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g Feb 2014
The look on your father's face
When he signed the divorce papers.
(He'll always love her.
He loved her enough to let her go.)

She wonders why there is still yelling within the
Inside of the walls of her auditory cortex.
This little girl has been begging to be freed,
"I am constantly tired," she admits.
"I am constantly afraid."

I sunk myself in a sea of bitterness with an
Unforgiving weight on my chest.
There's enough hate weighing in
My bones to sink a ship.

If you'd like to know what it
Feels like to love you, stand at
The edge of a cliff and
Give yourself reasons to not jump.
I can think of seven and they all start
With the letters of your first name.

Who knew that being buried alive did
Not mean piles of dirt,
But rather the weight in your chest is enough.
Your rib cage was a prison,
I just found out too late.

I made room for the monsters under my bed;
We get along just fine.
How sickening it is to know I'll never have
Enough room in my heart for anyone but you.

"I don't want to play anymore,"
The little girl told the voices.
"Please let me go."
g Feb 2014
I am not making progress and
Maybe I never will.

I knew giving my all to a boy
With such destructive tendencies
Was my biggest failure, but
Who could deny your hands or
The way you whispered
"I want you"?

Your ocean eyes and sand-colored hair
Sould have warned me because the
First time we touched was a day after
The beach, and I remember every
Person in your house on that given day
And I swear there are ghosts in
My walls that sound just like your bed.

I wonder now why the ghosts I hide
Under piles of our clothes (the same clothes
That have seen your bedroom floor)
Have taken on the form of you.

I need you because you are familiar
And because of that I will always
Feel alone in a crowded room regardless
Of the faces that plague my life daily.

Kiss me until the bitterness of fear
Leaves my veins and the oxygen in
My lungs is no longer his.

The only thing left to give up on me
Is my own bones, but I feel the rust
Through the marrow and
I am out of time.

How much time did we have?
How many bars of soap must
One person go through to remove
The feel of another from their skin?

I can confirm that if he is anything like you
I will not be able to keep breathing and
That is not a metaphor for how
You took my breath away.

Stop wasting your time on me,
I am nothing but broken bones
And broken hearts, stiched incorrectly
As so and I do not have enough glue to
Fix what is left in shambles.

The last time we spoke you asked me
Why I told you I still loved you and no
Longer wanted go be with you,
But that still stands and
I'll love you til the day I die.
g Jan 2014
I tell my mother that I love her through
The same gritted teeth that I whispered
"I hope you leave" through.
(It sounds quite the same).

I feel like the pieces of my skin are
Ripping off, one by one, and I swear
I cannot wait seven years for
My body to forget that you once touched it.
I wish there was a faster way to
Sever your physical memory that is sketched
Bone-deep, but seven years is the
Price I pay for letting you too far in.

You could excordinate from my
Goose-bumped chest and hold it, beating,
In your shaking hands and I know you'd
Swear on your great-grandfather's grave that
You loved every inch of me.
But you only loved the chest you destroyed
And a heart can only be an anchor
To those who lost themselves between
A false-lover's sheets.

The one who watched me tremble as
Words spilt from my mouth is the
One who made me choke them back down.
I picked up my death wish and I
Placed it in my pocket, hoping to God
You'd someday forget the look in my eyes
When I told you I'd never make it
Through the past year. But you were
The one who begged me to try and
You were the one who begged me to die.
I swear to God I remember you saying
That I kept you up at night, but now
I'd be lucky if I could fall asleep.

I wonder now what has kept me here;
So desperately victim to the sound of your voice.
I hope to pack bags full of anything but your
Memory, but everything just seems to admonish
And I can't forget the way your hair
Reminds me of the hot sand that
Listened more intently to every displeasure
You ever caused. I must leave that place behind,
And yet it calls me towards it everytime
I want to scream. I still imagine the
Look on your face, I still imagine the way
Your voice quivered as you said
"Please, just don't hurt yourself.
Please, just promise me."
And I remember the way you begged
Me to go against my every promise. So
Now I am packing bags;
I will not be the fool that chose to stay here.
g Jan 2014
A suicide letter with your name on every line.
Love was a one way street and I was just trying to get by.
I had once been beautiful, I had once been strong,
But now I am the tempest that ripped the door from your hinges,
And I am destructive to everything inside.
I've tried to forget the way you cut your hair and the way you cut your meat,
But the cuts on my arm are just a reminder that
You were good with everything that involved a knife.

