walls.

and all these walls have tendencies.
they'll listen to every droplet that falls from your eyes,
and carefully count how many times they hit the ground you stand on.
they will absorb every conversation had, and take notice to how many times your voice cracks.
how often your tongue stumbled for words.
they'll hear everything you'll say,
as you search for the reasons to why you're here.

Day 17.

                                                                                    maybe i'll fall into the sky.

i'll forget that feeling that i forgot something.

the collapsed sensation under my scalp won't take over my day,

and i won't feel like my heart is falling.

i'll pay attention with pretty eyes,

and spend my time orbiting around the necessary bliss. 

i will think without pain one million times, and i wont control my passion. 

i will accept my faults and stare at winking stars.

i will shout at every atom, in their magnificent glow, and tell them that they are loved. 

"She was elusive. She was today. She was tomorrow. She was the faintest scent of a cactus flower, the flitting shadow of an elf owl. We did not know what to make of her. In our minds we tried to pin her to corkboard like a butterfly, but the pin merely went through and away she flew."  - Jerry Spinelli. 

this is what i see

                when i look at the clock.

For Kristin.

stretched, and torn.
prodded at, and picked through.
the string tied around my heart has another end, it's reaching for yours.
for your heart to grab hold, and wrap it's existence with the jaded fabric.
it's linked with knots between the two segments.
connecting us.
and though the thread has been touched by fingers unknown.
and fooled with by those who don't understand,
you and i both know it's the strongest cord of fabric.

and my heart will pump.
throughout the duration of each moment.
and i can feel yours.
it's slight movement.
tired and soft.
my eyes will wander,
and the stars will fade to lighter shade.
the shoes my feet walk in will change, taking strange steps.
and while walking, the string will follow.
wrapped around the beating figure,
pulling your own beating figure
that rests inside your chest,
with it's every motion.
i can feel it talking.
my heart to yours.
a certain language i still cannot understand.
but when they speak up,
i fill these pages with concepts that make me feel as if i'm holding the moon.


i love you.

Anger Management Activity.

so, we were given these 9 questions and were asked to answer them.
the activity was followed with some "trust building" bullshit, but i liked this one.
looks like rehab has it's pro's.



1. Right now i am feeling- as if you have no idea how much i need you. i cant walk a step without wishing you were walking next to me.

2. i feel this way because- i've grown strong while holding the hands of chemicals, since yours left. But now their gone too, and i feel weaker than ever.

3. i wish i could tell- you face to face how sorry i am. how beautiful our family is, even though you're not a part of it.

4. because then i would- prove to you i'm still the daughter you left almost 9 years ago.

5. i miss- stumbling on the wet rocks of Maine while you stuffed your nose in a good read.

6. i want to tell- you i love you.

7. that would make me feel- more lonely though, because your answer is not voiced.

8. then i might- look for something else, cliché or not, a sign. to know you love me too.

9. being able to do that would- seem selfish to some, but i just need it. i need to know you love me, because then i would be able to live again.

a box of suggestions.

it all boils down to a box of suggestions for that noise space inside of your head.
and the whole world will watch sifting through the toxic tumbling mess,
a hiccuping disarray of words and phrases.
spoken by friends mostly made of pain.
they drive to work
and home again after the day has happened.
they often say, although alone, their thankful.
speaking to the officer who pulled them over while sleepy eyes guided them home.
explanation of their hourly traumas to the figure with a flashlight in their eyes.
there's holes in their tongues, stumbling for words.
their lives are so hard.
corporate and furnished.
shaken by the small words and phrases,
suggestions in a box.

i walk the lines between now and then.

do you know how it feels to be shrinking ?
to be falling short of everything asked ?
to become smaller
and smaller
every fucking day?
"in the end the only steps that matter are the ones you take all by yourself."
i have no legs.
no walking.
no steps.
i'm idle.
lonely.
and fucked in the head.

"you don't always need to be fixed, emma." - Diane. Leader of 4th AA meeting. Sober since 1992.

fix me.
but i work just fine.
fix me.
i guess i'm worn down.
fix me.
they say i have a few screws loose.
fix me.
i've been formatted wrong, it's a mistake.
fix me.
no this is wrong, i'm just...
fix me.
i'm broken.

path of painted lines.

i live by default.
follow the constructed lines painted on every road.
many have roamed this path previous to myself.
watched the limbs on each tree beside the road grow taller,
reaching the sun.
watched as each branch stretched across the horizon,
while worn in shoes treaded the gravel.
rubber against rock.
roots against soil.
beams against the blue back drop.
heart against chest.
tears against pores.
me against you.
you may think you took over.
as you robbed me from the path of painted lines.
but my rubber soles are still treading the gravel.
and i'm watching the limbs grow.

just another thing to distract you.

every room in this building is stuffy.

full of empty connections.

useless secrets.

dried scabs, chronic cold sweats and slow and heavy breaths.

rib cages are tired of being lifted.

each bone torn from the tissue connected.

shaped like the pipes beneath your sink.

you've discovered the beating figure.

in synch with the beat beneath the skin of the wrist attached to the one who tore those bones apart.

beating harder than the drum of mainstream tunes.

you watch it,

but don't dare to touch as it pulsates.

shrinks, pulls in for a split second.

releases, returning to it's plump state

thump 

thump.

              thump.

              thump.         

the wooden cabinets with metal handles in the art room.

they house each glass plate handed to you on your wedding day.
you wore satin shoes.
heavy vail.
their wooden, dark and consistent.
metal handles.
grasped by familiar hands.
searching for your morning coffee mug.
you need to wake up.
he already left for work.
satin shoes on the floor of the double door closet inside the room you share with him.
metal handles.
on the door to that mutual chamber.
it's dark and consistent
like those wooden cabinets.
glass plates resting in them.
the ones that were handed to you.
and him.