There's a place in my body
that I can't quite place, but I
can feel it clenching and forcing
my swollen heart to race.

It roars when I'm home or
alone or with my love, but worse
yet when I need to depart from
them...when I'm empty of...

I don't know. I'm bombarded
with second guesses and pain,
wondering when I'll escape the
giant burden of blame,

that I push on myself with un-
reasonable expectations. And
feel inept and full of bitter, hateful
sensations.

Feels that shock my system in
whole. Static emotion that shocks
each person I hold, so near and dear
to a heart so true, that I want to squeeze on to my comforts like glue.

But I end up squeezing myself instead,
with anxiety and panic and sadness and dread. I don't have anyone or anything to blame, except a disorder
that strangles me ever so plain.

Don't I dare announce it or share it to all, for the risk of judgement, stigma: society's fatal flaws. The aftermath would be too gruesome to bear, so for
now I'll attempt to do what I can: repair.

It makes sense to me
that bathrooms here
and far have seen some of
the truest honesty any
single person can offer.

Here, I'm offered privacy
rarely found any place other
than a white throne of
solitude and forced self
reflection.

Maybe a sanctuary too,
but not like a church. A
place quiet to let a piece
break without someone to
intervene and ruin the
facade we're all trying
too hard...too long to hold on.

But today, I'll lean my heavy
thoughts on the grey box and
let blemishes slip to the floor.

If only I had a cushion.

If you asked me today
what type of person I am
I would probably brush off
any attempt of praise.

Today, I am a disappointment:
a failure of many facets.
Too much of this and far
too little of that, I can't bring
myself to choke that down.

Not today, anyway.

I never much cared for
the weight of my body
crashing on top of tired
feet and clumsy knees.
I prefer the more intense pain:
muscle fibers ripping to bits
and tired limbs collapsing
under pressure. It feels
more natural that way...
a mirror of how my life
was before I put myself
together again.

It's easy for tear drops
to fall past midnight.
It's even easier to let the
raw emotions of day seep
into the darkness of night.

I don't mean to be so sensitive
or to pretend that these things
don't matter to me...but they do.

The little things, they say.
They're what **** the beast.

There are many ways to break
a person down: whether persistence,
verbal or physical brutalizations.

The worst type, by far, is the quick
lash of the tounge. "That makes you
look frumpy..." Or "You've really gained some weight." Things she
categorizes and compartmentalizations
into foreign areas of the mind.

Weight is a shallow, low blow, she thought. However, the words slice
harsher than any insult she's ever heard. ******. Ugly *****. Lonely big girl. That's the garbage thrown to her.

What she needs is reassurance. Affirmations--pretty and pathetic--
that she should be comfortable in her
own flesh. The very body she breathes in and carries is the one to be loved.

Size 2 or 22, pants and dresses don't immortalize the true beauty of being. They don't capture the heart and soul. But most important of all, they have no ******* impact on the radiance one emits.

I find myself on a winding trail
with passing thoughts of years past
and where I was at that point in time.

It's there I realize that, like a tattoo,
trauma never really leaves you. I
seem to remember the snap of my
knee, the despair of lost friends but
then I see the sun.

I see its shine on the snow...rays
glazing themselves over a season
come and gone. Another quarter
year past, but I see more change than
that of the seasons.

Something, indeed, has changed in
me.

There’s nothing quite as visceral
as the hate that burns your heart,
breaks your soul, and leaves you
feeling empty.

There’s nothing quite as powerful
as the radical self love you learn,
that builds your dreams, lifts
your spirit, and fills your cup.

There is light within all darkness:
we must embrace both to make it through.

Tell me this,
why is it that
in immortalizing
my thoughts into
words, they make
more of an impact
than when they spew
from my lips?

My heavy heart
on paper with ink
or in type--black on
white--somehow are
more symbolic of my
pain and suffering
than the tears I shed
alone in my dark room.

The consequences of
daily living are the most
brutal, I suppose. In
some cynical fashion,
typing it out numbs the
ordeal...hoping for a
soul or two to relate to.
Maybe, just for a night, a
connection...some other
nebula of mind and body
to share our baggage.

I'd rather allow my skin
to burn with the emotion I
feel than to allow the surge
of cold ice through my veins.

It gets to a point where I'm
not sure I want to feel either
anymore.

I keep telling myself I'd
rather feel something than
nothing at all, but what's
the benefit of that?

I'd rather hold onto
the memories of people
gone than try to untangle
the broken strings.
I've never been the best
at delicacy or alusiveness.

Wandering mind, idle hands:
they're called the devil's playground
for a reason. I slam myself into
the over analysis of nightmares
of mid-day slumbers.

Forcing sleep upon my waking body
to numb the pain of another useless
day in another useless body stuck in
this useless state of mind. That's all
it ever is, though. Place and thought.

But I'm comfortable set in misery
and pushing away the closest things
and people to love and home that I have. Cutting strings and burning bridges were always my favorite past time.

That type of self detriment always comes easier than dragging some sort of blade to idle flesh. Starving your body from life is much easier than
purging dinner from my swollen stomach. Full and "happy" because I live in America.

I tell you this: there are other ways of
hurting oneself that don't involve physical infliction. I find that of the mental and emotional type much more satisfying.

You ask who's around
and who I should go and see,
but it's time by myself and that's
all it really ends up as: me.

When you're not around
and I'm away from home,
I stumble through each day
wondering why I'm all alone.

There are a few here and there
that I spend some time with,
But it's really only you that
I care to be around and kiss.

Don't get me wrong, my work
means so much to me.
But how can I possibly be happy
when one is my army?

What if the hardest thing
was waking up in the morning?
Begging and pleading with your
body to release you from your bed.

The blankets grow from warm
and comforting to a shield from
the light outside. Pillows embody
the brick wall you build around.

You don't want to move...don't dare
to disturb the shaking peace that you've accomplished by remaining
motionless: the stage of least resistance.