sleeping next to mouse traps

do you miss the way we slept together?
i know you feel the loss
it just took a little time
thats a lie

i dont feel the regret
but rather the loneliness inside you
from when youre sin had found
a better man for her

you hear the songs
all sad, feelings of misplacement
i know youre sad, i dont doubt it
but not for losing me

not for me

i imagined losing a piece of you;
a burden, loss of appetite
and for a night, i considered death
but only for a night

i know youre feeling something
but its not heartbreak, its lacking
for someone whose so used to
a naked girl in the bed beside you

"fragmented and partial"

like bed sheets
naked and yearning
i felt comfortable
being only half full

i discovered what he meant
by being a cage
but it wasnt me,
it wasnt him

it was lacking
lacking the desire to be completely
and fully happy
not just content

as i left, i repeated nursery rhymes
something i felt safe in
returning to my old ways
that haunted me

i decided i needed a limb
to walk out on.
to experience
taking a long walk on a short pier

we held each other back
always pushing and pulling
each other's strings
i hope he's happy

i hope he smiles
i hope he enjoys each day
while holding onto memories
but never regretting them

and i am ready to forgive him
and i am ready to move on
to beautiful sunrises and sunsets
and to fall in love again

if you desire proof

I grew up questioning doubt
I learned to question faith
I chose to question love
Because everything I ever questioned
proved to keep me safe.

I never chose my battles
each encounter led to one.
I never chose to speak my mind
it came naturally.
I resented that,
now i question my own motives.

I tried things
because I desired maturity
because of that,
I became something I regret.
now I question my own morals.

I proved I lacked subtlety.
I proved I lacked faith
and went against fate
when I chose my path.
And now Im recovering.

if you desire closure

they say finger prints,
theyre never one in the same.
i wondered if that could hold true to other things
hoping i could get out of the blame.

i feel like every time i hit the ground running
i trip
and whenever i jump through hoops
i never stick the flip.

i feel more than awful this time,
i broke my promise
he turned me on
and i reopened my scars

if he didnt want me then,
why would he want me now
and could the same hold for my boy
could he change his mind.

i feel really terrible
its all my fault
he loves me
but i dont walk the talk

you always yearn for what you dont have.

But I was an idiot for believing there was a difference. Differences being in you (past to present), you and the last boy, and me (past to present). Now I'm so broken down with bruises everywhere, literally and metaphorically. I hate how I've become everything everyone always wanted, that being taken advantage of, and how I feel now in the dark.
A silver dagger, a sharp blade, pierce my skin, make the memories fade. I no longer yearn for your lips, a more distinct hatred for you has replaced that. But I'm a girl, with a heavy past and an anchor for a heart. I live in your compliments, sought after presence, and puppy dog eyes. When I see you, I forget past complications: I gave myself to you, fully, and now youre gone.
You are in love with a girl, still. And I am in love with a boy, still. Neither of which is the other. So, I cannot ask you with deafening reason to hold me with extensive warmth and allow me to feel every emotion you've ever felt. But a little recognition of my pain would do. I cannot blame you for moving slow with emotion, I know how damaged your heart must be, but do not lie to me with ideas of holiness in your actions.
Though you do not hold my attention as much as the former, I am growing fonder and fonder of your selfish lies. I am falling for an idea of you which you hold with great standards. I really don't want to be hurt again, and you are exemplifying exactly what I lost myself in prior.
I am not to be taken advantage of, however it is so, so easy. I need a backbone, or a saviour; you are crippling me. But in my endless need for the affection I have never obtained from a desirable boy, I am not running away as needed, nor walking, nor crawling; I am staying in what I manifest to be my reason for self-harm.
I am not the one for you, regardless of your claims. I am not infatuated with you, I am infatuated with the idea of you.

Time wearing thin
time that can't win.
And when I finally leave,
will I be able to swim?
I dont think I can without him.

They're just so sick.
I dont see how I fit.
Definitely not by wit.
And theyre morals, complete bullshit.

Often, my eyes are found wet
What happens when the dam does let?
Will all my needs finally be met?
Or will I just be caught in another net?

I’m not looking forward to the move
anymore.
All I imagine is finding myself back on that
tile floor.

Covered in blood,
yet still craving more.
Breaking my promise,
revisiting the core.

