i felt like i belonged there

with the shards of

broken kids.

i felt like a beautiful

fucking mosaic.

there's comfort in

rock bottom

because you know things

can't get any worse.

you know you're gone

and lost

and hopeless

and void of any worth.

i might as well

just fuck my demons.

i might as well play

with fire.

what's the point

in taming the flame

if your soul's

a goddamn pyre?

if only the smoke

could fill my chest

and this emptiness

until i choked.

fuck fuck fuck

i hate this

if only i wasn't broke

i weep in

her shoulders

and ruin it all

because sometimes

i wish i was back

in the ward.

back with kids

who wanted to kill themselves

on the daily

and had to shower

with the nurses watching,

whose identities

were reduced

to acronyms

on a whiteboard

because maybe

that's all we were.

s.

sra.

ed.

i wish that was

all i was.

god,

i wish i was

nothing.

things would be easier

if i was dust.

sometimes i miss

the numbness,

the shaking shoulders

and tear-streaked palms.

sometimes i don't think

i want to recover.

sometimes i think

i'm better off with my demons,

as long as i treat them like lovers.

five medications.

not a damn step of progress.

don't say i can't be fixed

because i'm not broken-

don't make me scream-

i can't be fixed

because i'm shattered.

i hate myself.

i hate these bones.

i hate how i built a home

in my sorrows.

she sorts

her m&m's

by color,

eats them one at a time,

and skips church

just to kiss me.

when the time comes,

i let her

cry on my shoulder,

dig her nails

into my skin,

place her

bleeding heart

in my hands.

i understand.

i have forged footfalls for her

to follow.

she is too scared

to walk.

she dips

her chicken fingers

in ranch dressing,

after pouring just the right amount

onto her plate-

i pour too much,

but it's too late.

her laughter

tweaks my smile,

her sobs

wreck my heart.

i tell her

we are the result of

trial and error-

big bangs that didn't crash

the way they were supposed to.

but we've got enough light

to be stars,

i figure.

she kisses my nose

one

two

three times-

and it seems to me

that we

are the roots of something bigger.

I go over the words

One by one

As if counting change

Naming stars

And animals

Until it’s perfect

Or perfect enough

But I’ll never really know

Art and truth

Will continue to argue

And wrestle

With angels

But what do they know

Those winged beings

We never see

But believe in

Like love

Wind

Perfect ideas

Invented by imperfect people

Sitting in wheelchairs

Theorizing the beginning

Of everything

and this is how you breathe:

i. my mother plays with

knives

while i play with the lock

on the bathroom door

my hands have stopped

shaking on

the doorknob a long

time ago

ii. some days

i'd rather be splayed dead

and bloody on the

street than walk all

the way back

home

iii. she never lets me sleep

as long as i need;

can she tell that closing

my eyes is all it takes to fade

away from this place

iv. i want to be somewhere

a million miles away

v. mama,

please stop screaming

i can't sleep

what do we know about death

when we barely know anything

about ourselves?

Whether or not you believe

there is life after death

an eternal bliss,

or an eternal punishment,

I think there is worse.

Children-

our most vulnerable beings-

are robbed of their creativity.

Of their energy

and of their happiness.

The school system

strips us of original thought.

Students are "encouraged"

to think outside of the box

But when have history courses

taught a history other than the one

written by the victor

and why don't English courses

encourage reading works

by ethnically and ideologically

diverse authors?

School doesn't teach you

how to live,

unless living

is conforming to jobs

that are ideal

in a capitalist society.

What happened to dreams?

What happened to passion?

The ultimate demise

isn't the loss of the

temporary vessel

you call your body;

it is the loss of the light in your eyes.

The joy in your heart,

and the creativity in your soul.

---------------------------------------------------

image: source unknown

Memories constantly fill my mind. He haunts me. They haunt me. I haunt myself.

That time he threw me across the room, I had a miscarriage. I cursed God, and swore he didn't exist. I said, "if God exists, then he will kill this man." I really had hopes that God existed. Perhaps because I wished my ex husband dead so bad. Well, needless to say he's still alive.

I believed in a God who loved people and helped them through all difficulties. A God of grace, mercy and compassion. I believed he would transform my abusive husband into a kind, loving and gentle man.

I fasted for 7 days straight. No food. Only water. I prayed daily, through out the day, begging... BEGGING God to miraculously change that man.

As it turns out, it changed me. It transformed me into a different woman. A woman no longer dependent on my husband, no longer dependent on God. It changed me into an Atheist.

i’m 19, and a college student--

no, strike that,

i dropped out after a semester

because i couldn’t afford it--

no, strike that,

i flunked out because i couldn’t handle it.

the truth,

the honest truth?

a month before i turned eighteen

i was raped.

and with fingers on my throat

and in my skin

and in my dreams,

i only barely made it

through senior year,

but i thought that i’d be better,

for sure,

because i didn’t know what else to be,

but the fingers never left me

and it took all i had just to keep on

being.

and then two months after college started,

i listened to my friend kill herself,

heard her sob into the line,

and the bang, and the silence,

and i hated myself for not saving her

and i hated myself for hating her

and i hated myself because all i thought

before bursting into tears

was

no fair.

why did she get to do it,

why did she get to leave?

all my problems,

all my pain,

and she got relief,

and i was left behind.

and i couldn’t do it,

couldn’t go to class,

couldn’t go to work,

couldn’t find it in me to crawl out of bed

and look at the world.

everything was shit--

no, strike that,

i was shit,

and everything went wrong.

so i lied,

because it was all i remembered how to do,

and after i’d been kicked out,

i’d been taken in,

because i cried and crooned,

and wove a tale of not how i was pitiful,

but how i was poor,

because it was easier to deal with money issues

than mental issues.

but i made it through the year

and back to a place

that everyone else called my home,

where i was beaten and cursed

and told to die

(and what kind of home charges rent,

by the way)

by a person who didn’t even know how useless

i was.

as far as my mother was concerned,

i had a 4.0 gpa,

but even that

wasn’t good enough.

and now,

i’m out, or will be soon,

but i’m poor, for real,

working as a waitress at a job that doesn’t cover

my rent, and forgetting my past,

my skills,

in favor of the lunch and dinner

menu.

(i knew languages once, didn’t i?

built websites and programs,

spoke with natives in France

and learning more)

and what was the point?

no degree, no experience,

no money, no pride.

the fingers haven’t left.

i hear his voice,

and hers,

and mine,

all screaming.

i don’t know where i’m going.

i’m scared.