It's true what they say about becoming like your surroundings,
Because I've carved your name into my rib cage with consonants like a blade,
But you went behind my work and sliced deeper with every vowel.
I think it was my heart dying the day we left blood in your sheets;
I didn't know letting you inside of me meant being haunted by
Everything that remains and never left when you did.
Every pill on my tongue tastes like your mouth on my thighs.
The fire you left beneath my skin holds crimson relief and secret sin.

I thought the meaning of lust was to exclude love from the mix,
But you confused the two and now
I'm not so sure what love means.
I've hit rock bottom in the form of an avalanche
And the weight is far worse than the weight of you on top.
These demons are eating me alive and I see them in my dreams,
But my dreams are of your smile and I think
The good dreams are worse than the bad.

I find the irony in that.
I begged for your presence once in my uncertain attempt to survive.
You said some things you just cannot control, like why these bad things have happened.
Were you talking about yourself?
You said I had to be careful; "you never know when you will die."
I am aware now that, that was your greatest lie.
I died by your hand the day your poison left your lips.
My fight against death was your fight for life and
Every sting from your hips against mine nailed me further to
My own tombstone.

No one tells you that the monsters under your bed would
Show their face when you looked into the mirror.
The bags under my eyes look quite like the bags you left of
Bad memories and bad habits (they are all I have left).
You must understand that the screams from the roof tops could
End with a crack of my bones, and
You are to blame for the nights I cannot stop drowning from
The thoughts in my head.

If love was suicide you had as much life as spring and
I never made it through the chill of winter.
I've been taking medicine for the pounding in my head and now it suddenly makes sense.
My mind is sicker than I thought.
We have always only been human and I can only bend my heart so far;
But you needed me to be broken.
I cannot understand why you had to feel my break.
The death seeping through your pores brings out the colors in your eyes.
If needing you is suicide I know I'm going to die.

There is more to be said about the way it burns on my skin
Long after your hand has moved to another inch of my body.
The walls were filled with lies and I think your mouth wrote them itself,
At least they sound quite familiar and I wish I could say
"I feel safe."
The bathroom floor is covered with my blood, sweat, and tears
And I swear if you didn't know I loved you then, at least
I know you never loved me now.

I can't even love myself.
I've been told strangers cannot be trusted and I think that's when I became afraid of the mirror.
Being touched by you was like being awake after sleeping too long.
My heart was confused and disoriented,
But my hands never forgot what to do.
Loving you was the best pain I have ever felt.
Everything you are made of hurts but I love it, I still love it, I still love you.
This self inflicting torture has become my addicting sadness
And I know that's because it is as
Close to your heart as my trembling hands will ever reach.

If there was a stage in between life and death I think
I entered it the day your words ****** the life from me.
g Dec 2013
You walk through the doors of the library and everything is in it's familiar place on every dust covered shelf. Somehow the feeling of it's untouched surfaces intrigue you (probably because you envy the hidden finger prints).

You open the first book and it breathes a hard nastolgia into your face. The sound of the porch swing is the first thing you hear, and the library is transformed into a summer's night. You feel the rush of your lover's touch and you wonder how it is possible to ever move on from that night and from the sounds of "I love you," in your ear.

The next book you pick up has a strong spine and thick pages. Everyone knows this must mean it lacks a good story but you wonder why that is so. Simply because it has been untouched? You long to be the unbent book on that splintered shelf with no crumbled pages or folded corners of someone's favorite things.

You refused to open the next book you saw, and yes, you judged it by the cover.  I suppose he judged you by the cover, and you could feel the weight of "you're not what I thought you were." It lives over your shoulders like an angry cloud and you hope to God there is a window to bring sunshine into this room.

Looking down the row of books you see one out of place, different from the rest.  With a gentle hand you pick it up and feel it's weak pages between your fingers stained with tears. You know that this book has been in the possession of many and even has a few tears the further into it you read. You wonder if this is how you appear. (fragile and weak) or if maybe the bold print you see on every page speaks louder than the condition each corner is in.

