This Has Become Familiar

Everything was foggy and I was breathless

with the thought of the corners of the room haunting

my existence with a smile. The shutters

shuddered with sadness and I could relate all too much,

and with every pill I took came another in the waking;

and with every drink I took came another suppressed

memory I was trying to swallow down harder than

your suicide attempts and how I thought they were always my fault.

The room becomes darker; my hands are hard

with pain; I'm waiting for their essence to consume

me once again.

These are not dreams, and I knew they would come back to haunt

and remind me of the fact that

every little thing in this world doesn't come without a price.

My hands are shaking; I'm surprised yours aren't.

I whispered into the night that I loved them, but

with every breath came an exhale filled with every terror

I tried to hide. I knew, they knew, the world knew

I was a lost cause, but they were aware that hell would be

heaven compared to the life I was living.

My hands were homes for all the things that

were meant to rot and the sunlight never wanted

their rays to touch the skin of something

so terrorized with pain that they would never know

what to do with the ashes.

I'm shaking again. This has become familiar.

They licked my soul with black tar tongues and kissed

it goodbye every night to sleep.

I was so tired, but they would never let me sleep without a

consequence.

I dreamed of all the things they loved and I didn't,

and every fire I died in came another morning I awoke

with sweat on my brow and shaking hands.

This has become familiar.

The rivers they drowned me in were filled with the tears

I shed every night as I wished hell would take me

as their own, but they were all too smart for me.

I shook with purity and they fed on it; every bite

was another day I would live without a mother

and another day I would live without happiness.

Refuge was never found, for they always knew

I was going to try to hide and they always

were waiting for me to come and try to live without their

pain, without their open arms.

I lived a life filled with their smiles and

broken teeth; I lived a life with their broken teeth and

split tongues; I lived a life with their split tongues and

bleeding lips.

Everything comes with a price. I learned this the hard way.

My nights became tiresome, and I awaited their

presence like the steps my father took up the stairs and

into my room to tell me what I had Done Wrong and

What I Should Have Done.

This has become familiar.

I'm broken in every way they crave and split in

every way they aren't. This is how

I live.

Every moon lit night came with rivers of blood

pouring down my ribs like the pain

was meant to feed the souls of the ghosts

haunting my bed frame. The grass

shone with their spit and the water lilies

shook in fear of their scissored hands,

a feared gardener, a broken promise.

I'm scared to go to sleep now and they made it this way.

They knew what they were doing to me and loved

every second of heart break I experienced repeatedly

like a broken record skipping to the same

song lyrics about a boy that will never

love you, never love you, never love you,

I'm sorry.

My lips are bleeding with shame and my shame is bleeding

fright.

Their hands cascade across my face and their nails scratch

my back like a girl in love, but I'm not looking

for any kind of commitment right now, especially

when the things haunting me are the same things that

will love me to the end,

and I can't grasp how anything could be

so harmfully pleasurable in ways that

make the forest fires jealous of the sparks

in her heart. Oh, alas, here comes another

frightened girl, another frightened girl, another frightened girl

filled to the brim with lust and mistakes.

I've kissed the Devil to sleep and I have given God my heart,

and it never seems to be enough for either.

The leaves loved the branches only during the summer,

summer love,

I always hated the summer and how it expected something out of me.

There is a brand on my heart that begs empty parking lots to

give street lights a reason to hug strangers to sleep in the

middle of the highway, but it is too deep

for comprehension. The ghosts are going

to see the tears of a girl with a burnt heart and burnt lungs

and everything else charred black because of

their hands. This is to be expected, really,

would you love anything with the gift

of everlasting happiness?

Nobody would,

feelings are not real.

I'm in bed, I'm trying to sleep, I'm crying again.

This Has Become Familiar.   

This poem is about: 
Me

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