when you are
stumbling
constantly,
without break,
and you
look back,

you get
to see
all
the damage
you have
done.

when you
are
running,
you don't
notice
the scars

that you
have
left,
until
you turn
around.

I want to scream,
"What have I done?"
But I know,
Deep down,
It needed to happen.

But ****,
I knew not to get involved,
But I wanted it,
You brought me sleep,
And I didn't want to leave.

And now that I've woken
Up from my dream,
I know
That I cannot disguise
that I am awake.

I could live multiple lives
And make up for all the sins
I'd ever committed,

But in none of them,
Will I ever
Deserve you.

I'm the best thing for you?
Well, so is medicine,
But the tastes makes you
Spit it out.

Don't you claim such things,
And then spit me out.
Don't speak with your eyes closed,
And cry with your hands ******.

I am your medicine.
I heal, I fight for you,
But my existence is nothing
If I'm refused.

Sometimes, I think about the envelopes under the bathroom sink
that you thoughtfully put away, to make your ends meet.
I think of the little girl who dug them out,
proudly helping her father to buy another handle.

Sometimes, I think of the papers inside that Nike shoebox,
tucked carefully under your side of the bed, out of sight.
I think of my small self climbing underneath to sift
and finding its stock cut in two at the week's end.

Sometimes, I think of that check that I got for an award
and how you allowed me to keep it, despite your circumstances.
I think of younger you, as if she were myself,
who was suffocating under the weight of a thousand worlds.

That sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.
The urge to deprive yourself of food because you don't deserve it.
The tightness in your neck and spine, unable to loosen.
That jitteriness in your veins that won't dissipate.
The disassociation between your eyes and brain, as if they're underwater.
The longing for an unnatural, impractical early death out of exhaustion.
That searing headache wrapped around the circumference of your skull.
The simultaneous hollowness and nausea in your throat and below where your ears meet your jaw.

Sometimes, I’ll fall asleep on my couch,
while my bed sits a couple feet away.
It reminds me of the sleepovers I had,
of the holidays where the house was filled,
of movie nights and drunken collapses,
of the Proustian disorientation in misplacement.
I’ll sleep next to my ashtray of Marlboros,
my dropped keys, and haphazardly placed gloss,
my leftover coffee and capped waxy candles.
I grow a fondness and rapport with my mess,
a familiarity I sought with myself for ages.
Make yourself at home, I’ll say.
Stay a while.

Like a little beating heart at the tips of my fingers,
a stolen piece of flame all for my own.
Between my lips, its little pulse glows
and from it, a stream of smoke flows.
The smell infiltrates my hair and my clothes,
and the rush of nicotine tingles my body.
My lungs caving from its infiltration slowly,
and oxygen in my liquid blood depleting.
It accompanies me on my walks
and has lit my way along many paths
when the only other source of heat is mine.
Slowly killing me a breath at a time
yet my sweet and savory companion lingers.