Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

I’ve grown accustomed to my own lack of patience, pushing aside the reality of my short temper by hiding behind a mountain of excuses, like my insufficient sleep schedule or my diet of razor blades and a nightly bottle of pills. But let’s break that down to it’s pieces, shall we?

My sleep isn’t so much a lack thereof, but a world of nightmares that makes nothing feel like real rest. Every wall is a mirror, and my whole body is covered in bright red scars, and everyone I’ve ever known is watching me and walking by and offering help, offering hands and tissue paper and tears and so much pity that I can’t help but feel like the smallest person to ever exist, and I know it’s a dream because I’ve been so good about never talking about my scars, just cat scratches and kitchen accidents, but even knowing I’m asleep doesn’t help, and I’m stuck sitting in real time, trapped in my mind, forced to live out my nightmare of having the world see me as cut and broken as I feel, made all the more real by the knowledge that if anybody did happen to see me with my shirt off, that this dream wouldn’t be a nightmare at all, would it? If anybody did see me, talk to me, have to interact with me, they would see, and find out, and ask so many questions I am ill-equipped to answer, so I would cower into a corner and cry and be inconsolable and God, I don’t want to put anybody through that, having to watch me break like that, never again…

So my sleep acts as a reminder that it would be better, so much better, if I just kept my mouth shut and stopped pretending I’m ever going to be okay, because scars don’t lie, especially as new ones keep popping up, so having to feel nothing but terror and shame, those are feelings I have earned. I used to avoid sleep to avoid the dreams. Now I give up and let the dreams take me, and wake up in a cold sweat, dry throat with blood-shot eyes, and I let my terror slowly fade as I realize it was all a dream, and I cry, like a pathetic fool, until I am all dried up, not a tear left in me, not an ounce of strength, and I let my head hit my pillow again, let my body fall against the warm sheets, feel the sticky spots against my bare arms and don’t even flinch because of course I know why my sheets are sticky and why I only buy red colored bed sheets and why falling asleep won’t be restful and why I still have to, because at least in that hell I can tell myself I’m not actually hurting anybody, right? At least I can’t hurt anybody in my dreams…and that always, it always leads back into the same realization…that I could disappear and never hurt anybody ever again, not myself or my family or friends, I could get to that point, be my own hero, save myself from it all, right? It’s not me being selfish, it’s me saving myself, right?… 

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry

I’ve spent the past 4 years surrounded by nothing but noise, yet it’s still her silence that speaks to me the loudest.

She kisses with that glowing touch;

A muted, thin breach of confidence.

A kiss laced with smiles,

Wrinkled noses, a million words

Expressed in two lips

Meeting over an exchange of hearts.

The sort of kiss that fills you up,

Rushes blood throughout your body;

A kiss to replace the rhythm in your chest

That forever now skips a beat

With every glance she gives,

With every look you steal.

Now do you understand?

Love come to pass starts with a stolen heart,

And when the sun you share

Finally begins to dim

You are left as the moon; 

Stealing light as you try to become

A beacon in the sky once more.

Her kisses gently revealed

How much a fool has to lose.

Searching for answers now

Is stumbling through the dark,

Reaching out for hands to guide.

The problem with that is

Only those looking through the dark

Can now see as you try to shine,

Truly the blind leading the blind…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry

If ever I find myself falling in love again, I hope it comes as one big wave; I’m tired of drowning slowly in sweet nothings.

She touches you with two hands,

And she cradles you in a lover’s whisper.

She outlines your face in her right;

Slow motions, etching into the tips of her fingers

The curves you never knew you had.

Her left makes its way toward your ear,

And the fire starts in your blushing cheeks,

Burning a red across every inch of skin

Her light walk leads her to.

Without a sense of purpose, nor known destination,

Still; her hands feel as familiar

As the glare from the Sun off windows ,

The scent of mornings in July, or else

The cold of snow that somehow warms

These bones during those terrible

Winter days of December Ohio.

