Two Years

To this day, two years runs into me
My mind flushing with fear and regret

My life, Now, consistent and content
Two years ago, I considered life over

Life was over, mentally, before two years ago
Physical and mental me had not lined up
Yet

As I sit, glass at hand
My mind reverts

I wake to the sun, seeping through the window
The fresh scars on my wrist, a reminder
A reminder of the inevitable

For months I've been planning this day
I don't go
I don't talk
I don't move
I don't think
If I think, I fall even deeper

I cannot get out of bed
Although I've been sleeping most of the year

My body is heavy with my head
Pounding with what was soon to come

I think often about this day
This day soon to come

My life is isolated
I am alone, except for One

One who loves me, regardless of my darkness
While He does not understand, He knows

I have been off for a while
He can see the signs

Everyone in my life ignores them
The signs, I mean

I can never be the one
How can I be?

Two years doesn't seem that far
Am I healed?

No

Internal Change

Intoxicated with your thoughts
wild with intention, but realistic in their goals.
My mind drifts into yours,
without chance,
We blend to One.

The fence keeping my life
suddenly falls to the floor.
My world, previously seen by others,
now can be touched and contaminated
by One.

The only One that has this effect,
you scare and entice me.
I know better, but the desire is too strong.
My mind and feelings in conflict.

I know, if I fall, I will be caught.
Caught in your warmth,
Safe in your arms.

I am fine here
I will be fine here
Let go
I am fine here
I will be fine here
One.

Desolation

sitting in my thoughts
thoughts of life
life of scars
scars of others
others and myself
myself is deteriorating
deteriorating into parts
parts of my body numb
numb and alone
alone I stay

Up from the Glass...

Coming up from the glass, a reflection gazes into her eyes.
Eyes not her own.
A glisten from a life long before, distant from this moment.
Her strength and weakness scattered across the reflecting face,
a reminder of the current state she leads.
Falling forward again, the pain and draw are addicting.

Coming up from the glass the haze of the room is intoxicating.
Filling my mind to every depth.
Chaos at every angle reflects my current state of mind.
Remnants of a structured life, taken over by the need.
My need to fill the void left by my first addiction.

I must part from this situation, step into the cold clean air.
A relief, but I will return.

Return to the haze and the desolate reflection staring back.

Claustophobia

Gasping for air as though there weren't any
The tube around my body funneling to nothing
Hot and dry surrounds my head
Thoughts faster, stronger, vivid in my mind

My eyes swirl throughout my skull
Trying to find a stable place to rest
A pounding in my ears consume me
Thoughts faster, stronger, vivid in my mind

A drop finding a place on my arm
The color unknown to my eyes
It draws down to the hand succumbing to gravity
The rain comes down

Slower, blurred and sleep

My Mama

Mama is always sleeping; I can’t help but wonder why she needs so much sleep. She left my sandwich on the kitchen counter, half made, and not what I wanted anyway. Ham and cheese is gross, I told her peanut butter, not the one with the nuts in it, the other kind. But then again, remembering even to make my sandwich for school is a start, because sometimes I have to take quarters and dines from my jar to pay for lunch, I really hate the school lunch, so the sandwich is a little better than school food. Anyway today is Swiss steak for lunch, and I hate Swiss steak, so I’m taking the ham and cheese.

School was boring, but home isn’t much better. Mama doesn’t like the lights on, and the house is a mess. My friend’s moms don’t sleep all the time, and let the house get this way. But my Mama is different. I try to wake her up, so she can see my report card, but I always have trouble getting myself to wake her up. She looks so happy sleeping, except when she snores, then it’s not so nice and I have to go to my room cause I can’t stand the noise. I start the usual after school routine by picking up the kitchen; there are two almost empty bottles of my mom’s favorite drink. Pouring them down the drain, I hold my breath because the smell will make me puke. I see her container of medications and put them away in the bathroom, where they should be, and continue into the living room and into her bedroom. Dad is gone, he left a while ago. But sometimes he calls on my birthday.

My mama is awake now, stumbling through the room she goes into the kitchen and starts screaming, I know I did something wrong. I run to the kitchen and see my mom leaning against the counter, and she looks me straight in the eye and her arm reaches across and grabs me by the shirt. Her other hand whips across my face. With a sting I remembered what I did wrong. I can’t believe I could have done something wrong, but the coming bruise on my left cheek will remind me. I moved her pills.






Walking into the empty house I know memories are going to flood my mind. My mother has just passed away, and I need to empty the house, so I can finally get rid of this chapter in my life. The house itself smells like stale whiskey and cigarette smoke. Years of my life were spent here and I hate those years in my life. I walk into the kitchen and thoughts race through my head.

I was at school like any other day, and came home to find my mother still in bed, hung over and still in her nightgown for the week. She usually didn’t change out of her pajamas during the week. Ten years old, I was still in elementary school and I didn’t know anything about my mother. But that day specifically stands out in my mind. She was screaming at me, telling me that I emptied her liquor bottles, and moved her medications. I know I shouldn’t have moved them, but I just wanted a life like my friend’s lives. My mother raised her hand, and for the first and last time, she slapped me across the face. After that she turned around and left. I couldn’t believe she had actually hit me. What kind of mother does that? Certainly not my mother. My face stung with the hand on my face. I just wanted some normalcy, some stability, and I got a mark that reminded me that I would never have that with my mother. She apologized some time after that, but to this day I hate my mother for the life she put me through. I can still feel her hand on my face, not the hand of a loving mother, but of the hand of an addicted woman.

Smoke from a Life

Smoke from a life

wisping and winding
through the air releasing
the contents burning, being

let go out of the binding.
the source of pain, or relief
for me the relief of winding

tight personality and pain.
pain of schedules, pain from
others.

this addiction transferred,
transferred from the blade and
the blood. in my mind

the lesser of two evils.