Fuck it.

Part of my recovery

is learning to understand the true nature of events.

Don't pick up.

Don't pick up.

Don't text back.

Don't text back.

It doesn't mean that you're ignoring me.

It doesn't mean that you're with someone else.

It doesn't mean that you're tired of me.

It doesn't mean that you think I'm annoying.

It doesn't mean you hate me,

although you probably will

when I tell you what I think about when you're gone.

Fuck.

Ass.

I can only assume

that when you kiss me

it's because you love me.

Sometimes I think that maybe,

just maybe,

it's because you feel sorry for me,

or because you know it makes me feel better

or because you don't want me

to break down

and lean on you

and cry.

Oh, anxiety.

Foiled again.

Other Souls

I think

that you think

that I'm annoying when I talk about the past

other hands

other souls

that might have brushed mine.

But really

I wouldn't be upset

because I think

that I'm annoying too.

So what?

So what if I'm sick?

I'm fucked up, with a fucked up sense of reality, with a fucked up self image, with fucked up memories and fucked up dreams.

So what if I'm full of YOU- all of those fine ghosts I let slip between my cracks and taint me? So what?

I'm still me. I'm the me that those things have created. I'm not pieces of people and pieces of myself. I AM COMPLETE. I AM AWARE AS MYSELF, AND NOT AS DANIEL, OR MICHAEL, OR NAOMI.

I am a single entity, and I'm in control. I am my own god damned deity, in control of my own actions.

And I choose to be stronger than this. I choose to see myself as a person.

I choose to let myself be okay.

I choose to accept my current situation.

I choose to accept that I'm fucking scared.

I choose to accept that I'm not perfect.

I choose to accept that I need help sometimes.

I choose to accept that sometimes, I cannot be there for others.

I CHOOSE TO ACCEPT THAT I AM WORTHY OF LOVE, BECAUSE I AM.

I AM WORTHY OF SELF-IMPORTANCE. I AM WORTHY OF CARE, AND PAMPERING. I AM GOOD ENOUGH, DESPITE MY FLAWS.

I'm so scared. I'm so frightened of losing this, losing everything that I have, everything that I have come to love, everything that I have accomplished- to this feeling of worthlessness- this feeling that I am too flawed and fucked up to deserve this.

Please, please.

I choose to be strong.

I choose to be strong.

I choose to be okay.

I choose to be okay.

"I'm limp again."

My surprise at the readiness of those long fingers as they wrapped around my shoulder.

The boy who listened to my movement behind his sister's bedroom door,

and the way he laughed when I was crying.

The game I played with the boy I never really knew- Friday nights wasted in trembling.

While he prods and makes me feel guilty, I wonder how long it will last tonight, how long he will last, and I cry because I'm not ready, because I'm sick in my stomach and I'm a chest of drawers again.

"I'm limp again."

Your hands-

Your god damned hands, and the feeling of release they granted me.

Saved. Saved. Saved.

Save me.

Make me beautiful again.

Make me whole again.

Make me a person again.

Make me worthy.

Make me want again.

Make me desire again.

Give me back my organs, my beating, bleeding heart, my face, my fucking identity.


Tell me I'm not furniture.

Tell me I'm not hopeless.

Tell me that I'm not as lost as I feel.

Tell me that I'm okay.

I'm okay.

I'm okay.


Lift me up out of this.
I can't keep swimming on my own.
Oh, God.
Someone, help me.
Someone, save me.



You.

You all crept into me like strange, slow ghosts, and I invited you in. I let you poison me, I let you own me, and now you'll remain like some subtle disfiguration- a bent nose, a scar beneath my chin. When I look at myself in mirror, when I happen to glance at my reflection in the window, or in the surface of a spoon, I'll see you.

I'll see you until I die.


YOU DO NOT LIVE INSIDE OF MY MIND,

YOU LIVE BENEATH MY SKIN.

Oh, daddy.

The subtle differences between

“sorry” kisses and “I love you” kisses...

It’s so difficult to tell which ones I’m using,

when you hold me,

when you touch me,

when you tell me about myself.

I know I don’t disappoint you,

but you’ve spent so long a child inside the shell of a father,

that I wish that I was strong enough

to be your mother.