Untitled

My thoughts echo
throughout my aching
emptiness.
They keep me awake
at night when all is dark
and quiet.
I was happy today
or so I thought, but it was only icing
on a hollow cake.
People have taken pieces
of the essence of me and left an outline
that I can still paint bright colors on top of.
Lately I've felt full to bursting,
nearly happy with the filling I've found
and the colors are brighter and stay longer.
But then the lights go out
and everything goes back to
black and white.
The emptiness glows
in the dark like the new moon
in the night.
You can't reach it
so you can't fill the hole infecting
the entire sky.
I felt warm for a moment,
but tonight again I'll be cold
and empty.

Tired

I should be tired

but I don't feel it

I won't feel it.

Trying to sleep

would mean lying

here, alone, in the

silence, in the

dark. I can't be

alone tonight.

Or any night.

I can't do it.

The pieces of me

I've rejected,

all the emotions

I've ignored 

for so long,

They claw

at my sanity

desperate for release.

But I refuse.

I could try to sleep.

In the quiet. Listen

as they scream at me.

But I'm not tired,

I don't feel it,

I won't feel it.

A Pensive Moment

  I am a writer. I'm not saying I'm a good writer, or even a decent writer, and certainly not a very productive writer, but I am, without a doubt, a writer. With this being a large portion of my sense of self and an accurate description of many aspects of who I am in the center, there are a few drawbacks and complications regarding my own well being and mental health. One of these drawbacks being my willingness and need to become a part of a story worth telling. I spent the greater portion of 7 years of my 22 year long life in misery for the sake of a good story. Normally what I post here is fiction or confession, in the form of prose or poetry, but I feel that the thing I refer to as a "mind dump" also qualifies as a sort of writing exercise. So, for productivity's sake I am subjecting any willing readers to this sort of diary entry. Perhaps someone will be able to relate.
  I spent seven years with a man-boy who made me feel less than human on a good day so that the story of my life would involve an enthralling tale of dark young high-school sweethearts overcoming the odds with their undying love for one another. I thought one day I would tell my grandchildren about how their grandfather wore a leather trench coat when I first saw him, and how his eyes made me think of the great Harry Potter- my first true love. I thought I would recant how he woke my soul from its long sentence in the prison of utter numbness and how his touch made my stomach tie up in knots. I thought I'd tell them how broken I was when he left the first time, and how many pieces I fell into each time he left me; for college, (ha!) then time and time again to "serve his country" in a piece of shit river harbor in North Carolina. This story, is all true. The story I so wanted to write, that will never exist, is the story of how he heroically picked up the pieces of my broken hope so that I could hold him through the dark times and how we would shine together in the light. How we overcame trials and tribulations and how special we made each other feel and how bright and shiny love truly is. That story is the one I suffered for. That story is the one I gave up on.
  I loved him. For some unknown reason I loved the shit out of him. That's part of why I stayed so long. Dragged daily through the fire I held on because letting go would have hurt him in ways he didn't understand. That is what keeps the story beautiful. Tragic or triumphant, every love story is beautiful.
  My only regret is that I didn't let go soon enough. I didn't have the strength to let go before all the skin was burned off by the incessant fire and the resentful infection spread into anger and hatred. As a hopelessly hopeful romantic, I had never realized hatred and love could exist together so closely, but God do they. They twist and twirl in a passionate embrace when they get too close to one another, it's enough to give you the spins and knock you clear off your senses. I had no sense to begin with, so I was totally lost.
  I hated myself. It took too many years for me to realize that he made me hate myself. I don't just mean when a girl sees another girl looking at her man the wrong way kind of hate. I mean I wanted to unravel my own existence and recreate myself to be worthy of him, and he really wasn't that great. He just thought he was. I clawed at the skin I could see, trying to peel away the layers he saw as inadequate. My soul was raw and ragged and begging on it's knees for his approval. All that was ever received were backhanded compliments and condescendingly sarcastic comments on the intelligence he never thought I had enough of. It took me seven years to realize I would never be good enough.
  It took me seven years to realize I was better than that.
  I am a writer. I always have been. For the sake of the story, I stayed in the stew of poisonous self-deprecation and resentment until I couldn't take it anymore. Even then, I didn't leave. I honestly thought that pit of shit was the best I could ever do. Now I'm thinking that's not true. I'm thinking I was good enough all along. Hell, I'm starting to think I was better than that all along. There are other men in the world who would kill for a girl like me. I thought, a while ago, because I wasn't the kind of girl boys stared at that I wasn't desirable. Now I'm thinking past those lines. I'm starting to think maybe I'm the kind of woman men fall for. I can deal with that.
  I think that might turn out to be a better story. I'd rather read one of those. Not where the boy is mysterious and damaged and heroic and unattainable, but where the man is caring and present and beautiful on the inside. Who's to say what makes a love story great anyways? I think every love story is a great love story. Because any story would feel hollow without even just a small dose of that mushy crap. As corny and stupid as it might be. I think one day I'll have a great one. Be it the love of a man, or the love of a child, of the love of a good dog, I'll have my love story, and it'll be one for the books.

Cracks

The lights turn out and there it is.
The familiar face of my old nemesis;
loneliness.
Do I see a smile in the darkness?
Can a void laugh? I swear
I can hear it, in the silence
I hear the delicate cracking
of my porcelain soul
being held together
by the hope of
something I can't see,
something I can't hear,
something I think I can feel
drifting farther and farther away
every day after every day.
Just a little more pressure
and I fear I might shatter.
I can't, I don't think I can
hold the pieces in place
for much longer.
Hands shaking and only
half breathing
I continue to try,
no idea why.

a goal

I set a personal goal
to help fight off the darkness.
I'm not sure if it's working,
or if all the time spent not alone
has given me a little light
of my own.
Nothing original since last month,
which wasn't long ago,
but still, my mind, my pen,
has been too too still.
This, this block,
is not accomplishing my goal
to publish-ish something
readable, on a daily basis,
but the darkness has been
effectively, kept at bay,
so I guess it's all okay.