this is not fair.
this is not fair.
i can't be there.
i can't breathe air.
i can't help bear
the weight she wears.
i want to share.
she knows i care,
but she's aware
i can't be there.
this is not fair
this is not fair

my love,
the world has given you so much pain.
i can't bear it for you
and it breaks me to watch.
but i will crawl with you
i will stumble with you
i will fight with you
and i will pray with you.
i wouldn't blame you
if you kept your eyes closed the rest of your life,
but i promise with everything in my soul
that if you decide to open them,
i will be the first thing you see

i have lived my whole life with the truth,
whether i remember it or not,
whether it is what they think or not,
whether it was real or not.
and i am still me.
i am still the same person.
i am still the same body
and i am still the same soul

the sky was grey and i couldn't feel my body.
my head was heavier than suburban slammed doors,
and the presence of sidewalk strangers
sent trembles of panic through to my core.
my ears are already pierced,
but i winced at high school football whistles
and garbage trucks
and rattling engines
and raised voices.

do you remember the museum?
do you remember burying your head in your dad's shoulder
because the world they warned you about
was too grey for your hazel eyes and golden soul?

don't forget.
it is not a world you have to live in.
you must not find safety in greyness.
there is none for you there

i want to be someone who helps.
i want to be someone who hears.
i don't want to be who harms.
i don't want to be one who haunts.
i want to be one with open hands.
i want to be one with open heart

God,
my friend.

my friend is drowning.

my friend's canoe is upside down in a raging current.

my friend is holding on and she needs only you.

God,
my friend.

save her

i know this has been set in the stone of your mind,
but consider otherwise,
for just one moment,
that this could be the most harm you've ever experienced,
and it just may not be your friend at all

it's a lovely feeling,
i know.
i know.
i know.
but you can't stay here.
this isn't any way to live.
you can't have a full life feeling empty.
it's so hard,
i know.
i know.
i know.
eat anyway.
live anyway.

name,
class,
professor,
date.

intro.

i believe i am quite burnt out.

conclusion,
bibliography.

there is a family
laughing together
behind me,
and i
am
destroyed

i stopped hurting myself
because i was tired of hiding it.

not because i wanted to.

it took a few months to recognize my first car.
i’d wander through parking lots reading license plates
as if they were names i should know, but forgot.
i just looked for the college parking pass to show it was my own.
i graduated two years ago.
i still looked for the parking pass last month.

it took a few months to recognize my keys.
they didn’t feel like mine for months;
i was used to touching doors with the reticence of a guest.
i couldn’t tell which unlocked what,
i just looked for the college logo lanyard.
the red fabric may have unlocked as much as the keys did.

it’s taking more than a few months to move on.
i’m still in therapy for the therapy i didn’t ask for
when people couldn’t tell the difference
between the will to live and the will to die.
the keys on my lanyard led to doors that weren’t mine anymore.
none of the other cars there had to leave.
the parking pass laughed as i drove away.

it took a few weeks for the airbags to stop ringing in my ears.
i didn’t hear the sirens until i saw the lights,
kind of like the way i didn’t feel myself being pushed
until the door was shut. i didn’t know what to reach for—
i would have held the steering wheel tighter.
i would have looked a little longer.
i would have watched what they did and not what they said.

it takes longer when i’m in the driver’s seat now.
words need more salt. i take roads more slowly.
the car that was my home through shut and locked doors
was my safety one last time.
i have new keys. i have new doors.
a home where i’m not a guest.
i walked from both crashes, but only one still haunts.
the parking pass was towed away, and i wish i had laughed.

a word that comes to mind

when i look at the marks

scattered below my wrist.

healed.

full stop.

there will be no more harm here.

I met a woman in the psych ward and something felt like that should have been me.
She had gauze wrapped around her wrist like I had felt so many times before, but these wounds had kept her here.
I had been sent home.
I never needed stitches, but I couldn't have a needle,
so I was always left with the common thread of being sent home.
I was never taken seriously until one day I was,
but I'd forgotten how to take it any way at all.
The woman in the ward would wander the halls,
hauling her hidden distress in the dressing.
I wondered if she'd also been told 'it wasn't that bad,'
but if she was, she might have been home by now.
Something keeps asking why she hadn't been me.
I was so confused about where they said I should be and didn't know how to prove if I knew where that was.
Dismissed from all urgency by nurses with certainty, but implored by all others who glanced at my wrist;
each party so confident I'd be in hands that were better as long as those hands weren't theirs.
I was scrubbed from this place of belonging while being too stable for the people in scrubs.
Maybe that's why I stay as close as I can to the psych ward while still holding the key card to leave:
I had lingered in limbo too long to know which direction to go. What do I believe? Which loss do I grieve?
I had proved myself too healthy; I had proved myself too sick.
I was a revolving door patient who never got admitted.

