.
It's nothing new, right?
Just a different person.
You're at the computer,
Decide to make a page called
"The Sun Came Out to See You"
Because you need a reason to keep going,
And maybe that's all you got.
You roll up your sleeves,
And your mother catches note of the scratches and cuts scabbed over
All over your arms.
It isn't a screaming match this time.
She's screaming,
You sit there, ashamed.
Your father cries--
It won't be the last time you make him cry.
You go to your room,
Your parents are still fighting
Mom leaves,
You black out again.
It's the largest scar you have.
Mom doesn't come back until after work the next day.
You don't show her your hands again for months.

You're sixteen, sophomore year.
Your mother has been diagnosed with stage four breast and ovarian cancer.
The doctors have done as many surgeries as possible, but the cancer is still there.
They're doing all they can.
You refuse to accept that this is it.

You're sixteen.
You've finally escaped that horrible boy without any of the messy stuff,
And you're living in Georgia.
It's horrible,
But if you can escape this,
Maybe you can get back to your best friend from all those years ago.
You wake up smiling for the first time in years
Because you dreamnt of him.
It was warm and hopeful and foolish.
The dream becomes the place you retreat to so you can escape reality.
No one ever learns of it.

You're sixteen. You move back home.
You're taken in by your drama teacher.
Your mom is losing hair from the chemo.
That horrible boy is back in your life.
Something terrible happens
He's horrible
But how can even this happen
People don't do this
That's not how this happened
You said no
You screamed
You hit him
And it hurt,
Oh god it hurt.
You don't come out of your room
To socialize anymore.
You escape reality
As often as you can.

You're eighteen. You just turned eighteen. It's senior year.
You get a phone call.
Your friend was out of class.
He killed himself that morning.
It's your fault.
You saw the signs
And did nothing.
You'll hate yourself for it
To this day.

You're eighteen, almost nineteen.
He does it again,
For the umpteenth time.
Differently,
But the same.
You hit him with a book.
And after two years of telling him you want out of the relationship,
This time he leaves you,
With violent words.
You cry at the front door.
You go to the psychiatric hospital for the third time.
You're finally free.

You're twenty.
You've been trying to feel better,
And maybe you finally are.
You've dropped out of school,
You can't seem to balance it with work,
And your grant got taken
Because you went from being a foster child
To being adopted.
You meet him in a parking lot,
With your best friend at the time.
He's brash and straight forward,
And for some reason you find that charming,
You're inexperienced and vulnerable
And he takes advantage of that.
You last one year with him where you aren't allowed to speak to YOUR friends or family
Before he abandons you on your (real) best friend's doorstep
With nothing but the clothes on your back
And the shoes on your feet.

You're twenty one.
The Monday after he left you he went out
With the girl he cheated on you with.
You don't know this yet.
You go to the hospital
Because you have to get better,
Be better.
And you meet great people there,
Probably talk about yourself too much,
But you're told "Please be strong; Please be brave"
After you realize you're a good person
And you should like yourself.
The words stick.
Sadly, the people don't.

You're twenty one,
You have that "escape from reality" dream again,
But it's different.
You live with your biological parents again,
Your mother beat cancer.
You are sure God is real.
You decide to contact that boy from fifth grade,
That you loved even past seventh grade.
You're nervous
But he actually responds.
You talk almost every day
Until July
When you meet up for the first time
In seven  years.
When you see him,
You want to hug him but you're scared.
He's grown up.
He's taller than you.
He's handsome.
You frown internally.
"Don't fall that easy," You think.
You don't listen.
You tell him you like him,
Two days later.
He likes you back!

You're twenty one,
You're writing this poem.
You love wearing feminine clothing,
And you could care less about your last name (almost, still hate it a little).
On both your little brother's birthday,
You'll have been dating that boy you've loved for so long for three months.
You've loved him all this time,
All this time it's always been him.
No one else.
After four months,
You'll live together.
Because he's not only the love of your life (literally)
But your best friend.
And you couldn't be happier.
And you look at your scars,
Slightly ashamed,
But you remember that he kisses each and every one,
And you remember that your scars
Have nothing to do
With who you are,
Rather with how you've grown.
You talk to your father about him,
And he approves.
Remember when I said that wouldn't be the last time you make him cry?
All the other times you make him cry will be for better reasons.
You've grown up.
But you were wrong.
You're happy.

The thing therapists don't tell you after you've "recovered" is that you'll have good day and bad days which will mostly consists of bad days. They fail to mention that because when you're in therapy it's all about progress.
"Don't say this you'll trigger her..."
The truth is, some days will be harder then others. You'll want to relapse and self destruct because all of that is familiar. You'll want the  antidepressant pills again because life is hard again. Life is how you swore it would never be like again yet you're there again. You've spent the majority of you're time feeling this so you crave familiarity.
Some days you will not want to get out of bed because the sick truth is you don't want to get better. You've already made you're life around your illness. Sometimes you'll just want the world to stop for a moment so you can realize that's false. The illness is bittersweet feeling because in the back of your head you want to get better. You want a cure for the illness  but then again you crave something that's familiar and close to home.

