You little ****. Who gave you the right to decide that for me? I am my own person, if you don't like my choices then leave. Talk to me and we'll figure something out, that's how easy it'd be. If you would help me out, rather than call me out, sobriety would be an easier goal to achieve. But no, you shout and you shout, telling me I've done wrong. Commanding me to change rather than asking how to help me stop... You don't know half of the things I've seen and I've done. What happened to me to make me want to replace the missing pieces. The dark parts of my childhood, how I became a woman at the age of eight. How my step father touched me in that place. That place no little girl should have touched at that age. How dealing with high expectations that I know I cannot meet, not because I don't want to, but because my disability ties down my hands and feet. Feeling trapped by what happened to me. Living with that monster, pretending it's all okay. Controlling all my flashbacks and panic attacks. Pretending to be strong for five younger siblings who look up to me. Setting a perfect example, wearing myself down, ripping myself apart to satisfy everyone's needs. Trying my hardest to keep everyone around me happy because I know what it's like to hate yourself so much your pores ooze self doubt and insecurities. So sorry I drink and smoke **** and I don't meet your religious needs. Just let me finish this last cigarette please.

Her flawless porcelain skin.
Covered in the splattered blood of the world.

Oh, how marvelous her eyes!
I will always hold them dear to my heart.

I hear the slight whimper and cry
Of the fresh flesh exposed to the cold air.

Don't worry little one.
You will be home soon.

I don't want a Hollywood love.
I don't want a hot pink, blazing hot love.

I want my love to be cotton briefs.
I want my love to cradle that which I hold dear.
I want my love to be gentle and soft,
But only I can feel it.
You don't share your underpants
As such I don't share my love. It is only mine.

I want my love to make others feel uncomfortable when I talk about it. Because the more I rant on, the more they realize that while sometimes it sounds constricting, it keeps you all together when you need to move.

I want my love to be marked with my last name.
To have and to hold forever.
Because I know that my love will be with me
Through all the ****, all the *******, and every last bit of life.
Even if my love rides up every once in a while
I know that it's just trying it's best. And I love my love for that.

Shattered...
Is me.
Always so afraid to move that I get lost in the waves.

I'm made of glass but no one cares.

Oceans overflow from me.
Spilling out so disgustingly.

Any dignity I had has washed away completely.

Am I so stupid that I forgot how to swim?

Tears won't stop.

This sadness is overwhelming and I just can't reach the shore.

My tears are an ocean.
Held in so long that it swells,
So consuming is sadness.
I wish I could just drown.

It's always a struggle.
Tears fall without my permission,
Into an ocean that could maybe help me vanish.

Your lips; felt like a dream. Your eyes; a hue I had never seen. Your touch; felt perfect. If falling in love was a crime, pleases read my verdict. Throw me into your prison, I deserve it. Throw away the key, after you close it.

The creaking and creeping sounds of the old, rotting house, hang in the background. The aged, hardwood floors; snap, crackle, and pop under the weight of my footsteps. The scent of burnt; cinnamon scented burnt candle wax, slighted tainted by the stench of cheap cigarette smoke lingers throughout the room spilling into the hallway.

The broken ceiling fan humming, as it rocks back and forth as if it will soon fall off of its axle.

The cigarette; still lite, hanging on the edge of the ash tray – smoke trails floating up towards the window, escaping as it’s pulled out of the window, dissipating off into the dark, cool, midnight air.

The alarming sounds of alley cats fighting; shrieks and high-pitch screams echo off in the distance. The loud hissing and screams suggest two cats, within close proximity to house, furiously fighting over freshly picked dinner scarps.

All starch in comparison to your disposition.

You wept that night, the tears pouring from your eyes, spilling into your tissue boxed; tucked closely beside you. Lip stick smeared *To be Continued