Sometimes I hate myself so much.
And in these times,
I learn to love pieces of myself.
Like the soft curve of my jaw
Or the glimmer of my tired green eyes.
I grew from hating the ways my ribs showed through my pale skin
To loving the way my belly feels after a filling meal.
I grew from loathing the way the darkness under my eyes illuminated my chronic fatigue
To loving the softness of my eyelashes brushing my eye bags as I take a moments rest.
I grew from beating myself up for not being able to get exercise
To taking walks under the suns forgiving rays.
So, while I may hate portions of myself
I also can find moments to reframe my thoughts
Into the forgiveness I am seeking from the dark recesses of my mind.
While some days I hate her,
Other days I think of her as an old friend
And for now,
That is good enough.

She is existing between life and death.
Most "waking" moments feel like a dream,
and days pass like coming of age movie montages.
Only she is not the main character.
She is a side character whose only purpose is to be in a scene to further the plot.
But where do characters go once they've served their purpose?
Are they doomed to a life frozen in time watching the main characters live their happily ever afters?
Or do they cease to exist the moment no spotlight is on them?
The answer eludes her.
Despite being in the best position to know who she is, she remains clueless.
She was forced into a flat character arc so early on that she felt that it was easier to comply rather than to experience more trauma trying to resist.
She serves her purpose being one thing.
The geek.
Or the nice girl.
Or the outcast.
Or the *****.
But never all at once.
Never can she exhibit more than one trait.
After all of the titles given to her by others she merely accepted them as who they are.
Why try to define yourself when others are going to do it for you, she thought?
Because she was one thing she could never develop further.
Her character arc was flat.
She wasn't allowed acquaintances, friends, or partners that weren't determined before her use expired.
She was forced into the place between life and death alone.
Forced to watch both life and death alone.
And forced to experience the numbness alone.

I miss the smell of you.
The scent that lingers
long after you've been gone.
Cologne and cigarettes
stick to old bed sheets
like a leech on skin.
Yet it could be remedied
so very easily
with detergent.
Instead,
it deteriorates painfully
with time.

I long for love
without heartache.
To be free from pain,
loss,
failure,
and sadness.
In a world shrouded in darkness,
I long for the light.

and when I lay here
bathed in the morning light
I think about times long ago,
when you were here with me
bathed in the same glow
and drinking coffee
after sleepless nights
wrapped in only our sheets
and looking at the sun
as it rises over the city.
oh how I miss you here.

I have never felt more alone
than I do
wrapped in your cold embrace.

her hands were coated in paint
dripping from her last project
in which she painted herself
as someone she wasn't
and fell in love with that person
only to realize
she couldn't keep up the masquerade forever.

and in that moment
she realized she was no longer
trapped in the moonlight.
as the suns forgiving rays
graced her skin for the first time in years
she felt like things
might just be okay again.

we exist in an ever present balance
between life and death
and past and future.
it can never be broken
or disturbed.
it always persists.

shes been hurt before,
so tread carefully with her.
don't leave her broken.

she was born like this;
her form empty and frozen.
a life-like corpse.

her wings were pierced.
though cupid never shot her,
she longed for love.

Her mind was like fire and ice.
In one moment of anger
her words get heated
and yelling commences,
and in another
her silence is deafening and cold.

What a strange feeling this is,
this thing we call
"love".

Out of sight, out of mind.
Once she has left your vision,
she ceases to exist.
Memories of her fade quickly
as she was quiet
and otherwise unnoticeable.

She loves control.
At least that’s what she tells herself
laying in bed at night alone.
In reality she loves being able to hold all of the cards
and not having to give up a single one
only to have it returned bent or torn.

She’s figured out a way to be kind, and caring
without truly letting anyone in,
and without having to sacrifice her already fragile mental state.
Instead of brick walls shielding her from everyone,
she stands behind prison bars.
People can see her,
but they can’t get in.

while this may have been a safe haven
it quickly turned sour.
Like Icarus,
drunk on power
and too close to the sun,
what was once a place to heal
Quickly turned into a place that kept her isolated from everyone.

While she thought she loved control
She realized she loved invulnerability.
The lack of vulnerability kept her in isolation
and in this cell of loneliness
all she longed for was a love to call her own.
Trapped in an ongoing circle
of fear,
isolation,
vulnerability,
and pain,
she couldn’t find out
how to work love or companionship into the equation.

Having been burned to many times
and plummeting back down to earth
she feared the wax wings
that would allow her to soar.
She wasn’t afraid of falling,
she was afraid of the impact;
the pain that comes with love.

Poor Cupid,
with all of his arrows destined to pierce her skin
only to be ricocheted off of the metal bars surrounding her heart.
Her hope lay in an imaginative figure
smart enough to break the lock
or find his way through the bars
as she couldn’t see herself
finding a way out anymore.

She longs for skin touching skin
both ****** and freeing
as well as comforting and warm.
She longs for intimacy and freedom,
while maintaining independence and a sense of self.
She wants the courage it takes to be vulnerable,
because she is scared to be lonely,
and even more scared to be “his”.