living in my body feels a lot
like waiting for a home to be foreclosed.
I know I must be leaving soon
because the signs are all there,
I just don’t know if it will ever feel right.
I suppose it never does.

living in my body feels a lot
like taking the locks off of my front door.
too many people have attempted to wander in,
lovelorn and lost and lonely,
and I’m starting to wonder if being open
was my first mistake.

now it’s too late to replace the locks,
to take down the signs,
to reclaim what was once mine,
because this home is inhabited
by someone else.

living in my body feels a lot
like waiting for a home to be foreclosed.
I know I must be leaving soon.
everything is in boxes
and all that’s left is this
empty space.

I throw my voice down a wishing well.
it ricochets against the brick,
then crumbles to the ground.

repeat after me.
you are worthy.

my affirmations stumble out of my mouth,
and I wait for my voice to return to me.
my eardrums wait for the words
to knock some sense into them.
silence plays an elegy.

repeat after me.
you are loved.

you can lead your head to sunlight,
but you can't make it think.

the air being pushed back into my lungs
wasn't a second chance
because I never had a first.
I was doomed from the start
- love with conditions.
safety with escape routes.

but this is a new beginning.
the epilogue was the prologue.
disaster is no longer my destiny.

a glimpse into the past is how I found
the people who are still rooting for me:
a small child with a rope around her neck.
a teenager with an apology written out.
a 19 year old with too much poison in her stomach.
they are counting on me to show them
living was the better of the two options.
they are counting on me to be the one adult
who doesn't let them down.

I have found a reason to live,
and it's to find something worth living for.

my parents chose a name for me that means
shedding too much skin was inevitable.
they worked alongside my brain to convince me
that this body was always meant to be destroyed.

there isn't a lot left here,
but there's still too much.
I can't control how rapidly this jail cell grows,
but I can control how rapidly I shrink inside of it.
I'm starting to remember the freedom in being trapped.
I'm starting to remember the confinement in being free.
being this empty has never made me feel so full.

my head won't give me a hint.
a fog that no amount of light
can break through.
my eyes put on a veil
without knowing what to mourn.

a lock that never stops clicking.
a room that never stops spinning.

a small flame with a big impact.
a small flame that left everything charred.
in a dream you ask if I forgive you,
and my arms break out in black and blue.

the wolf actually exists.
it's hidden in plain sight.
a constant presence looming in the trees,
occasionally making itself visible.
if I accuse it of trying to ****** me,
the crowd will humor me for a few seconds.

a body covered in claw marks.
a body covered in open wounds.
a body that needs something
other than time in order to heal.
a body that begs for a tourniquet
made from twiny rope.

I cry wolf and the wolf cries liar.
the wolf cries wolf and I cry listen.
the crowd shakes their heads and walks away,
whispering to each other about how
I should just be thankful
that it hasn't killed me yet.

grief is still groveling at my feet.
grief won't stand up and face me.
grief won't go away.
grief is still groveling.

forgiveness is a heavy, hollow thing
burrowing into my chest,
gathering all my warmth.
I try to send it home to you,
but the farthest it's ever reached
is the back of my teeth.
it doesn't want to go.
I can't let it go.

I ask sorrow where it hurts
and it points at me.
I ask rage where it's been
and it points to you.