Why am I so tight?
I don’t know.
Perhaps I am afraid of stepping on landmines
everywhere that I go;
perhaps I am afraid of the warzone
that lives inside the same walls that I do;
perhaps I am afraid of the nightmares
that visit every time I close my eyes;
perhaps
I am simply
afraid.
But it doesn’t make sense—
this fear that has stitched itself
into the seams of my soul
and whose whisper is louder
than even the slammed doors
of my battlefield house.
I was always taught
that the darkness of my bedroom
was never something to be afraid of,
and the monsters respected this
until age nineteen and one painkiller too many.
I was always taught
that wise friends were good friends,
and good friends were trusted friends—
but the first time I trusted my secrets to one,
my parents punished in blind offense
that it was not them
who were trusted.
Why am I so tight?
Perhaps I’ve learned that the more you open your mouth,
the more you regret it;
perhaps I’ve learned that the safest secret keeper
is your own heart and soul;
perhaps I’ve learned that watching your skin bleed
is the most calming medication there is;
perhaps
I do not consider myself
a friend.
Words must be weighed
before they meet any outside ear,
and if the inner heart does not wish to weigh them,
they will remain unknown.
So for as long as I am
afraid of myself,
I will not know myself—
and neither will any other soul.

The last time we spoke
was a hundred and seventy-four days ago
but I thought of you again today.
I remembered
how we were both lonely souls
with aching hearts,
and maybe that was why
we fell apart.
I don't know God's plan,
but I do know this -
I miss someone
who I no longer have the right
to call
my best friend.

that moment when you realize

that all you hug at night

is your

stuffed

moose

i
am not a good person.
they say
i
am as sweet as the candy
i
give to their children; they say
i
am the angel that collects new wings
every time
i
smile, because you can hear it ring.
but
there are worlds behind these eyes
that they have never seen,
and you might think that beautiful
but darling, trust me when
i
say that it is not;
and
i
have never worn a sugar-coated halo
or looked in the mirror
and smiled because
i
like who
i
am.
i
am not a good person,
i
simply do good things for
wrong reasons.
i
write long birthday cards because
i
don’t want to be forgotten,
and
i
smile at strangers because
i
want to be noticed.
i
love giving gifts, but
when it comes to receiving
i
turn them into weapons if
i
have the courage to accept them
in the first place.
i
eat the things
i
am allergic to because it’s another way
to hurt myself, and
i
have skipped the food
i
should be eating because
that’s another way, too.
i
claim that
i
am strong, but
i
listen to loud music because
i
can’t stand it when my family fights,
and
i
only plant flowers
to have something to care for.
“i”
is written in a line all its own
because
i
have never thought that
i
needed anyone, or that
anyone needed me;
and
i
don’t use capitals because
i
don’t believe
i
am worthy.
it makes this poem
scattered
and muddled
and tiresome to finish.
it makes this story
disjointed
and broken
and difficult to read.
but then again
how fitting, because
so
am
i

forgive me.
I have no other plea but this.
forgive me
for living lies
lies that say I do not belong to you,
that your blood was not enough,
that the only person I hurt was myself.
there is pain
everywhere
seeping from my eyes,
my shoulder,
and his texts.
I am responsible for this pain
but instead of biting in bitterness
at that responsibility,
I should have let it break me
and bring me back
to grace.
but I chose another road—
the trail I blazed myself
the one I’ve walked for years
the one I know so well.
this time
I brought him to the path
and let him walk beside me.
I wanted him there.
he was safe.
so very different
from the stranger in my nightmare.
but I wasn’t broken yet.
instead I was sharp
as sharp as the silver edge I clung to
and it hurt him
to walk on my path.
he chose to stay,
but sent me back into the forest
until I learned to crave this plea:
forgive me.
there are two different streams of blood
and I chose
the one that stains my hands
and not the one that cleanses my heart.
break me
so I can heal
and forgive me.
this is all I ask.
to the one who walked beside me
and who I hurt,
forgive me.
and to the one who walked beside me
and who chose to stay,
thank you.