I want to sleep with you,
but in the most innocent way.
I love when you smile at
me and I can see that little
dimple resting on your cheek.
I love that I can make you smile by
kissing your cheek or laying
my hand on your chest as I
nearly fall asleep on you.
I love the way you say that
you love me. the way you whisper
it like a secret or the way you
say it like you’re proud.
I love the way you laugh at my
jokes (even those terrible puns).
and the way we laugh together when
we do something stupid.
I love the face you make when you’re
concentrating, or not concentrating or
literally doing anything.
I love you.
she stares out from the corner
of the room. her shirt, draped over
her exposed collarbones, is slowly starting
to fade into her backgrounds. I pull
my eyes from her thin thighs and her
meager knees to her enclosed eyes.
I wonder what she is trying to hide.
what could be so harmful that she would
wish to keep it from others?
I used to know her, though now it seems
I only recognize her name. the evidence
of her life before darkness, just traces,
a memory of a fading trail.
I try to chisel around her edges, but her walls
rebuild themselves as fast as she can blink away
those tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.
I want to know her again. She seems so distant,
so disparate from the sweet girl that I
can faintly remember.
I want to comfort her. Ask her what monsters
hide under her bed and then offer a nightlight.
I won’t ask her why she is afraid of the dark,
I will ask her if she needs help
turning the lights on again.
and if she says no, then I will stay
with her until she can find the lights
I stare into her eyes and I see it.
Memories of her past. and I want to
ask her why they seem so familiar,
but when I open my mouth,
my breath fogs the glass.
I do not know how you view me
as a warrior,
for I am nothing but my own enemy.
you call me strong,
strong enough to defeat my foes.
you tell me to stand tall,
when I measure only 5’1, head to toes.
I am determined to live up the image
you see me to be.
so I’m climbing to the pedestal
of what you view of me.
is this what being strong means?
if I manage keep the thoughts out
during the day,
they come rushing out at night,
bearing the gift of tears.
they say that it gets easier from here.
I’m not sure I believe them.
with over a year of clean wrists,
you’d think I’d have a better hold
on this situation.
behind a mask of composure,
my insides are trying to leak from my
scars, trying to push out from my skin,
trying to escape.
and I want to aid them.
when a thought is born from
a diseased mind, it then
snakes down your spine,
sending chills like wildfire,
aches your scars.
I’m a hard person to love.
her voice rang through my memory like
church bells, and for once, I wanted
to be religious. I wanted her to be
my savior- to pardon my sins.
I wanted her to see me like the way
she said God saw her. I only wish she
knew that I viewed her as her own
virgin Mary. I didnt care about her past.
I didnt care about her sins.
I only wish she knew that I
loved her- and my love isnt anything
God could achieve.
I want to tell you that
the road to happiness wasn’t
paved with gold.
It isn’t a cracked, but
okay for the most part, street.
The path to happiness is a long,
uphill stretch of blood and bones
and set backs.
You will reach a part in your recovery
where there is no way to jump
over this trench layed out infront of you.
I will tell you that if you fall,
even multiple times,
you’ll learn the ropes,
and this get easier.
but as long as you try,
I gaurentee you’ll beat this.