Might As Well

be alone. Because what is the point?

People swear they love you, but when

you’re down

and out

it’s only you, you can turn to. When

your back is against the wall, and you’re

looking for someone to break

your fall, just to realize they stole the grass

to help soften the blow.

Confused by the love people claim they feel,

when anytime there’s a problem, they can’t heel.

If you, gotta do it all on your own, you might as well

be all alone.

Why stress yourself with the problems of someone else,

when they’re one of the reasons, your life got mess?

How important are they, to suck your joy, and spit on

your hope, with no recourse?

Might as well be alone.

 

You remind me of all the things I left behind, the back and forth, an unsteady load. Ready to drop, dump, explode. Dragging the happiness, the thin threads born, and set fires to destroy them, until there’s nothing more. Return to wonder, why all the scars, when every conversation is a burden or a chore. Name changes, his face placed over yours, shortened tempers, and more fights. You can’t tell me you don’t remember those nights.

Time passes, less is said, strangers in the same bed. You dream of when you knew me, I dream of never known you at all. The difference seems so small. The abyss tells a different tale. The distance no more the issue than the depth of the pain; a long trip to hell. How far can one fall and get back up again? Why fall at all, when bridges are there, yet you jump and I push you over the edge. Step by step we could’ve had it all, the lack of patience created a never ending fall.

I can’t talk to you anymore, it seems to be at, but to a wall not a person, and my time seems lost. I wonder more and more, about time cashed in, never to be seen again. Maybe we were friends, or two sinners making excuses for the things we did. I sought the same thing, and lose it in the hope of what could be, never seeing what is until the thrumming of need becomes a docile pitter patter, lost rhythms into silent beats.

I am One

Not to be cliche, but, as long as I can remember, I’ve struggled with loving myself and wanting to live. To me it’s not a morbid conversation. A big portion of my life I’ve self harmed and struggled with suicidal thoughts. I’ve functioned, and at times, barely functioned as I dealt with an amplitude of mental, physical and emotional attacks.

I’m not generally an unhappy person; at least not now that I have more control over my life. Before the last couple years, I thought depression was something I’d inherited for being, as my stepfather put it “an evil child”. That it was the reaped curse of karma, and that I was just an unhappy person who loved misery. But as I’ve grown, I’ve realized that’s not the case. Yes I have seconds, minutes, moments, days, weeks even where I can’t make life make sense, but overall, I love my life. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I’ve learned to see that the struggles and adversities give me opportunities to grow and be better.

My point is, people who self harm or who struggle with suicidal thoughts are often plagued with shame. I choose to ignore that pressure tonight and share that I’m one of those people. Ignoring the fear, the panic, and the almost debilitating need to ctrl + a + backspace…I’m speaking on it. Because I know too many people who hide these feelings. Who are afraid, like I am, and because of that fear and shame are even more burdened by the struggles they go through…that we go through.

Tonight I just want to encourage those of us triggered and fighting our own minds to keep fighting. That even though no one can see you tearing yourself apart, I know the battle, and I’m here to listen. That the shame won’t always be there if you try little by little to tell it a girl (or boy or gender tag) has no shame. That with time, we can make it, and the current pain will be in the past.

 

Disguise

Love is freedom, the real thing, right now just feels like barely flying with half clipped wings, made it through the storm, fought for my piece of quiet on an island of chaos and poor choice. Took off, hoping to soar, felt the circuit in the air, engorged on the wave. Yet the oil hit important things, pulled me to surface, below, sinking even as water tried to arrest it from me. Again, thought to be free, the promise of sunlight encouraged me. But it wasn’t sunlight, just the glint of a predators eyes, the flick of a weapon used to distract my true eyes, never seeing past its’ disguise. I grew gills. Who needs the sun, the air, who wants to fly when the flicker of different captures your soul. 

Like all constant lights, when there is no wane, no wax, there is no reality. It betrayed me. Attached to the fatty parts and slowly ate from me. When I realized I could barely swim, fins half eaten, belly trailing the ocean floor, whatever was left of the sinew, I remembered what it was to soar. Slowly, lifted, dragging him with me, hoping even still, instead of gills and fins, I could teach him to glide above the waves. The trickle of warmth sped my return, even though the weight was a burden. Harder he bit, my heart all that was left, I could feel the rays, knew I was almost safe. 

The surface welcomed me, sun asked where I had been, moon told me to never hide again. The rain kissed me repeatedly, it missed the flavor of my skin, the wind caressed me, filling holes retracing the pattern of who I had been. I left him. The waves pulled us apart. The elements knew, he had a piece of my heart. They knew gills would always tempt me, and my heart would falsely lead me, so his gills never changed, his focus stayed the same, before he was out of sight, he set his flicker to falsely set another aflame. 

Mistaken

All you wanted was for someone to love you for you, but you hid behind the make up of someone well put together, lied with your eyes, with secrets; the words unspoken. What you needed, you received, still not enough for you to leave the past to die, falling to your knees, you let the beast ride, tumbling from the path where you wanted to be, the blindness, blood loss, mental fatigue led you to crawl upon the brambles.

Her voice spoke softly, her hands caressed, attempted to pull you, wipe your eyes, allow your head to rest upon her breast. Just for you to wake, pull at her hair, enter her mouth and yoke her heart from it’s strings. Starved you feed, mind in a haze, knowing only that you wish to be full; that she makes you full.

