there was no masked man in the streets
no dark alleys
no wandering empty city streets at night
it was us
and a bed
and a no that died on my lips
a stop i never said but longed for
it was on those dingy sheets that i became a shiny object
made only to please you
suddenly
i was covered in rust

I knew a girl who wrote poetry, and I know a girl that died.

She was so far away, and yet her words hit close to home.

She was here, and she was there.

We went to different highschools.

I was a baby lesbian.

Barley understanding what that even meant.

I went to her show. A play. A tragedy.

Her words, still touched me.

The first time I used the term 'touched me'
I got snickers from the crowd and had to say "not like that..."

It was sixth grade.

I knew a girl who wrote poetry, and I know a girl who died.

I am glad that I told her I was there for her.

But I still know a girl who died.

they let their sticky humid hands
hold my glitching hologram body
against the scratchy playhouse
walls and drag their clammy
claws where no child should
think to rub all the while
whispering into my vacant ears
how they would beat me and
bite me and cut me and kick me
if anyone were to ever find out
our little game as tapeworm
tears sludged from my sickly
sweet rotting eyesockets and
down my shiny shaking dust
stained cheeks silently over my
cold and closing throat and
when my dad finally ripped the
splintering wooden door across
the sandy shifting floor i was so
pale pink blue i could have been
six hours dead save for my
fracturing porcelain and
plexiglass heart destructive and
bashing and shattering itself
through my frail and brittle
crumbling ribcage whispering to
me how badly my dad would
scream at me for the way we
were playing

“Okay you can stop now
I’m uncomfortable”

It’s like my scream couldn’t even be heard underwater
And even if they could no one would hear them
My body was stuck and
I felt like I was just withdrawing from life

My bones ache and remorse from the bruising
My heart breaks and hurts from the lashings

“You didn’t STOP
Why didn’t you just STOP.
That’s all you had to do and I’d be okay”

I am nothing more than a ******* shell now and that’s all I’ll ever be
all because of you

I constantly feel alone with any man who tries to love me
I’ll constantly be accused and feel like every last thing will always be my fault

My soul will always be tainted and brittle

You did this

Because you couldn’t stop.

and it makes me so ******* sick that any sort of mild ******* inconvenience makes me wanna **** myself
but i guess that's just it
the only solution in this miserable life

split my body in two forked seas
the god trapped in my skull told me about people like myself

aqua drips from my grin to the upstairs
but the water's all wine now

"will there ever be veneration for me?"
salvation is packed inside my cheek
with melting capsules beside it

the stigmata of razor blades clenched in my fists scab over
my scars snarl and sing back a chorus of hate

choking on the gold thread of words in the back of my throat
creates the finest form of stitching

I am made up of thousands of tiny cracks in composure

I have a scar on my right wrist from a pair of handcuffs, when a cop was a little more than cordial with me
I've got at least two from running face first into counter tops or door frames..
I could name four off the top of my head that my ***** ex girlfriend left me, they look like shaky trails on a treasure map. maybe her excitement got the better of her, but I got her best..and worst
I've got a constellation of pin ****** across my shoulders of acne scars that'll never heal right after my seventh trip to lockup
And now that I've gained and lost my full body weight in five months, I've got three dozen pretty pink stretch marks I'm afraid won't ever turn white

And I guess besides that I have whole novels written down my sleeves.
Most of my arm doesn't even look like an arm anymore
And the only good I can say about that is, I was 17 the last time I had to cover up my "mental health days" with bright blue mickey mouse band aids
that's four years of wearing my wrist band that reads "I have healed now"
My patchwork is messy, I have to admit, but it holds together nicely

And now that they're all just gentle interruptions..nothing gory or too scary to see..I wear my own skin so comfortably
I'm not proud of the disaster I left on my own body, but I'm not ashamed that I made it out alive either.

"I have healed now" but I was there when you burned your own house down to try to feel warm again, and it's been four years but I remember the way that cold touched my bones, I wear this scrapbook of knife work so you know that the good days are coming, one day they will only be scars, one day they will only be memories
even if it takes time

If I had died..
you would have to live with the guilt
the guilt of knowing
you killed me.
maybe you’d eventually
forget me
replace me
let go of that guilt.
but maybe,
when you look at her
in just the right lighting
you see my face
instead of hers
or you look at your daughter
and remember that you helped me pick
what ours would have been named
or maybe when you see roses or the moon
you’ll remember my tattoos and how badly I wanted them and how I always wanted more of them
and maybe you’d feel guilty again.

You were so sad.

It started as waterweight, splashing around the corners of your eyes.
I could see the ocean.
You blinked once, and it was gone. I wanted to ask how come you're walking with your head down. Why are you studying the grooves in the asphalt as if it explains in some ancient text why you're dragging around your shoelaces in a cold September night.  

I wanted badly to prescribe you the medicine I remembered taking when the lips that bruised my soul became the knuckles that knocked my knees down.
I saw the universe in big ugly splotches-- purple, green, blue, spinning, spinning. You can't look me in the eye, I know.
I can't touch your cheek, I know.

But I can do this. I can write you a note that would casually show up. I can write a few sentences saying I get you-- I get you. You were alone when the collision of his skin against your temple made the ceiling dance. You were alone when you awaken one cold Sunday with laces torn around your ankles and the roses blooming on your favorite sheets. You were alone when you drove away, thinking that maybe the impact from steel to concrete wouldn't be so bad, it can't be that bad...

You were alone then. Let me tell you; You are not alone now.

I got you. I got you.