it all began in May, so hold on for one more year

everything you’ve known is nothing more
than an inception placed by none other than
the demons that don’t hide under your bed,
but lurk in the back
of your mind.

people that use and abuse
in ways no child should ever know
hold knives
over our necks
and tempt us with the promises of
“it will be okay”,
leaving suicide season
to be the same temperature
as the shell of what was once
relief,
and a friend,
and simply an escape from the reality that grew
to haunt you.

what is there but pain and introverted sobs
and so much goddam agony
when the only ones who are supposed to love you and each other
despite everysinglething that’s wrong
only think of you as weak?
what keeps you going at night
when darkness seeps in through the cracks —
when it floods your mind with thoughts that will never
ever
be true?

who holds your hands and lets you cry
into their hair
when you’re told to keep pouring your insides down the drain,
and to fucking
make it count?

you branded yourself with the labels they
sewed into your heart,
and when we thought you’d grown strong
but worthless was the only one left,
you let it define you.

but you are better.
you’re worth every jagged breath you heave in —
tears spiraling down the bathtub drain alongside
the memories you’re still trying to drown —
and you mean so much more than
any one of those who threw you to your knees
and kept on kicking.

i write poems of the past
that seek only
recognition,
and you write heart-wrenching novels about the truth of
pain
and suffering —
but it’s always too much when people discover
that your arms are the dog-eared
pages.



this is more than just a flesh wound —
it’s wreckage we can not crawl from —
and whether or not you
believe in God —
or if you’d take all the physical pain in the world
over one more voice in your head —
no relief,
or release,
or single way out
should ever become your moses —
parting flesh like a true red sea.



ple

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