It was in my room,
Surrounded by words written in cherry red lipstick,
Screaming hopelessness in the choppy handwriting all the tortured seem to share;

It was in my room,
With half drawn photos of my mother and a dusty guitar that played memories from the time before and the times in between, like a lullaby that haunted me to sleep;

It was in my room,
With the ceiling stained by tobacco smoke and the smell of depression clinging to the ***** bed sheets;

It was in my room,
With the photos hanging off the wall,
Half-torn from the night of lonely desperation;

It was in my room,
With sheets draped over the curtains,
Hung there in a feeble attempt to pretend the sun didn't exist anymore;

It was in my room,
That my shadow got tired of following me and instead swallowed up my mind,
Where the birds sang me to sleep and the moon gently woke me,
Where a day became a thousand years and after a while even God forgot I was there;

It was in my room,
Where I scrubbed the walls clean and painted the ceiling,
Where I pulled the sheets off the curtains and opened the blinds,
Where I threw out my cherry red lipstick and my ***** bed sheets,
Where I finished the drawing of my mother even though the nose will never turn out quite right,
Where I cleaned the guitar and sang to my soul with a new found reverence,
Where I asked the birds to wake me and the moon to tuck me in,

And after all that was done,
It was where I finally opened the door.

Sometimes I wonder if the razor blades I used to drag onto my skin leaves bits and pieces of itself inside my body.
It would explain why I'm always being pulled back into my room, as if it were a magnet.
It irks me that I always find myself standing in front of my bed and hiding under the covers until a new day begins.
I pull myself out, but I end up in this dull lighted room every single time.
I wish I could stop but my body self consciously just wants to be in here.
Is it the accustomed loneliness? The overwhelming depression? The looming anxiety? It's too much, my brain can't comprehend.
I just think about this while I lay in this ******* tear soaked bed.
I let my mind race while my arm trickles with the damages I've done.
They say blood is thicker than water, but when it's self inflicted drops of blood and bittersweet saltwater tears, they're both just as heavy.
I find myself punching and banging my head against the wall next to my bedroom door.
I can just... turn the **** and ******* leave, but I always stop in front of it as if it were a monster I couldn't defeat.
Am I entrapping myself just to make myself suffer? Do I enjoy this torture? Do I just love watching my knuckles turn green and blue?
I feel like I'm obligated to stay in this stupid room.
Maybe it's the self hatred telling me I deserve to be confined.
Maybe then no one will see my stupid face.
Maybe then no one can hurt me again.
No one else can hurt me but myself.
I know the capabilities to which my own destruction towards myself extends.
Some times I feel like I'm intentionally keeping myself in imprisonment.
I can't love myself because people tell me I must stay away from what I fear.
Fear is supposed to drive me away, not let it become one within me.
And I feel like shooting out my brain will make this white noise ******* stop.
I feel like slitting my veins on my wrists will make everything go away.
It can be so easy to take all this weight off my worn out brain.
All the pain, all the ache, all the hurt, all the suffering, all the torture, all the bruises, all the cuts, all the voices, all the reminders, all the insecurities, it would all just go away.
With just one single movement.
I can interpret this in however I feel would be for the best.
I can either open my bedroom door and run without looking over my shoulder, or I can open up my skin and watch it turn into a red and white color.
I just... need to get up. Move. Go somewhere. Anywhere. Leave. Now.

.... But I can't.

Waiting to go nowhere, standing by the door,
Thoughts are swirling all around the ceiling to the floor,
People stare with eyes that judge, but they do not know,
The darkness and the light each which grow in me slow,
Yes together but apart it’s sometimes hard to tell,
One day whispers softly yet another it might yell,
A child screams, it stirs me up,
I want to scream right back “shut up!”
Like magma rising from the deep,
Fast at first but then it creeps,
The lava burning the present that be,
The fire blinding my eyes to see,
Although I can sense it it’s harder to stop,
The bubble gets bigger and weakens to pop,
Then I’m left standing there cold and alone,
Wanting nothing more but to fold and go home,
The fire it transforms to ice in my chest,
Smoldering visions of me at my best,
Shedding a tear for the darkness within,
Quieting back down just to rise again,
The breath takes back over, leading the way,
Presence in consciousness now here to stay,
Yet nothing is permanent, the good and the bad,
Fleeting like every emotion we’ve had,
Here in the moment but then gone the next,
Leaving my soul feeling perplexed,
Wondering how but not asking why,
Choosing to crawl when I could just fly,
The light brings wings but the darkness adds weight,
Trying to escape my preconceived fate,
Feeling too tired to chew and then swallow,
Feeling the hole in my soul grow hollow,
Sometimes a vacuum is how it appears,
Filled with the worst of the worst of my fears,
Darker than skies on nights of new moons,
Like a storm out on the horizon looms,
Lightning and thunder and buckets of rain,
The sky opens up and cries out my pain,
No one to hear and no one to see,
My soul screams out just wanting to flee,
Thoughts still swirling from ceiling to floor,
Waiting to go nowhere, standing by the door…

my heart beats
with you
on
our
mind

your the sweetest
kisser
an
man
could


find



oh the eyes
you see
me
with


let my I love you
mean more


shut up and hold me deeper
?
















...
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