Time traveling,
like the butterfly effect,
erasing all the progress
that had taken affect.

I can’t imagine his face,
the disgust
the disgrace
but he expected it, and he still left.

I fucked up, you know?
Giving myself to the first guy that showed
enough attention, and enough persistence.
And now my new form of masochism
is staying with him when I dont really know
if he was really worth it
when he just does the same shit over again.

Well, I tried to tell you my most expensive secret.
You turned me down, proving my meaning is weaker.
And I tried to open up, but I didn’t get any deeper.
I tried to tell you why, but all you thought about was her.

I should have expected it. My existence is a blur.

It just ended up in screaming at the top of my lungs.
I don’t care how you feel; you aren’t the one in love.
You don’t know anything;
Still, all you do is shove.

I’m sorry my vice has always been a knife,
But even in confessing to you, you take no strife.
It’s like you ignored the signs for so long,
You believe the same way you do as a wife:

Everything another says is a lie.

You would think you’d read between the lines;
Just because something’s poetic,
Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t think twice.
I’ve been wondering why…

Your minds too caught up
In your problems, hers,
And ignoring mine.
Guess those cuts don’t mean as much as yours.

But you don’t care anyway.

I should have expected it
After all these years of enforcing physical pain.
Now I realize yet another twist:
The one who’s supposed to love me

Is causing this.

You supposedly fill my lungs with air and circulate blood through my veins, still I find it hard to believe you when you say everything will be alright. I really hope it will, but your word can never seem to genuinely be enough. I'd really like to see you for myself, but I know thats asking too much. And bigger than that: thats not the point of your existence, or nonexistence. I have no intentions of taking advantage of you; using you as nothing more than a crutch, or as some people, a wheelchair. I will fill my life with you and play life by your rules and regulations, your standards and morals. I will follow your voice, regardless of the volume and tone, to the direction in which you wish for me to go. I will never try to hide from you or use you as a label. I'll whole-heartedly care for you.
The only thing I ask of you: when my life is through, you will meet me at the pearly white gates, as I pictured, guide me through the doors, and seat me beside you, and your family, and my family, and your friends, and my friends, and your significant other, and my significant other.

I found her feetle position lying on the bathtub floor; thighs pushed to her chest, arms tangled loosely around her knees, hands sporting a silver knife. Crystal clear shower water running her oozing blood clean. And she was sobbing, with her pale skin bloodshot and blue eyes shimmering like diamonds, black eyeliner running down her cheeks. She peered at me through the misplaced shower curtain, so embarrassed. And it was at that point, I loved her like I never had before. It was when I realized, through widened eyes, she was so casually broken, she could hardly breathe. Her fake smile she carried daily had dissipated. And she analyzed my facial expression, speaking in barely audible whispers, I never wanted you to see me like this. How is it that you can hold your head up so high in a time of utter chaos ? And at that moment, I wanted nothing more than to comfort her and tell her I was broken, as well, merely held together with masking tape. But my limbs were limp and useless, and I couldn't move, I couldn't redirect my gaze from the mess in the bathtub: the dirty girl, blood running copper, and staining the alabaster claw foot tub. And my jaw dropped as I watched the girl who once possessed so much confidence super models would be jealous, fell back, let go, gave up, gave in, hit her head on the back of the once beautiful bathtub and sank into oblivion. And I dropped to my knees, the atmospheric pressure was pressing down on me, and I cried, sobbed, my whimpers barely audible over the sounds of the water beating down onto my best friend's expired and wounded body. Oh, no....

I felt my heart pounding, bound to beat right out of my chest. And I heard the mourning whispers through the crowds of people, "she was so beautiful" and "I thought she was happy" But none of them knew her, really knew her, at least, not like I did. And that angered me, the way they talked of her as if they were her best friend. But they weren't, they couldn't have been, because I was, and always will be. But now she's dead and I have no one: no best friend, no one to share my hopes and dreams, my secrets and regrets with. So thats why I'm trembling in my multi-coloured ensemble at her depressing funeral. She wouldn't have wanted it to be so melancholy; she would have wanted streamers and a celebration. She would have wanted everyone happy and cheery, laughing and smiling, 'Hey ! We're alive !" Because she was happy and free.... for the most part. And why wouldn't she be ? She was gorgeous, I mean, stunning; her smile radiated a glow of perfect pearly whites, and her eyes, as blue as the Gulf of Mexico, lost you like a maze. And she was smart and the sweetest girl you could ever come in contact with; she was confident and quirky and endearing. Why wouldn't she be happy ? She was lost and terrified. Her thoughts were hidden. What was she thinking ? "I have to get out of this rat-hole. How might I best hide my tracks ? Who have I become ? And where am I going ? Why can't I sleep at night ? I don't want her to see me like this...." I only wish I knew. But I didn't, and sadly, I still don't. Thats why I'm trapped in a crowd of black, people who never even spoke to her, might not have even known her name, are mourning her. This isn't right.