Yes, she is that feeling

Of being lost out at Sea

And being home at the lighthouse

All rolled into those midnight touches,

Those kisses from fingertips

She has strung around my soul.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, Uncategorized

On clear nights I stare at the sky and make a wish to those billion year old lights, and it’s the same wish every single time. 

I want to live in a place where my heart feels…weightless. I want to know the type of hug that feels warm, like summer air against your skin. I want to find myself lost in thoughts of fireworks and pancake breakfasts, snowball fights in January and chocolate filled Halloweens. I want to look forward to what I can be, what I can achieve. I have the type of heart that feels as if it is made of lead; to heavy to carry with me, and so I often find myself leaning on others for things I should only support on my own 2 feet. Basically, I feel a need to wish I was just like everyone else, to smile just because, to laugh without trying to hide something, without having to cry about it later. Do people walking down the halls of malls, the streets to different bars, parks and stores, do these people ever stop to wonder “why does every step I take feel as if I’m falling?

~A place where I reach for the hands of others instead of for the knife sitting on the table…

The scars are cat scratches and work mistakes, rough basketball and rugged runs through trails at dusk. The scars are warnings, screams of “stay away!” “I’m not worth knowing!” “I can’t be saved…”

If people were to have to face this, the reality that I’ve created in my own mind, I’d like to think they could appreciate my self-hatred a little more.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

You know what they say, a little rain never hurt anybody, so I’ll be just fine. Trust me. 

Umbrellas are supposed to be used to keep a person dry in the rain. Okay, so to be very specific,  they are just tools to be used to keep things under them dry in the event of a downpour. In this scenario that would be you, which includes but is not limited to, your hair and ears and those owl earrings I bought for you at the bookstore, your flashy eyelashes and rosy cheekbones, the soft lines that serve as the outskirts of your wine lips I just love to see curve upward when we are talking, and of course that comfy ass, oversized hoodie you always wear when I ask you to come take a nap with me. We both know that hoodie belongs to me, but when you told me you liked it because it smelled like me and you wanted to keep it for the night so you could wear it to sleep, well holy hell, I never knew someone talking about how I smelled could make me feel so fucking loved. So now it’s “our” hoodie, just like The Muppets became “our” movie, Red Robin became “our” restaurant, Breaking Bad was “our” show, so somehow, even with all this sharing, all of these things that became “ours”, I didn’t see any problems with having my heart be all “yours”. Everything else was just stuff, right? I can get a different hoodie and burn the old one. I can start hating the muppets; maybe begin a complete aversion to all things puppet related, just to be safe. I can stop eating at Red Robin, or even just avoid all food places with names relating to red things, or bird things, or just stop eating altogether to save myself the hassle. I can stop watching AMC, or break my TV, or hell, just sell all my shit, move to a cabin in the woods and be a fucking hermit for the rest of my life. I can do any of that, or none of that, because those things were “ours”, so even if there stops being an “us”, those things will still be there, and they don’t lose any meaning, the memories remain, and that’s not a bad thing. But I made my heart yours…and I didn’t really give you a choice in that, huh? I was a dark soul, and you were my light, and I was so fucking happy to finally be…happy…I didn’t think I had a heart to give, and when you showed me I did have a heart, well I was so eager to give it to you, to force it onto you. We could share your heart, but not mine; I didn’t know how to share it, because I didn’t even know I had one…I didn’t know how to love myself, so instead I threw all of my love, every ideal of love I had compiled over my 22 years of existence, and I crammed it all together and I gave it all to you, without a receipt or anything, and what could a nice person like you do but accept it with that curvy smile and a warm hug in “our” hoodie and promise me you’d keep it safe forever and always? None of this is your fault. I’m the type of human who finally finds a heart, only to eagerly shove it into someone else’s hands and expect them to keep it safe and warm and loved for me. That’s not how hearts work. That would be the same as walking out into the rain and getting wet, then having a stranger hand you an umbrella and saying “Hey, this is your umbrella, it was just sitting there right next to you, so I grabbed it, but it’s yours. I have my own, so you just keep this one, it’s yours.” and then shoving that umbrella back into that person’s hands and replying “You’re so kind and you’re so wonderful, please, just keep both umbrellas, really, somebody like me doesn’t even know what an umbrella is for. I mean, if I had to make a guess I would say umbrellas are supposed to be used to keep a person dry in the rain. Okay, so to be very specific,  they are just tools to be used to keep things under them dry in the event of a downpour. In this scenario that would be you…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

I still remember your favorite ice cream, and the way you smelled, and I’m obviously not taking enough pills to melt you away tonight.