Not enough, you take her eyes, even as she holds sight for the end of your journey, who you could be, would be if you changed course, let go of the beast, and walked on your own two feet. Not enough, your hands in her womb, the life she was ready to give, you pull until a tunnel of life sheds a skin. Like a rabid thing, you drink until there is no yoke.

Your 4 eyes, belly full of life, those feet you couldn’t stand on, gain strength. How could they not.

The Pressure

to always have to explain the questions that were never asked,

but the attitude I felt, the backlash, the reclusive nature of the dream.

to repeat why love is given, and how happiness has no figure yet,

it’s never enough, albeit when it’s over that’s all one ever wants.

to say it’s okay even when it’s not because the mind is a terrible

thing to hurt, waste, deceive, and yet you deceived me.

to not give up every time you overreacted and sucked the air from

my lungs, to replace with frustration and strangulation.

to lying in bed with saline painting new paths, almost

engraving over the old one’s. New boos old news.

to letting go when saying the truth is no longer enough, when

all the words mean nothing, because the actions are stuck.

to asking over and over, what do you want, and patiently waiting

for an answer that was “I don’t know”.

to sitting up and hearing your dreams, speaking of plans, and watching

you do absolutely nothing.

to strain, that ache and pull, a familiar friend, a friend I didn’t

want to ever see or feel again.

to the corruption of love, to the pressure.

 

More Changes

Life will constantly change. I used to think I was a person who loved change. That I was one of those people (had I been White or America had been less racist) to explore the Western front in hopes of a new life. I thought I was outgoing and willing to walk the edge.

Maybe when I was younger, before I’d had my heart broken, before I’d made decisions that led to my perspectives to change, I was that person. I was someone who was willing to try new things, to go out alone, and who would look at change and race to meet it.

Now I’m afraid. It freaks me out because I’ve become used to knowing, or at the very least being prepared for whatever is coming my way. That whole “that came out of left field” doesn’t happen to me too often. Not because things don’t pop up, I just think A LOT about the future. So for me, I think about the options, I think about the possibilities. That way, if the moment arises, I’m prepared to handle it.

But I didn’t see this coming. This isn’t small enough to call a curve ball. It’s more like checking both sides of the street, seeing it’s all clear, checking the sky for the plane that falls, seeing it’s all clear, and then a hole opens up and crushes you to death; we’ll call it hell (lol you see what I did there?). Anyway, it has shown me that, that person who would venture out on her own has grown fearful. Even as I type I feel the anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I feel that ache that makes me want to just curl into the fetal position and hibernate.

But I’m working to cope, or, make a decision on if this change is something I’m willing to work with, or walk away from. Because that is the next step for me. I have to decide, just like the person who made their decision had to decide; what’s best for me, is this something I can handle. I don’t begrudge anyone for making choices for themselves. Albeit, when you have relationships with people, if you care about them, their opinions should matter; especially if what you’re deciding directly changes their life.

There’s a fine line.

Now I just need to make a decision on what’s best for me, and if it’s a line I’m willing to walk.

 

Bearing Fruit

I wandered into you, seeking a place to

lay my head, a harbor to dock my

soul, a ground, sturdy enough to

grow my roots, I felt my way through

weeds, traveled un-tarred roads, fell

into bramble patches that scarred the

depths of my soul. So much so, my

nomadic roots cannibalized tears to make

dew in starved lands.

 

You saw my journey, roots hanging by

fibers, some dried to bone, you took the

sheers and preened them off, made room for

new roots, spoke life, shed love, watched it gather,

and gave nourishment to many times refurbished

joints. Laid with me a porous sponge. Said you would

bury your doubts, and fears, pray for something new, more

fresh, clean, something to build you when you

eat.

 

Fears and doubts soaked into my roots, mixed

with the harshness created from the roaming

genes. Attacked by antibodies, wrapped and

swallowed whole, those fears lost, the doubts

were re-purposed into dreams, not deferred but

renewed. I waited for the first  bud, and lost

leaves, shaking, anxious, waiting for you to see

the expected fruit.

 

You ran your hands through, felt the smooth

skin, admired the shine and give, you plucked your

choice, said it resembled a lasting sin, took a bite, closed

your eyes, reminisced, and saw new beginnings. Fear to

hope, while thoughts of death spoke now to food for your

soul. Your thumb and forefinger met, separated by thin

cased fluid you gifted to flow, I watched the thought, saw

it grow, knew I would stay watered, you needed the fruit.

You needed to be whole.

Tired

How can any relationship, friendship, dating even family, function or have healthy longevity when one person thinks the other needs no one.

That’s how people seem to see me. I’m this statue that doesn’t need help, love, or other people to lean on. Just like a statue, people admire you, they wish they could be as “valued”, as “sought after”. They can appreciate your beauty, but they don’t really understand what made you that way. And we all know how things go when you have your favorite thing. You can’t put it down, and when you finally do, you never pick it back up.

But I’m not a statue. Me being a strong person has never negated my need for the same love, affection, or support that others receive. Me being strong is the result of not having those things, of being afraid, abused, mistreated, and told no one would ever love me. I’m strong because people were so unreliable and because I had to be; have to be.

I just don’t understand how people can look at that strength and use it as a reason to abandon me, treat me poorly, or constantly make me have to stand alone. Strength does not equate to heartless. It does not equate to not feeling pain or suffering. It just equates to me being able to ALWAYS make it through. That I ALWAYS fight.