The weeks following her suicide felt like an ever-swinging wrecking ball. Masochism. Pain. And an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Life continued on and left me gasping for oxygen; is there any left in the atmosphere ? I spent my days curled up like a ball, leaning on her baby blue wall, taking in where we spent so many hours having bottomless conversations while sipping on our Low-carb Monsters. I felt so empty without her- not just because I hadn't eaten in thirty-six hours. Her walls were covered in photos of us, so happy; her boyfriend, with obvious malice intentions; her family, who genuinely didn't know her or even care- and that's just sad, because she was amazing. Her ideas were generic and, euphoric, even. She was an amateur comedian, with the sickest sense of humour. Perfect, all around. But she had no idea of the dangers of the modern world, the ideas that bloom in everyone's mind. Until one night, today took over, and broke everything inside her. She cut loose. Everything she ever cared for ceased, or at least, she thought. She convinced herself there were no genuine people on Earth, and well, there was no way in hell she would make it to Mars. But she didn't know how I felt for her, how much meaning she gave my life. Now, I'm sobbing in her bedroom, groping the off-white carpet, red faced, 'why me ?', ....'why her ?'

I spent my nights hallucinating- her slender figure appearing translucent white, holding out her hand and smiling "Remember those nights we spent holding each other, so terrified of the thunderstorm that droned on ? We would awake the next morning, what would happen the prior night ?" And I'd follow her, so amazed, out of my bedroom, down the hall, down the dark cherry stained wood floor stairs, through the foyer, unlocking the front door, and out onto the front deck. I'd follow her eery silhouette down the street. We would walk through the neighborhood, the full moon lighting our path, speaking of what happened the day she.... passed away. She stroke a cleaning spree, washed every crack and crevice in the house, until it was literally spotless. Her family was gone, as usual. She ignored everyone's calls and texts. And, most importantly, she smiled throughout it all. Then when she approached the kitchen with the utmost desire to make it sparkle, she came across a shiny silver knife. It drew her in. Her hand reached for it mechanically, slowly. She gripped the handle, brought it inches from her face for close inspection. She took a few steps to the stainless steel sink. ....And tested its sharpness on her wrist. The pain shot up through her arm and to her heart, lungs expanding, the smell of iron as blood dripped into the sink. But she embraced it, the pain. She felt something and thats what she wanted. A sense of revelation coursed through her. Still, she never looked down. She blanked, and the next things she remembers is standing in the bathroom, fiery hot shower water steaming the bathroom, while she quietly undressed herself. Then, she glanced at the counter, there, was the blood stained knife. She dropped her dainty panties, grabbed the knife, looking straight ahead toward the tub, and inched. Her curves moved in slow motion over the wall of the bathtub, sliding down, slipping the white shower curtain in place. She found comfort; the water was burning her skin, but she lay her head back and sighed with relief.

Forefinger vertical to silver knife, tight grip. Bracing herself, biting her lip with a new intensity, scrunching her delicate face up. There, she sliced her right ankle, groaning in depressing approval. She took three deep breaths, then switched hands with the knife. Repeating the brace and cut through all the veins on her left ankle. She belted a high pitch whimper as the blood ran. And she sank further into the tub, so ashamed. Her tears seemed hotter than the water pelting off her skin, was that possible ? Her once perfectly tan body was as red as the blood puddling at her feet. And she was so disappointed in herself, she couldn't stop. She cut what she could and brutally hit what she couldn't. By the time she was done, she was covered in bruises and open wounds. She gazed at what she had done. What caused this ? She was sickly impressed at her ability to destroy what was so beautiful in less than an hour. Now her body had turned to prunes and she allowed the knife to slip through her fingers, this was enough sabotaging for one day. Then, she realized she was dying, it was finally over ....forever. She found herself as beautiful and confident and the truly amazing person she was. That estranged euphoria saved her a place in Heaven regardless of her sin. She felt at ease and shown a genuine smile.