The next book you find is a childhood memory, and it was always one you'd love to relive.
You missed the sound of your father's voice, but the memory was as good as the father who knew how to leave. The baggage may have been heavier than his own suitcases, but you forget that all because you were back at your eighth birthday party, and the smile he had was one you'd never forget.

You close this book lightly and grab the one directly behind it. It's a fairytale, and the exact way you always imagined your life to be. Your eyes scan every page quickly but as you near the end you read that walks in the park are not always perfect in fact they can often be filled with tears and the little girl in a dress is broken inside scratching her story into every page of this fictional disillusion.

The last book you grab is one that shouldn't have intrigued you. You sit on the only piece of furniture, besides the dusty shelves; a wooden chair infront of a fireplace. The story displays you and him, and the future you wish you had.
The book starts out at a wedding, but it isn't yours. In fact, the only thing sentemental about it is the way he squeezed your hand when they said their vows.  You scream to make the story stop, but your eyes never stray.  The book ends with you alone. Ironic, isn't it? Because you were always alone, even when he was yours and everything felt complete. The wooden chair breaks as you move to burn the book, and the flames help bring the story to life and every lie fills the walls. The library becomes a labrinth that will never release you.

The chair is a mirror to your heart.

You are alone with the writing on the walls and that is all that is left of you.
g Dec 2013
All I've ever known
is the ghost of my past, and we shook hands
once they took the
form of my past skeletons.

I'd like to slither
out of my skin like a snake,
leaving behind the trail
of memories
and fingertips that
I'd love to forget.

Do you remember the day
I told you I'd like to
leave this world behind?

Do you remember the day
you told me you
wished I'd leave this world behind?
(I should have followed through.)

You are the anchors
at my feet
and I am drowning in your eyes.
I have let you go
a thousand times,
but you are still here in the form
of everything that is
burying me alive.
g Dec 2013
I used to listen to the rain hitting the roof and imagine every rain drop being my every I love you, hitting the top of your roof, rolling down the sides of your house,
down the rain gutters, and I always thought I was being washed away.
Now it's winter and you can barely hear anything. The snow seems to quiet the world and I wish my bitter thoughts could cause a blizzard in my mind to silence my demons.

You scraped off the frost on my windows to see if you could get a glimpse inside, but no one comes by anymore and I've blown out all the candles.
It is as bitter and as cold as the state you left me in, and I wonder why my calender is still filled with memories I'd like to forget.

the walls whisper things to me every cold night I lay awake shaking but they aren't scary anymore in fact it's become the lullaby I  fall asleep to.
Every crack in the floor holds more secrets than any line in my palm has ever been able to hold between every bone chilling memory that causes me to tremble.

I've been shaking since you left, and every blanket of snow that covers the ground makes me beg for your warmth. We
used to be wrapped in eachother, but now I'd like to be wrapped in anything but your smell.
When does the snow stop falling, and when do I?

I've been tripping over my own thoughts in every failed attempt to run from the voices in my head. Every footstep sounds of someone new walking away and every handprint looks like my ghosts have gripped my heart even tighter.

I wish I could make sense of the way your eyes look like the snowflakes on my window, but I guess now-a-days everything screams your name. I wonder, now, if everyone hears these voices in their head, or if they only come out to play in those with malicious thoughts?
I never meant to harm the ones I loved, but I see blood on my hands constantly, and there is no metaphor that could compare to the blood you left behind.

I can't decide who the victim is, you see I've been chained to these regrets but I also hold the key. Every bruise on my heart holds a story in tiny letters spelling out the names of past lovers.
I can't help but remember how my own fists left these scars in my mind you just stamped your memory in approval.

When should we end this?
I never meant to let this drag on so long, but there are chains anchored to my feet and the waters are no longer just knee-deep.
I've been breathless since our eyes met, but, this doesn't feel as calming as your arms once did.
I've seen more hospitality in the homeless, I guess I just wish I saw more love in the dammed and more shelf space for every heart you ever stole.
I guess you threw them in the closet, because I just did not see this coming.
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