the months i lost my voice became a pattern of days filled with dreamless sleep and nights wishing for nicotine stained fingers and red lipstick kissed cups.

i held words on the tip of my tongue, fading into smoke the second they escaped the bitter confines of water drowned inked pages.

the months i lost my voice the nights seemed quiet, frozen in time as my eyes were blinded with the aching only poets can ache.

i held back words that came out in sounds and tears, screaming shouting, the sounds of glass breaking from inside a soundproofed room with only madness for company.

the months i lost my voice, my mind became a boat in an ocean of words, and the days gone in the blink of an eye.

i just want to be clean again-
to wash away the remaining traces of incommunicable words
that still stain my skin-
the softness that i once took for granted,
has turned hard and still holds on,
its fragile, oh so fragile-
i fear that becoming stone won’t hide the cracks
i’ve spent so long trying to hide

the scars on my skin bleed red;
the burn of my flesh
from scratches meant to
rip apart the pieces of my skin
stained from your touch.
i tore myself apart,
hoping,
praying,
you would still find me beautiful
even with my scars.

Don’t be that girl
But I already am
And I’ve done a lot of damage
With my own two hands
And I guess it’s hard to tell
But I know it’s easy to see
That every version I give
Is a different side of me
But I keep my mouth shut
The way I’m told I should
And I bite back my answer
When they say it’s all good
And I fold myself up
Let my face say it all
Denying your assumptions
Even when they’re not wrong
Because I really don’t care enough
To keep playing games
And I’m kind of ******* tired
Of people screaming my name
And I’m more than my body
Or “you’re cool it’s just that”
Or how every time I ignore a guy
He responds with “oh well you’re fat”
And I’m sick of second guessing
And being the next choice
Sick of being crossed off the list
Sick of not using my voice
I’m sick of the noise
Screaming constant in my head
Sick of wishing for more, or worse
Wishing I was dead
I’m sick of wanting
Because that **** never works
And I’m sick of not feeling
Because even that ******* hurts
And I’m always the one
But somehow never ******* enough
Unless we’re just *******
But hey, it might be love
Right?
What a ******* joke
So funny I keep laughing
And I keep medicating
As if it’s not a bad thing
But ******* it I’m tired
******* over being this
Because this is never chosen
And I’m just constantly ******
So let it be silent
For even a second of peace
Before I really lose my ****
And forget how to breathe
Because I’m that ******* girl
And I always have been
And I’ll drag your *** with me
When I’m in hell for my sins.

a tongue a knife a rhyme
a slitted try of silence mine
i could never keep it fought
rip the gut right from my life
ill scream the name until i rot
shreik a word so loud ill cry
i tried my luck but missed the cut

a trickled spiggot sputters with it
a soft spot for the eyes that fall out of my skull
flaming pupils burn the crop
the students of the fire
they stop drop and roll into the wretched thought
that comes each time they learn what has been wrought to build this pyre

to eviscerate the weakened soul
the empty rooms inside my home
voraciously in rapture
tearing sinews off my mind
splitting ears and feeding from the captured
nothing left behind my skin no map no muscles
missing compass knees buckled

******* leave me or ill pull the trigger
ill **** the lost and eat the hindered
incinerate your wicked splinters
and in this home
snap each of your twelve ******* fingers

its teeth are gentle on me in a way that only devils can
we're peckish for atrocities and it has given me a plan
a broken handed man within the corridor
his one eye wide
the other in the devils side
a matching type to mine if i still had my sight
the door is closed and i am blind but we can smell the horror more
breaking out we tore into that bodys core
but that devil, him, the house, unborn
as i woke up in a corpse
for i am dead upon the floor

"God, I really wish she talked like you,
dressed like you;
how do I get her to think like you do?"

Policing her to be like me will never serve you
because the one who does me best, is me.
Be truthful with yourself,
when you ask her to behave like this,
do you dream of me?

You cannot easily transpose my image onto your lover,
because no one else loves like me,
talks like me,
dresses like me,
can transfix in your mind like me.

Do you love her like you love me?
Does she know the blueprint you use to mold her from?
Could she handle knowing what I know?

my body and soul in a boxers ring
the ref has been shot, throttled, and kinged
compliant to no one, inside is a known run
yet all parties here are the foe
are the loser the liar and lo--
the body is violent.
the audience: god, and they sit there silent.
soul socked, blocked, and bruised, he shivers to quiet
and body, it staggers and quivers in triumph
but it shakes and it cries because its eyes are mine
for a fire inside
does not inspire
but burns and hollows to rinds

soul, he delivers a blind hit.
in stride and in mind, an inmate of wildness.
of trial-less, unending, childish depending, spiraling slightly askew

and of tiredness.

the soul, he kneels, and body, it keels
the ref has revived and is quick to the meal
she tears apart body and dips into soul

there's only one answer
as god keeps their hands still
no matter the way that it's told.