I felt the weight of the world crashing down on me that night as I lay on the white bathroom tile beside my best friend, crying my little broken heart out. I couldn't gather the strength to look at her again in her time of need. I just covered my eyes for hours. Two hours. Four hours. Six hours passed. No more tears made their mark down my cheeks. My eyes were dry. I stumbled up and used the counter as a crutch. Deep breath in, out. My limbs were shaking as I slid the shower curtain out of the way completely. I had full view of my beautiful best friend's dead and naked body, with the exception of the steam. Not taking my eyes of her, I turned the water off. I couldn't help but smile- I loved her so much, I love her so much. The water drained and my smile ceased. Her suicide sank in. I sang in whispers during this: Hush, little baby, don't say a word. Under the sink, I found a pristine white towel, wrapped it around her and picked her up, she was so light. I'm gonna buy you a mockingbird, I carried her into her bedroom and lay her down on her pink comforter. And if that mockingbird won't sing, I'm gonna buy you a diamond ring "Oh, no, no, no; all these cuts will get infected." I said slowly. And if that diamond ring turns brass, I'm gonna buy you a looking glass I rushed back to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet and quickly snatched the Neosporin and box of Hello Kitty band aids- she loved Hello Kitty. And if that looking glass gets broke, I'm gonna buy you a billy goat I taped up every open wound I found on her defenseless body. And if that billy goat won't pull, I'm gonna buy you a cart and bull I analyzed all her curves and the long blonde hair which was soaking her bed. And if that cart and bull fall down, I dressed her in the most gorgeous dress I could find, I dried her hair and brushed it, and applied her make up. You'll still be the sweetest little girl in town.... I fixed her comfortably on her bed, then grabbed my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed 911.

After weeks of mourning her death, her parents decided to finally deal with her life as she left it. They separated everything into boxes: keep, give away, trash, and undecided. They convinced themselves her suicide was plotted and there was a letter hidden somewhere in the depths of her perky, teenage room. "I've read about these kinds of things, after all it is my job. Suicides are usually caused by a bug nipping at the ear. Theres always a letter listing the reasons." But I knew my best friend, she had her future planned for the best. She would never do something like this, and certainly not plan it. "She wouldn't write it down," I said. "She hated writing. And.... she wasn't sick. I know her." "Sweetie," I could tell the words tasted sour in her mouth, "obviously, you didn't know her or you would have known she was going to kill herself." Her face showed a faked sympathy, that made my blood rush with hatred for the woman that was supposed to love my best friend, after all she was her mother. And at that moment, I knew exactly why she despised her parents. "You can go through all the boxes that don't say keep, if you find something you want, take it." She said as she left the room, her heels clonking on the hard wood floor. I got up from my spot on the floor, by the door and made my way to the four huge boxes on the bed. Trash. I dug through it to the bottom, there, was her faded purple diary, designed in repeating powder blue fairies. It was locked, but I knew where the key was. I lay on my back and slid under her bedside table, there was the key, scotch taped to the bottom. Hard breath out as I took the key and slid from under the table. I made my way back to the diary, put the key in the hole, and unlocked it. This is it.

The noise the lock made signifying I could now open my dead best friend's diary broke my heart and I was flustered with memories I never want to forget.
It was the middle of April and rain was pounding on the roof furiously. "You're my best friend. You know that, right ?" I say, trembling. "Of course, and I would be nothing without you." She replies. "You know thats a lie." I counter. "I don't lie...." And I knew she didn't, but I still couldn't believe her. We were lying under her covers, facing each other, looking into each other's eyes. Her's were a beautiful blue. She wrapped her arm around me, pulling me closer, and laying her head on my chest. "I love you." She whispered. I pulled her hair out her face, "I love you, too. More than you could ever know...." And we lay there that night, terrified of the storm like we were five again. Her soft hair smelled of vanilla and I held her tighter than ever.
-I opened her diary, flipped quickly through the pages, every page was filled with her neat hand-writing. I read from the beginning: I felt sick and scared and an unusual sense of disgust. I wanted nothing more than to really feel pain. I slammed the diary shut and threw it back in the box labeled Trash. I grabbed my jacket and left.

