i’m inherently sad.
i’ll never get better.
i’ll **** myself right now
so i won’t be forced to feel this way later.
and no one will notice
or even shed a tear
in fact, it will be ages before anyone notices i was ever even here.
and if someone cares enough to ask why or
“who did this to you?”
i’ll simply point one long, broken finger at you.
and the world will see,
they’ll all understand
i did my best by you but i was only a kid
so how am i meant to escape you if you’re embedded into my lungs?
how am i supposed to love you if you grew into a stranger when you grew up?

i don’t like thinking about the stain on my brain
about the awful
disturbing things
that i’ve done and seen and played out in my skull
oh no, i don’t like who i am
the truth of it all?
i don’t like feeling this small.
i’m on fire and i think everyone should just let me burn,
or toss me into the pool and then let me drown,
save me just to **** me in a different way,
pull me out and put a needle in my veins
i need to change
i need to want to change.
did you like who i was yesterday?
i think i’ll be her again.
do you think we could scrub my mind clean and just begin again?
i could forget your name and you could forget that night in my bed
no one would need to know a word that i said
and somehow i’ll know not to touch you ever again
and then you could heal and i could be cleansed-
i don’t like thinking,
i don’t like being a part of the torture that was my upbringing.
i don’t like sleeping,
i don’t like being the last bit of defense before you start swinging.
i wanted to be something better than i am today
but i can’t point out exactly when everything blew up in my face
and even though it’s my fingers that are covered in this powder
i’m sure it’s anyone else’s fault for how i got here.

dear darling diary,

nothing makes any sense to me whenever i say it out loud.
and do you think i'll ever get better?
do you know if it's even allowed?
and do you know what i told her?
i said,
"yeah,
you can try and take this weight off my chest,
but i've lived with it for so long that i'd just go out in search of it again."
do you know what i mean?
i can be a husk, or i can be nothing
but no matter what, i always feel muted. quieter. dark.
i always feel like i've been treading water for a very long time and now my legs are sore
but if i stop, then i'll drown
so what am i meant to do?
i feel ashamed of not being happy enough
so i wear a smile everyday
but i hate carving it into my face
what is wrong with me?
why can't i feel things the way everyone else does?
why am i so detached from my own sense of self?
as a child, i was abused.
i was neglected emotionally, physically, mentally
so i learned to satisfy my own needs for just about everything
but i still never learned to let someone close.
close enough to burn
to scar
close enough to take these keys and drive my heart.
and why?
why can't i just forget what happened?
why can't i let it all go?
i pick my scabs,
every single one
i bleed, and i'll never heal
and it's all my own **** fault.

she's married, but you're lost in between the sheets of her four poster bed
and rational words like,
stop, and,
this is a bad idea,
are far from your head.
she's married, but you're thinking you could see a future if you squint hard enough
she's married, and you are too, but more to the idea of love
not so much to the guy sitting across from you both asking you how your day was.
and there are things in this world that you simply don't touch unless you want to get burned
like poison ivy or fire
or brown haired
green eyed
fair skinned liars
just to name a few.
she's married, but her lips taste just like honeydew and
there's a little piece of her inside you and
everywhere you go
everything you do
you can feel her
i mean, really feel her
but she's married, so there's not much you can do
she's married, my love, just-
not to you.

i’m happy all of the time.
or maybe my clock is broken
maybe my clock is broken and it doesn’t matter because i can’t even read the hands
maybe i don’t know anything at all but it’s been a very long time since i last felt the smoothness of your alive skin.

i’m happy some of the time.
during those in between sleeps where i can forget
where i can forget that i have been cracked open.
i feel sort of like something inside of me has been, not missing
more like-
stolen
like yesterday i had ribs
and today i'm standing in front of your coffin
and there are flowers on your dress
but i don’t want to think about that.

i’m happy all of the time.
even if i don’t quite remember the feeling
it’s sort of like
when you’ve been cold for so long that you start to feel warm
only you aren’t warm
you’re dying.

i’m happy some of the time
but mostly i think,
i think i’m just lying.

she slaps you- hard
right across your mouth
she put you into this world, she says
she’ll take you right back out.
and you aren’t quite sure, really, what it is you’ve done wrong
did you mumble? forget a chore?
you think about asking but there’s this look in her eyes
so you bite back your tongue
you chew and gnaw until copper fills your mouth
and as you smile as her, blood drips out
“you’re a demon!” she screams in your left ear
“you’re the devil’s child!”
you try not to flinch, to let her see you’re hurt
after all, if you are the devil’s child
what does that make her?

cigarette smoke in the living room
begging for therapy
she tells him he has to choose
the drugs or the baby
& he says he won’t do it again
but his hands keep splitting from the bones in her face
i’m trying to be a good friend
but there’s still so much i have left to say
she wants a happy ending but i don’t know what to tell her
i’m not a physic
i’m just a writer.