One day I’ll leave you behind

People always ask, why did you stay?
Not, why did she hurt you?

Almost as if they thought it was my fault I got hurt. See the only thing I thought I learned was that love was supposed to hurt.

That’s why my self-love is some how equal to my self-worth, myself hurt. The reason why when my partner goes to hold me, I flinch first. And I’m so tired of having to explain it’s nothing they did.

How it’s my fault that trauma rewired my brain to fear every unprepared touch, every kiss.. do you know what it’s like to retract in fear when my love goes to kiss me? It breaks my heart in two.

It was never supposed to be this way but it will be this way until I get you out of the way.

Erase you from my mind, find my home in this body that I felt like I’d been evicted from.

One day I won’t write about you, one day I won’t try to cut your fingerprints out of my skin, one day I’ll be me again.



when they said his name, I didn’t think of the way his hand touched mine. for a second I forgot about the words I spit from my mouth when his tried to taste my tongue. no, I thought of when he spoke your name and asked what I saw in you. I remember that night you kept me safe when his hungry eyes saw me as nothing more than a mouse to chase. I may not remember that night, but I’ll never forget that in my darkest hours you were my light. I was the match and you were my flame. now you’re nothing but a burned out wick and I’m smoke in the wind. memories of us have began to fade but I’ll never forget how we burned together.

dear god, we could have set the world on fire.

beer reminds me of her

I taste beer off of strangers tongues, reminds me of when our lips met on your fathers deck. The smell always made me sick but how I wish I could have one more chance to run my hand around your neck. To hold you on a couch that’s just small enough for two, and how scared I was of falling in love but you made it easy to.

Oh how I wish there was still something between me and you

it was never real.. was it

The memory of you is a soft yellow hue, meaning somewhere in the pain and suffering you’ve brought comfort. Unfortunately, the yellow has been burning blue. Like the flame in my chest that has always been for you, too hot to touch but that’s something I knew. 

I knew you would go, I knew it too well. That’s something I learned long before I fell. Falling for you was like a soft landing view on the pillows of your bed when I held onto you. I desperately want to create more memories with you, but you’re gone.

You’re gone, you’re gone. 

Almost as though repeating it will drive the thought through my head. Yet I always set myself up with hope and am met with disappointment when I’m left with the realization that I’m always alone. I’ve always been alone. You’re something I’ve conjured up in hopes of being real..

When the only thing that’s real about this is how much you’ve made me feel.

the garden in my mind, and you were never mine

What used to be an open embrace has become crossed arms and a cold face. I used to call you home, even though you are no place.

With staggered breathing, I’ve ran out of room to run. Back faced into a corner, left to deal with what I’ve done.

Driven you away which I knew would happen before we’d begun. We had never begun, I was so enticed with the run I forgot to take in my surroundings.

So I had never noticed you were never more than a blur I created due to my hallucinations, medicated. Induce by euphoria and the fear of being lonesome. Instead of building memories I decided to grow some, in the garden of my mind.

Constantly telling myself that I’m fine, but how fine can one be if it’s something to you have to constantly remind.

But I’d rather comfortably sit in the garden that I’ve grown, than face the reality that I’m truly alone.

it’s almost my birthday

this day is stained with the blood
I bled for you,
I taste the whiskey I downed to try to forget what you put me through.
I thought I was okay until
I saw a picture from that day
and the memories came through
like a broken floodgate.
i’m less than okay,
I don’t want to exist.
the thought of your hands on me
is something that persists,
and the temptation of self mutilation seems less like a risk

don’t give up, or don’t give in
I’m not sure this time.. which will win

scars and prescription bottles 

I sit in skin that doesn’t feel my own, it’s a detailed map of each hand they’ve laid upon me.

This is the scar from that 8th grade boy.

This is the mark from when I thought I was unstoppable, glass was my kryptonite.

See? This is the scar from that one time.

You know the time I tried to run in front of a car because I thought that if it hit me I wouldn’t have to go back to see her.

The scar isn’t actually from the car or from tripping over the curb, it’s from that glass she threw at me when she found out I tried to kill myself.

All I remember are the bruises she created and the feeling of his grips on my wrists, nothing more than a cage I can’t escape from.

Why didn’t they tell me that you can’t escape your problems if they’re within, but they did.

They did.
I just didn’t want to listen.

I don’t want to listen, but I can no longer ignore the scream of my own voice.

I no longer recognize the face in the mirror. Almost as if I don’t want to know me, why would I?

That would mean remembering the touch of strangers on my skin, and that feeling has become far too familiar. 

I wish I was as good at refilling my happiness as I am at refilling prescriptions bottles.

My body feels more like a pharmacy, not a home but more like hell. I don’t feel like me anyway, so it’s all worth a shot – 

at least I know it’ll numb me.
and that’s better than not being me. 

A Not-So-Merry Christmas

This isn’t poetry.

There’s no way to poetically word
how your fist hit my cheek or how
your hands wrapped around my neck so tight I wore a scarf until New Years.

365 days have passed and I still remember how I spent Christmas;
with a bottle in one hand
and an ice pack in the other.

Trying to soften the bruises
and ease the swelling caused by
your not-so-sweet hands while you were nowhere to be found.

I spent it alone while you were probably out with her again.
Maybe I tried calling you,
if I did you didn’t answer.
That’s something I don’t need to
think hard about.

That’s something I was used to,
you disappearing after etching your fingerprints into the valleys of my skin, leaving reminders like
red ribbons on my forearms.

Yet it was never a gift, more like
a painful reminder of the present.

Hoping to forget your hate-filled words you spewed from the bottom of the stairs.
Hoping to not remember the fear that had risen in my chest,
hearing your footsteps get closer
as I lay in the dark.

I’ve always feared the dark,
but it comforted me more in times of pain than you ever had.

Now I lay in the dark,
bottle in one hand.. pen in the other.
I spent Christmas alone again,
this time by choice.

For these memories are the reason
I find the holidays not so jolly.
I’d rather just forget.