It was midnight, I couldn't sleep because I couldn't breathe. And in the seconds a bullet can pierce through skin, I remembered the significance of the last page of her diary. The date stated at the top of the page was that of the day she died. I walked the mile to her house, finding comfort in the humid air and the serenity that was created by the soft golden glow of the streetlights that illuminated the streets. In her backyard, I climbed through her ground-level window. I traced my fingers across the wall while my eyes stood on the place in the room where the bed is, though it was pitch black and I couldn't see a thing. I turned the light on and headed toward the box labeled Trash. I found the diary under old school work and photos. The diary wasn't locked. I opened to the back. My feelings are set in stone, but I don't know how to tell her. My hands were shaky and my breathing, uneven. Today, I am telling her I love her. I dropped the diary and fell. I awoke the next morning feeling nausea. My heart was broken. I sat up, my back against the bed and banged my head against the frame. "How the hell did you get in here ?" I heard. It was the infuriated voice of her mother. I was dazed, I just ignored her. "Get out !" "You know, I never understood why she hated you," I said, without looking at the bitch that raised the most amazing girl I've ever met, "Maybe it was because you were never around so I never even really spoke to you. But I understand now...." "What ?" She asked in disbelief. "You don't love her, you don't care about her. You're a heartless, cynical, selfish bitch. You didn't deserve her. You know why she killed herself ? No ! Because you didn't know her. She killed herself because she wanted to kill you. ....And she loved me and I loved her. And now shes gone and it's all your fault. You ruined her life and mine." I charged out of her room, out the door, and as soon as I got outside, I ran. And I cried. And I ran and cried. And I ran and cried all the way home.

But when I got home, it didn't hold the same comfort I needed. So I grabbed my car keys and headed for the most perfect place I could imagine, wherever she was. The graveyard was deserted of people. It was eerie and desolate and smog floated over the ground. Stones with letters guided me. I found her extravagant grave- something she would have hated.
"Madi, I'm sorry. Madi, I....i didn't know. Madi, you're my best friend. Madi, I miss you. Madi, I need you. Madi, I love you. Madi, I'm in love with you." I recited. I told her everything of what happened in the passed few days. I told her of her funeral, which she would have hated. I told her of her mother. I told her of her hideous tombstone. I told her of how I read her diary. I told her I was sorry about that. I told her how I felt. Then, I sat on her grave and cried for hours.
It was far passed dark when I left, I discovered when I got in her car, it was one twenty-three in the morning. And I discovered how fast time passed and I wanted to get back out of my car and tell her that, but I couldn't. I drove home and when I walked in the door, I walked directly to the kitchen. I grabbed the first knife I could and walked to the bathroom with it. I set it on the counter as I undressed. My hands felt every curve of my body. I grabbed the knife and got in the bath tub. Turned the shower to the hottest temperature it would allow. The knife slit horizontal cuts on my ankles, my wrists, and starting between my collar bones, I dragged the knife straight down my torso. My last cut, an incision around my neck. "Madi, I'm sorry. Madi, I....i didn't know. Madi, you're my best friend. Madi, I miss you. Madi, I need you. Madi, I love you. Madi, I'm in love with you. Madi, I'm coming for you. Madi, I'll see you in a little while." And I slid as I let go of every hurt I ever felt. Madi, I'm coming for you....

I read aloud, the words liquefied and formed a puddle at my feet. And suddenly, it seemed like none of them truly mattered the way they did when I wrote them. And no one truly grasped the concept I was handing to them in scarlet red lettering- my blood. It was like my feelings I never expressed through fear of misconception, never meant anything to them anyway. So tell me, why should I try ? My first impression didn't hold up so neither will I ? I'm quiet so what I think doesn't deserve your respect ? Or is it my body ? My curves are beautiful so there is no way what I have to say intelligent, worth-while ? Well, I'd hate to break the stereotype, but I have a mind. What I say isn't filtered like a pull-string doll.