I stood out on the porch tonight
and looked up at the endless sky,
feeling more nostalgic than I have
in a long time.
I think I might have cried a little.
It was hard to tell.
I think I might be a bit scared.
It’s hard to tell that, too.
I think I’m beginning to learn
bit by bit
more about who I am,
but so much of who that is
is still so uncertain—
so uncertain that I stared at this blank page
before I even thought of a title.
But
if I have made twenty years today
then perhaps tomorrow
is not such a frightening step.
I haven’t faced everything,
and I know I won’t.
But today
marks two decades.
Today
still stands.

i am trying so hard to talk to you.
i know you want to help,
i know you care,
i know i can trust you.
but i need you to know that it's hard,
and that there are so many things in my head
that are almost impossible to turn into words.
i know i asked you not to give up on me,
and i know i told you to walk away if you choose.
i know i'm putting you through a chaotic string
of ups and downs
and it seems like i can't make up my mind.
but i'm asking you to stay one more time
because i really do need you.

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.

a feeling i've fallen in love with.

a feeling that has grown comfortable.

a feeling, pardon the joke, that i can feed.

a gallon of water
and mint gum
makes me feel
more in control
than a blade ever did

i think i might be lonely.
but who would i tell
if i realized i was?

i know myself better than you do,
i've known these scars better than you do.
i've seen pain on these arms far longer.
this scares you because you don't trust me,
but you never needed to tell me that.
i won't ask you to trust me,
but trust the process instead -
there are memories far worse than candles and blades,
and i must see them first
before i can put them away.

if a year

is all i was meant to help him through,

then i am thankful.

if he must be drawn away

to touch another life,

then i am thankful

for that, too

my throat is tight
and there are tears dripping
onto the cuts in my arms,
and this is not
how i pictured my twenties

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.

sweet little flower,

he said,

you are not ready for this world.

silly boy. he should know

that when my soul meets the world

all it will see

is a darkness that matches it

we caught up yesterday,
a simple conversation
with encouragement and laughter.
i thought i'd trip back in love with you.
i thought i would have to ward off pesky feelings
and persistent romance,
but all i felt was pride for how far you've come
and thankfulness
that you had had a place in my life.

I used to want to be a DJ until I met one.
I used to want to be a DJ until he left my ears ringing with all the things I had done wrong like cymbals in my face.
I used to want to be a DJ because they looked like they were finger painting music on vinyl,
but the one I knew dug knuckles into my tissue-paper chest and called it his job.
I thought a DJ's job was to make art.
I used to want to be a DJ until I learned they etch their fingerprints into your record and forget (refuse?) to wipe them off.
I had his vinyls propped up against my wall. I wanted to rip his name off all of them.
I used to want to be a DJ until I sat in his office listening to the lies he put in his lyrics.
I wanted to find the console and turn the audio down, but instead I looked for him to console me.
I wanted him to sympathize but that too would have been synthesized.
I used to want to be a DJ until I learned they amplify your weaknesses and loop them, loop them, loop them.
I wanted to fade to the background but 'if you ain't redlining, you ain't headlining,'
and I was redlining, I was redlining, I was redlining-
looped and scratched and mixed until I was my very own single,
alone.
my tears the only streaming platform that he could not control.
I used to want to be a DJ until he shut me in my own dead air.
he had other records to make and other albums to fill.
I never did learn what he labeled me.

body,
i am so
so
so
sorry

that moment when you realize

that all you hug at night

is your

stuffed

moose

i romanticize the things that **** me

i can feel myself shutting down again.
i can feel myself getting quiet.
i can feel myself closing off.

this is where i take control.
this is where i do something good.
this is where i start making changes.

my scars are fading
and i'm afraid
that so will i.

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

but why do i have to be small
for them to notice i'm hurting?

i can hardly believe how much this is consuming me

i keep forgetting how intensely i love.

i'm terribly sorry -

my affection must have spilled over

in the most unexpected and uncontrollable way possible -

out of my fumbling hands

and into your beautiful heart

i don't have to control it.
i don't have to think about it.
my body helps me live my life,
and its relationship with gravity
is the least interesting thing about me.

slow down.
slowdownslowdownslowdown.
this world was made for healthier minds than ours.
more stable minds than ours.
more well minds than ours,
and we are breaking under the pace
the pressure
the presence
the outpour.
we can only imagine what we could do
with a little more patience

these thoughts want you dead.

fight them.

i am yearning for something
i don't think exists anymore

gosh i'm trying, but i hate this.
i feel so uncomfortable in my body.
i don't know if this will ever get easier.

what right do i have
to be someone in need of care

i wish we wouldn't be so at war

you really thought someone was going to come save you,

didn't you?

you really thought there could be an easy way out,

didn't you?

if you want this hell to end,

you're going to have to stand up,

work yourself dead,

and save your own **** self.

it doesn't always last,
but when it does-

what a drug

but when will this stop getting in the way of my life?

and if i showed them,
which would scare people more-
the bandage or the scar?