He hit me.

I could sew that phrase into my skin and it still wouldn't make much sense.

I would still feel the bruises and the tears.

He hit me?

It's the beginning of the end and I'm on my knees, begging for breath once again.

He hit me.

The bruises don't feel real but they're there. Clear as day, clear as my mother's wine glass.

He hit me.

I can hear the birds telling me to run. Run far, far away from a man whose grip is too tight on my wrists.

I don't.

He hit me.

This isn't real, I'm breathing in lies. Lies of deceitfulness and disconcertment.

He hit me.

I always wondered what it felt like. I don't anymore. I don't want to feel anything anymore.

He hit me and it didn't feel like a kiss like how the writers portray it.

It felt like razors reopening a new wound that was caused by one too many lies.

He hit me and no one is doing anything, not even myself. I don't have the willpower to do anything. It's far too late. He's far too gone.

I was once a young, ethical being.

Jealous eyes shown my way more than once. Yet, now I have turned into something I can't even perceive with my own eyes.

Now, eyes cast upon me for sympathy and woes, glancing at the bruises however not asking.

Ask! Ask! Ask! I'll explain in a long, run down sentence of, "He was never this aggressive."

"HE WAS NEVER THIS AGGRESSIVE."

Those words still taste sour on my tongue. They burn my throat worse than the smoke.

I've cried more in front of him than I have in front of my best friends. Don't feel sorry yet! Because he was the cause of it all!

So, everyone with their greedy eyes and need of a back story. I won't give you one. Because I don't even have one for myself.

i was 16

having my first taste of love

when all of a sudden

my empathy was taken for granted

and i was wired away to a whole

new ineptitude of unfulfilling

bruises. however i soon realized

that his suffocating grip

on my bruised wrists

weren't out of the love

he had told me about.

yet it was out of Pure,

Loathsome Hatred

that caused him to look

at me with scorn

because i was the

most impurest thing

he had ever laid eyes on.

later, i mistook his hands

around my throat

for beauty in the undisclosed.

i've come to soon realize

that his shove

felt like petals on my skin.

that his pinch

was the devil's evocation.

that my tears

were his Salvation.

i cried that night because

i had perceived my total

inability to see the utter horror

that had become my life.

gods live inside your bones. 

they rest their heads in between your bloodline and bone. 

i swear to god she said she hated brown eyes 

but fell in love with mine. 

her hands shook so hard and i thought i could fix that. 

but i can’t fix the roots that have been implanted since you were born. 

i swear to god she looked at me like she was looking at heaven for the first time. 

and i looked at her the same way. 

love is an understatement when it came to her. 

she had flowers growing out of her every pore 

and her hair was like the wind, 

it blew so gently that you would think all the angels died.

she hated feet yet would tangle hers with mine every night. 

she hated drinking and so i stopped drinking. 

im not religious but i can swear to god 

that i loved that girl with all of my body and mind. 

-Jan. 23rd, 2015

in another world,

the sun would touch my face.

instead, in this world,

i'm painting on bruises 

and walking home blurry eyed.

summer, revelations 

and tenuous relationships, 

turned stale. 

i ripped memories out of the throat of childhood.

to make my poetry better and to further tell myself that i'm okay.

and in another world, my child self would feel whole.

my child self would never have revelation that made them feel guilty.

my child self would look at who i am now and not understand,

how i now look down on my so called guardians,

how i've become addicted to more than one thing,

the word addict runs through my blood. 

i have become alcohol dripping with bars and smoke. 

i have become teenage adolescence in one frame. 

      failed tests

      overdose scares 

      jail

      the smell of cigarettes 

      loud music 

my child self would look down upon me now,

because i'm fuming with anger thats misplaced. 

my old self would be confused, 

as to why i would want to throw everything out the door,

for something as simple as a high. 

She was the power with no words.

She was the poetry with no feeling.

She was light,

She was a god,

And today,

That god now rests in our bones,

Between the bone and skin,

She will forever be there,

Within us her power lies

And will continually haunt us.

My parents raised me, yet the children built me.

I was all turf and matured flowers.

I was a plucked three-leafed clover, later stomped on.

The innocence of a child is seen in the eyes of my sister,

Who cries at a scrapped knee,

who can't ride a bike because of fear.

I write poetry upon poetry

With sadness sewed into the cracks.

Slowly dripping with childhood fears.

I ripped memories out of the throat of childhood,

Now, I've got nothing left except burning blisters

And the feeling of insanity.