I’m not very good at talking, but I’ve always been good at talking in my head.
I’ve got exactly 6 and a half notebooks filled with the conversations I’ve had in my head for the past three years.
And this past month I’ve filled up 31 pages of my current journal.
Blurbs of ‘I really ****** up’ and 'today was really great’.
But now it all just meshes together and I keep ripping out page after page in hopes of forgetting.
My stomach burns where you touched me.
My eyes drop tears, right on cue for these April showers.
My hands are clenched into fists ready to strike whoever tries to lay a finger on me.
My mother can’t even kiss me goodnight without me crying because she’s triggering war flashbacks when her lips brush my head.
And my thighs are covered in slashes where I tried to cut off the skin you kissed.
And I keep trying to tell myself I’m better than this.
But the truth is, I’m not.
I got myself into this mess.
I brought this all upon myself.
All because I can’t talk.

They never mentioned
That the smell of aftershave
And toothpaste
Would be triggering.

Forgot to say I was destined
To be what twisted men crave -
My skinny waist,
His slithering.

Cannot sleep on a waterbed.
Fear that the waves will move
Unsteadily,
Irregularly.

Threw away purple bedspread.
Prayed its absence would improve
Sleeping,
Dreaming

I recognize his twins
At work, the store, and on the street.
Unable to breathe.
Petrifying.

Their crooked grins
Calloused hands, tight grips, yellow teeth
Calls me 'sweetie'
Triggering.

such a broken little girl
cracked open her skull and
showed everyone her dreams
shame she forgot that all her friends
were monsters

silly little girl
sliced open her veins and
showed everyone what they had
done
she was controlled by a monster

what a beautiful sight, you should have seen
the blood! should have seen the anger and bitter hot tears
and shiny metal
and swollen lips from biting as if
you're trying to shut that voice up inside you because they
speak through you through your mouth and
red lips, teeth
use your tongue and chest shout for them to go away
its not working, it never works
but you won't stop trying and you want
your veins to run hollow and to bleed yourself dry
because you feel like an empty shell
the only thing inhabiting you is
the harsh voices
but they are
unwanted and they are bad news
and you don't know if you should stand up or not
or if that will increase blood flow because you will fall over
and see white dots like
fairy kisses in your eyes and on your skin and God won't
accept you to heaven because you've been told
killing yourself is a sin
but is hell really that bad because you already feel you are there
when really your heart is still beating and your
brain is still thinking
and your arms are still bleeding and you're still shouting
at everything to
please
be quiet just for a moment
to get everything straight

but you're not allowed to leave so you're staying on Earth
and you're so used to the voices you often get mixed up
which ones are real and which ones are in my head?
a very common and almost daily question you ask
yourself and sometimes others without realising

and what is it about depression being beautiful so maybe
one more tear and one more cut will make people like you
and boys and girls are not just going to be able to fix you just by
holding the key to your heart so stop thinking
the reason you're sad is because you're used or single because
people in relationships are just as sad as you and you are still bleeding and your
heart is still beating and maybe
sweetheart it wouldn't hurt to
sit down.