I lost track of the time as soon we turned on the TV. The lights and sound just served as background noise; my attention was all yours, and you knew it. We were laying down together on my couch, me the big spoon and you curled up with your head resting on my arm. Your hair was covering my face, but I didn’t mind. I love how your hair smells, how all of you smells. You would periodically turn your head and kiss my arm, and every time you did I couldn’t help but smile like an idiot. My other arm alternated between rubbing your stomach and scratching your back. I swear, you were just like a cat, making little noises to let me know where you liked being touched, and then making it even more obvious where you really liked being touched. I had learned most of your preferred spots, but there was always more. More ways to touch you, a different finger here, a swift stroke there, a gentle hand followed by a tense grab, and you reacted to everything. I etched you into my everything, contoured my soul to better suit your desires.

But now that couch is empty, and my hands are cracked and rough, and my soul is aching from the stress of trying to just hold on. My senses are failing me one by one, as if the lack of seeing you every day has caused my vision to blur everything else together, as if I can’t ever wake up and smell the roses, as if every noise is now a tree falling alone in the woods, making me question if I’ve ever heard a single sound before you while I ignore the phone for the hundredth time this year because I haven’t heard a sound since you. I’m eating away my feelings because I don’t know what it means to feel full anymore; I feel bottomless, so I just shovel everything I can reach into my mouth, and I don’t even know what I’m doing because it’s all just the same thing; never enough. I burned away my fingertips, cut away my soft skin, marinated myself in self-pity to the point I am always stuck in the shower, scrubbing with water I assume to be hot, feeling nothing but a sense of guilt in my gut, praying I’ll just keep sinking and sinking until I reach the bottom, where no light or air can reach me, and I’ll fade away before I ever have to wake up again.

What do humans do with all of this old, now useless, knowledge? Most people will retain it for a time, some information sticking around longer than other bits, and they use it to learn, to grow, to move on. They don’t replace everything they have with a single point, a single mass. People are collectives, so what should you expect when you discard down your hand to leave just one card? Well, you just pray that card isn’t the Joker, or else you’re just plain out of luck – but it’s not luck, since you made the conscience decisions, right? So it’s not luck, but stupidity in the highest form, akin to Russian roulette with a semi-automatic gun. You are making the choice to die, here and now, and painting it as this portrait of fun and games. Keep them all laughing. Keep the room entertained. Keep your head held high, then come to realize… the room is filled with only mirrors, that the laughter is scratching glass, that your head is still attached to your neck, but it’s coming off awfully fast…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I.

I wasn’t finished living yesterday, so of course I’m not ready for today, and tomorrow is just completely out of the question. And yet…

Tomorrow comes regardless of our desire for a new day. Calendars appear stationary but they are always plotting and scheming, collecting tiny scratch marks and new pictures to entice us into revealing the next month. It’s such a dirty trick, using our love of cute puppies and cats and sexy shirtless firemen to reveal a sudden (but not really sudden) 27-31 day shift in time. A full moon cycle has passed, and the sun has been staying out either progressively longer or progressively shorter depending on the season, and 6 new songs have hit the top of the Top 40 countdown with Ryan Seacrest, and somehow you’ve managed to stay absolutely the same, in blubbery body to fractured mind all the way down to the microscopic pieces your heart shattered into because of course you are a heart-broken fool. You’re an American raised on Nicholas Sparks and John Green novels, reruns of How I met your Mother and The Titanic, and pop song after pop song making love into the only thing even worth living for, so OF COURSE you are a heartbroken idiot! This is in your DNA at this point, the only logical conclusion to this crash course called “the early to mid twenties”.