I don't know
Who
They expected,
And instead got me.

But the look of utter shock
Is pretty pleasing.

I've never been one for
Change,
But I'd follow you
Into hell,
And come back better than before.

You are the light
I've found
In the shadows
And you are the hope
I have
In the world
To be better.

I am in love with you,
And only you,
Every part of you.

Revisiting,

Unprovoked but somehow still pungently strong observed losses from the past in the cruel game of this unruly ego's preservation.

Trigger.

In the end, I cant, musn't, need not, care...
About any of it.

It's over.
I no longer have to carry any of its suffocating weight.

Despite the loss, despite the hurt.
You were never to blame.

I was incomplete.
As you may have been...
that is not my resolution to succeed in.
You will own that glory.
I will own mine.

For that I'm not sorry, but rather glad not to bear weight alongside my own flesh and bone I now care for with diligence.

I choose to end this today.
This nagging need to describe to you and beat into your turned nose for sake of fairness the blacks and blues of betrayal and distrust.

And yet, here they fall.
One by heartbreaking one.

Sandlike particles of once red waving flags igored in the name of blind faith rapidly dissolving,
slipping through worn hands into the ever present existence I expend most of my will to guard myself from daily.

These very hands with which I put the pen to paper and entrust to the physical dimension my most preciously defended ego's wounds.

Theoretical sand turns,melting, birthing a heavy contcrete now present before me.
A block I must now move.

The very toxins I swish in my mouth and swallow, the thoughts of you and your untrustworthy heart and hateful grip around my neck, filling the crevices of my mind at every wind in grey matter.

The ink spills in, carrying with it rushes of insecurity into the veins that once carried boldness, fearlessness, stregnth.

I am consumed.

But it is short lived.
And this time is the last.

You are a good enough person.
An idea that scares my inner child and haunts my most protected depths.
A thought I must confirm.
Words I must beleive wholly, despite the taste of garlic and vinegar to my sore tongue.
Others will not experience you the way I did, and this should be a deeply comforting thought.
Due credit given and appreciated, the sheer cold of being the only soul to know these darkest depths of you stings a place inside me I never imagined would be victim to this distaste.

Yes. You could never have completed me.
It wasn't your job, as much as you dutifully applied, interviewed and followed up in person to get what you needed.

I shouldn't have quietly hoped of you to undo aches I wished for you (at a distant point from the present) to never understand. (Now my ego prays you do)

How could one expect to efficiently, gently, console a heart that bled from a different knife from that which invaded the tender ***** palpating in their own marrow cage.

If I beleive the things I read, the theories I preach, the fundamentals I find most inspirational and motivating,
I must come to this simple realization.

Forgiveness will not undo it.
Neither will hate.

Forgiveness however, will allow the light you brought to a place in me that needed fixing, rather than hate which only shields.  A mirror, reflecting the brightness purposefully into your eyes with intent to burn, does not allow the seed in me light enough with which to grow.

Forgiveness is thanking you for allowing me the opportunity to better myself, despite the fact it would be less work not to see the room for improvement.

To see that I allowed someone to spin me in circles, to ask me to walk, and then to berate me for my messy delivery.

Forgiveness is knowing my worth now and living despite you not aknowledging it.

Forgiveness is thanking you for forcing me into a place where growth and ambition and pushing forward are my only option if I opt out of allowing you to see me weak again.

Forgiveness is thanking you against all intuition, against all the fight in me that would have kicked had I been conscious to address it, against my will and in the same coin meaning it because it is the only way to heal and grow and shine in ways you never could....

Forgiveness
is thanking
you
for ******
me.

I woke up this morning
That's a success.
I went to the closet
And found stuff to dress
And cover myself well
Against the elements.
I didn't get trampled
By buffalo or elephants.

I ate well and got ready
For whatever comes today.
Whether it be some work
Or some healthy play.
I made the bed and then
Showered myself clean.
I had some great coffee
While I read a new magazine.

I got into my car, which runs
And enjoyed the scenery.
I didn't sleep under a bridge
Or beg food at a beanery.
I went to work and had some
Fulfilling job satisfaction.
And as I went about my day
Guilty of no criminal action.

I was helpful to all, and I
Was detrimental to nobody.
I did the best at my job
And my work was not shoddy.
I sought support whenever
I knew it was badly needed
And smiled as the problems
Mostly quickly receded.

I have given up whining
And envy of my peers.
I no longer allow jealousy
To linger in my ears.
I am a lucky person today
And grateful to say it.
There is no other way
To properly portray it.