The broken emotional state you found me in,
and how you took me on,
and caressed my heart.
You're sugar sweet intentions,
that lifted me up,
when, before, the most I could do was fall apart.
A sensitive combination of your making me fall in love,
then breaking the spaces in between
until that was all.
Unsteadying my breathing in the worst and best ways.
Then appearing from behind again.
Oh, how I wish you would stay.
Oh, how I wish you would say:
"I watched as your drew figure eights on your fingertips. You kept repeating "This is to forever; this is to our time together." And I still remember that day so clearly- when you told me about how you had left your innocence at his door, how you enjoyed it, and how nauseas I felt with each passing word. I regret your decision for you. I regret every fucking decision you've made upon our meeting. But its not all your fault: when I broke your heart, in turn, you broke your silhouette. You felt the need to turn back to old habits of self-loathing and self-injury as if they hold some kind of consolation for my love. But regardless of what you say or how much you resent me, I'm going to knock on your door until you speak to me, until you look at me and tell me that no matter how much I hurt you, you'll still love me because I need that from you. I need you just as much as you need me. "
But you wouldn't waste a breath.

I could probably help that my hands are cigarette scented and I haven't ate in a week, but why would I ? I'm living the dream, dying beautiful and broken hearted. And these cuts on my wrists have returned to seek their vengeance, but unlike last time, no ones here to save me from them. But maybe thats alright, all I need is a little time, not shelter, I need to be worn so next time I'll be better warned. Is it possible that I'm better off without what I've always want ? Because what I've always wanted is never the same as last week. Every decision I've ever made has a way of coming back and haunting me. I cry every night before I sleep, and upon waking I feel genuinely relieved. Because last night, when I wished I couldn't breathe, I realized that thats just a passing thing. Maybe when I return again, I'll actually follow through, but for right now I'm just waiting for step two.... believing in you.

I never wanted to show myself again;
last time fell through,
but you bring me back to filling in.
My words are askew
and cross desperate paths.
They reenact contradictions
as I fall through the cracks.
I used to think lonely was lovely,
but now I feel so much better thinking of you.
I used to think that I was okay,
but you know thats untrue.

I need a distraction- a distraction away from a distraction.
Regardless of what you're doing or saying or the fact that your not doing either tears me apart. I'm always the one to start a conversation and the one that gets the last word. My heart is clingy, but my words are edgy. I don't know what to say when you need me to say something the most and although I say I don't care, yeah, I do: too much for my own good.
I cannot sympathize, theres a barrier I have gained from being fooled. I cannot empathize, I've never felt so- no one's ever come so close. But you deny being in love. Would you really be so hurt if not ? Then you have something that I lack. You have emotion that can invariably be extended from your emotional being, through your physical being, and into the one that causes such a thing.
I wonder if you'll ever feel the same about me. That my departure is hell, and you wished you could hold me against my falsetto contempt. I've never been loved honestly and fully; its always been over one of my multiple personalities. However you've seen more and felt more of myself than any other in an especially short period of time. You've observed my cuts in an unfathomable way, and you've expressed your disdain. But you antagonized the collapse of my heart, and how I wished my breathing would constrict.
I'm a drama queen, tender hearted, and a pessimist. So, when I express my ideas of where we're going (or where we're not going). Don't become upset. Although you enforce the idea that your past made you strong and inevitably decreased your standards, I know you're just putting up a front to push me out before closeness with a girl whom is almost too young becomes an obstacle.
I'm not just a little girl, regardless of my age in years, I understand love and pain, and life and death, and happiness and sadness. I am not fooled by others attempt at deception. I know what play on words will get me furthest and whose feet to refrain from stepping on. I can hold myself up against whats killing me, and display nothing but the utmost of confidence. Although I struggle with an overwhelming amount of self-esteem, self-confidence, and ego issues, I do not let that get the best of me. I'm a whimsical and spiritual being, in the heart and in the head.
I'm not just a little girl, I care about you a lot, regardless of how detached I may seem. Neglect my harsh words, they mean nothing- they're an attempt at seeming more light hearted than I will ever be.

My safety net is altered
with will that struck his chord.
I became so unraveled;
he became far too torn.
The privilege of him feeling
broke when my blood hit the floor.

This is what became of the fallen:
writhing on the floor
drunk as the poor bastard
whose sleeping out by shore,
regretting what he mastered
the drug-induced galore.

I see your tired body
turning over in your bed.
What happened to your beauty ?
Where did it go when it all shed ?
Now your wounds are found all over,
malnourished and unfed.

