I am so alone. I slip so deep everyday. I feel as though there is no recovery. There is no refuge. I am utterly alone. I have no one to care for me. Why am I still forcing myself to be here everyday…why do I blame other people for not wanting to be around me when my own shortcomings prevent others from ever wanting to become close with m. Why do I allow myself to become hopeful for life when total letdown is inevitable? Why is it so difficult for me to grasp that I am not meant for this world?

A tiny miracle.

It always comes back again within me -

A little happening,

I open, again a rose in bloom,

Red blinding as the sun spilling and swimming through my shutters,

My left half a disgraced and wretched,

My right snow white.

My face is unadorned,

yet revolting to my rolling wide eyes,

Rugged, unkempt denim.

Hack through the seams,

My foe and my sweetest darling.

Frighten me once more.

I yearn for your presence when you are away.

The whore lips, the protruding nose, the barren legs,

The parts of the whole,

Tossed down the chute like soiled linen.

After our first brief encounter, I left you

Lying there in the road.

I waved goodbye

Like the college girls.

We crossed again.

I grasped you tight like a falling apple,

Bit into you lustfully,

And you devoured me woefully.

I teetered, a drunk carnie on the flaming lip of purgatory

I could feel myself threatening to slip.

But - I wriggled loose, and my blood danced inside me.

Beware -

Lucifer rages inside of me.

The cinders have fallen beneath me,

I carry red lips upon my chin,

Short dress choking my thighs,

I am evil and I am here again.

I am a girl with a big thumping heart.

I want you, every inch of you. I don’t want you to slip away in a drift of darkness. If you go, I want you to fade in fragments, I want you to chip away gradually. I want you to linger long enough so I can feel the tenderness of your lips fill up the cracks in mine. I want you to carefully sew your fingers through mine like little love notes. I want to feel the veins of your tongue lap against my teeth. I want your body and your soul. It was only one day. But as I listen to your exit, it sounds like so many others before. I am absolutely delusional.

My mom’s boyfriend is psychotic. Though he’s never laid a direct hand on me, he’s come dangerously close. Yesterday he started screaming in my face, because I slammed my door because he was treating my sister like shit and I was pissed, and he got in my face, forcing me to back up. He cursed at me multiple times. When I told him to get the fuck out of my face he screamed, “FUCK YOU!” My mom acts like it never happened, and he does too. My dad lives in a different state. I have no one to turn to, no one that can help me…I’m trying to stay holed up in my room until college. But it’s still so difficult emotionally to know that my mother doesn’t care about my mental wellbeing. She never listens to me. She simply calls my sister and I martyrs, claiming that we pity ourselves. I do everything I can to help around the house in hopes that she’ll become more sympathetic towards me, but she doesn’t even notice my genuine efforts. I just want her to understand how hurt I am. I know it doesn’t sound bad. I really do. But it does put a lot of emotional stress on me. I’m not getting beat. And my mom hasn’t kicked me out or anything. But I just need some help; anything will help…really. Thank you guys so much. I’m just in a really bad place right now…I am m scared.

I feel so helpless. Like a fish lying

Gazing into the comfort of an endless span of sea

Plastered onto the sand like sticky paper mache

So close, but incapable of saturating its billions of scales

In the salvation that lies so close yet -

So far, I haven’t needed a person

so badly to reach deep through my chest

And firmly grasp my dimly thumping vascular organ

And seize me from my tragically indubitable -

Reality, is, that, I am such a roller coaster of motivation

With debilitating falls into attenuation of my previously mentioned -

Catalysts, I am catatonic, I observe the movement of life around me but

I do not see anything; I hear every minuscule static

flowing and swooping, but I cannot listen;

I release my thoughts from my crippled lungs

But as soon as they reach the bruising troposphere

They melt into an inaudible puddle beneath my toes.

Won’t someone shelter me from my storms?

none of you five a fuck about me. i don’t care what you say. there are maybe, 3 people in these world hwho i am absolutely sure care about me. cared if i lived or died. so fuck you. just fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckf cup fuckfuck fuckfuck fuckup fuck fuckf ufck you. fucking defined me block me I DONT GIVE A FUCK that doesn’t change the fact that you once claimed that you cared about me and when you hear that i am thinking about ways to end me and turn your fucking back then thats when the world is watching and the universe knows that you are a bad person. it fuckin knows. jesus can’t fucking save you from your self.

I can still remember seeing the insincerity in her smile

As vividly as it was circa three years in the past

It was a taupe-ish daze of denial

With which her bruises were brought to life

And pigmented; plum, bright cerise, a sort of northern lights,

A symphony of fragmented capillaries.

I remember sensing such a thick dread,

A macabre kind of scent perfumed the air,

And it frightened me out of my childhood.

Then is when I should have known

And been able to see into the shallow lies

Nailed onto the peeling walls by a resident handyman.

And yes, indeed, that is a double meaning.

Hand-y-man. Hands that clutched between its thumbs

A fragility fourteen inch in circumference,

Lungs reaching into infinity for any bit of good strength.

We are using the term “good strength” because strength can be malicious.

Bad strength is slipping the cushion over the cries

And gazing, silently and indifferently, into the gleaming reflection

Of your truth. You stare indifferently because you are unable,

Or unwilling, I’m not sure which, to admit in your own fucked up head

That the sunset on her breast is not the anemia with which you diagnosed her.

Your hand, curled into a tight cannon, propelled at your perceived source of

Every uncomfortable emotion that coasted in and out of you

Almost inside of the very same moments.

Yet, a blessing, bearing a mask of violence and heartache

Has come to her aid; answered her cries.

The time has far passed for her to receive it.

Now, her responsibility is to fly with it.

Though her wings remain clipped,

And her confidence weakened.

Fly now.