there are so many things i want to say to you
but don’t know how to say
without sounding like i’m ripping apart at the seams.
i think i might be.
maybe i should start again,
maybe i should find something to say you’ll want to hear,
maybe i should find something that will draw you in
and make you want to be so close to me
that if i’m the flame and you’re the moth,
i’ll burn you alive,
but it’s okay, because you’ve always loved danger.
there are so many things i want to ask you
but i don’t know how to ask
without sounding like i’ve lost my mind.
i think i have.
where do thoughts go after you forget them?
where does time go when you’ve lost track of it?
do you still believe in god?
when my youth leader prays,
she just repeats, “jesus…jesus…jesus,”
with so much love and admiration in her voice.
it’s the same tone i use
when i talk about you,
when i can say your name without crying.
the only time you saw me cry,
you pulled me into you and whispered,
“i’m gonna turn you into a softie.”
now i’m so soft that i fall apart when someone breathes the wrong way,
when someone tries to help me up,
i slip through the cracks of their fingers,
i break off if you touch me too roughly.
you made me soft,
but soft isn’t what i want to be
when everyone around me is made of glass and nails
and i end up getting cut and withering to nothing.
you left me with nothing,
not even so much as my name,
stripped me to the bone,
wrote about me until everyone could see my insides,
“dissected my spirit,”
left me to die,
but it’s okay, because you visit me every night.
i see your face in the dead of night
when i’m passed out from all the pills i took to forget you.
you’re in every dream,
every nightmare,
everywhere i don’t want you.
every dream results the way it really happened,
and i cry every night for someone who probably wasn’t even real.
there are about 1,025,100 words in the english language,
but i can’t ever seem to find a way to string them together
to explain the way my stomach feels when i realize you’re really gone.
i guess i could give it a shot,
but you said the word “shot” triggers you,
and the word “trigger” triggers me
because it’s way too close to the memory of that picture you sent me of the gun you had in your mouth,
could’ve pulled the trigger, almost wound up dead.
dead.
my friend saw me try to dart in front of traffic,
thinking i didn’t see the cars,
but i just didn’t care.
the headlights looked like the way out of the tunnel,
and i’d been stranded in there for so long,
that i couldn’t tell if i was laying down or standing up
or spinning in circles
or laying face down on the ground,
and i took my chances and ran,
hoping i’d catch up to you.
she screamed my name and pulled me back,
back to the present,
back to the sidewalk,
back to a world i no longer want to belong to
and hugged me tightly
and i pretended she was you.
i was left in the wake of you,
following the light,
and all i do now is sit down and ache.

He'd always leave at 2:53 P.M.
Swoosh fwoump.

It was only a matter of time,
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ti

I wanted to be free.

He'd strap me to a chair and whisper,
sweet stories that you'd coo to *a child,
with sour breath running down my neck,
his greasy forehead pressed against my tear-stricken cheeks;
it'd deteriorate and culture in my ears.

His scent engulfed my mind,
my body, my soul...

He made a grave mistake,
dressing me in grimy socks,
making me dance skin-to-skin,
forcing me to kiss him, call him.

Oh no, you see,
he should have known.

I betrayed his trust, I'd pay the price,
"Isn't that right, Leila?"
That's not my name.

"Now Leila, darling, you're going to be a good girl,
for Daddy, aren't you?"
That's not my name.

"Leila, sweetheart, I can trust you, can't I?
Hmm? This will be our little secret,"
That's not my name.

"Aw, don't tell me, dear, beautiful Leila,
you aren't scared, are you?"
That's not my name.

I knew him well,
after a few months,
and his smell was musty,
only when I let it be.

He always liked sweets,
like me.

He was disgusting,
and my wrists ran red with incisions;
he'd lick them clean.

He'd always leave at 2:53.

"Oh Leila, sweetheart, I expect dinner when I get back,
won't you be a good girl,
and do as Daddy taught you?"
That's not my name.

So I did.

This kitchen was charming,
as much as his worn dining ware,
lined with cracked roses painted by Chinese overseas,
wondering when they would be used.

This was the first time I'd seen him genuinely smile,
"You look especially beautiful, tonight, Leila,
perhaps it's the sparkle in your eye,"
That's not my name.

He took a sip.

His glossy eyes hovered above his glass,
and his gaze drifted over to me,
in my grimy socks and brown-stained apron,
my long, dark hair drapped over my shoulders.

Another glass,
another glass,
another glass,
glass,
sugary sweet,
sweet,
down his lips,
lips,
lips,
teeth,
throat,
liver.

He liked sweets,
sweets,
sweets,
dripping, sipping,
sweet,
sugary sweet, nectar,
cool, smooth,
antifreeze.

He'd always leave at 2:53.

Silence.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ti-

2:53 P.M.

Silence at 2:00-
2:00
2:00

I'd heard him cry,
"Leila, Leila, Leila,"
That's not my name.

He'd always leave at 2:53,
2:00,
silence.
He would never leave at 2:53,
2:53 P.M.

*I left at 2:53. Silence.

dress torn
underwear ripped
knees forced open
loud sobs fill the room
"shut the **** up"
she stills
begging to a god she didn't know she believed in to end it all
grunts and groaning
its over
"later babe"
she leaves behind ****** sheets, her cellphone, and a *piece of herself