I still hear his whispers,
expressing his disdain.
And I can't help but to miss
the memories that now feign.

I tried to find holiness-
extending my search
into a dirty river bed.
Because I believed everything
you said,
I disregarded any lies that were fed.

Now that we have discovered
'the tragedy of the commons'-
an unstable view from the
stable view-
any decision is made through
another notion:
failing, fleeting to commit to
what I grew up in.

But, Jesus, youve let me down
from pitch black living room
ceiling fans while he went down
to wondering if it was my fault
he was a drug-induced clown.

So how do you expect me to
love you ?
Just tell me:
why should I pursue you ?
And gain the risk
of gaining another two
cuts on my wrists ?-
This crimson brilliance:
that was intentional,
but the inside is a mess.

Because everything's always my fucking fault
this is where we could use a face lift...

youre holding me and crying saying youre doing the best you can
did i ever doubt that ?
i dont think i can.
and you're complaining you're praying but you're still being spread too thin

-when life is all about happiness that cant flow from within.
because material is whats making you fall apart,
i dont really know what to say; i dont know where to start

-so i just walk away;
still what I do to you is "cruel."
well, how could that be?
i guess I'm just an effortless fool.

-still, the cuts keep deepening
with every tear thats shed
in this crimson brilliance,
i assume its just how i was bred
drowning in failure
this stupid heat-of-the-moment passion
you thought this damaged book was well-enough read

well if he doesnt get any time
what is time well spent ?
and if shes so open,
why is she acting so pinned ?

does she really lack hope for me ?
thats bullshit,
she just wants to show how shes so perfectly primped.
and when she talks shit,
you can hear it in her voice:
its not really concern:
she just loves the noise

-flowing from her esophagus
well, that might as well be her coffin
because any past that we shared
well, that might as well be the last time that i cared
if she actually does end up in the loft-end

In fluid words,
my hands do speak.
Im timid in lime light,
but entranced in sleep.
I need a break,
I need some time.
Im always so broken,
I'm always covered in grime.
I need to be loved by someone who only seeks my curves,
maybe then I'll feel beautiful,
beyond subtle words.

Poetically inclined.
I perfectly unwind.
But I find it hard to find...

that I’m still here through all these years.
That every attempt was just that, an attempt.
Well, it seems as though it was the worst end

to the worst day.
I find it hard to say
that I haven’t really found a way.

Just that blade.
The way it could make me fade.
And forget existing,
I’m a wave.

Or so I thought.

At first I felt like every battle lost
was already won,
as if I had already fought.

That’s a lie.
Just keep repeating the same line:
why.
But does it really matter if its not
inside?

I've centered my thoughts on beauty,
and what it will take to get me there;
I've desired to obtain it,
or better yet, embrace mine.

When I fall against my lack of trust and your seemingly discernable commitment…
I broke the barrier between thinking and feeling.
My collection of memories are vague,
but in the spotlight: I’ve spent hours in pools of blood.
Now wipe that disgusting look off your face;
It’s the truth that cant go unheard.
But this is a solemn occasion as I dive into your oceanic eyes…
When I tell you I love you, know its not something I despise.
Because in my past, those words broke my frame,
I always knew they were untrue, but I believed them anyway.
Though your intentions are doubted by everyone but me,
I disregard those worried looks that should be holding all my sleep.
As I regret the time we lack,
I enjoy every second as if it were the last.
You’ve heard stories of broken hearts;
But I wont deceive you, everyday we restart,
And try again against what others advised,
But through my weeping deep in the night:
Do I love you?
Oh yes, I might…

And I could feel nothing,
Just my wrists.
The crimson in the slits.
The breathing when it hits.

Screaming at the top of my lungs
when I finally come undone.
It all feels the same
when I don't feel safe.

But the truth in the night,
thats something I can't get past.
Feeling is a fright
When I only have one choice.

that’s how I remember my breakdown
how I remember those nights I let go
after creating a perfect scene
just to let it go.

Then waking up on the floor,
broken like my door
forgotten
and unsure

was it really right to resort to that?
after all the progress I made
I showed a lack
I displayed a new shade.

and that was black.

I marched a crusade
a treacherous journey
across everyone’s façade
I disregarded my body’s warning

I failed
a new level of incompetence
that they can gloat about
I feel nailed.