with every shaky beat,
you strive to live
when every other part of my body
tells you to stop,
you keep going
you love so hard and so deep
and at time i hate you for it
but you love still
the scars on my wrists are nothing
compared to what i put you through
i’m not really sure how you do it
you are so damaged yet so strong
so broken yet so resilient
i’m so sorry
You have never laid a finger on me
but your grip holds
tight around my neck
and I have been gasping for air
since you first showed me
your temper erupting from
your palms landing on the
one you promised to care for
You proved to be a
volcano spreading your lava over
birthday parties and graduations
A tsunami ruining beach days and
washing away sand castles and smiles
You have never laid a finger on me,
but your grip left
bruises on my young mind
and you spent twenty-two years
pretending they weren't there
You are everything
I don't want in
and I will scrub your essence
out of my soul, mind, and body
until the only thing
linking us is our
my blistered hands
have forgotten what it felt like to
reach for something that isn't
running in the opposite direction
forgive me if i doubt your love
for i have never held something
that didn't slip through my fingers
whenever i looked away
every time i wake with
a kiss on my cheek and
my heart safely in your hands
you are giving me
a break from
pictures in motion
realistic on their own,
but no one else sees.
I can hear your heartbeat across the miles that separate
your hospital room from my classroom. It’s straining under
the weight of years of life. I am sitting here
thinking back to every time I’ve cried in your living room,
every time I hid in your bathroom to get a second
alone, every time I ran around the kitchen table
or played basketball in your driveway. I sit here with water
swelling my eyes thinking that it might be over soon. I’m
not ready for this to be over. I’m not ready to
let go of your voice when you complain about the three
papers on the table that must be cleaned because the house
is a wreck. I am not ready to walk through the door and
not get bombarded with questions and accusations
about what I must have been doing while I was away.
I sit here crying. I cry and I just want to run to
your house because it’s the only way I know how to keep
my heart in my chest and my brain standing still. You are my
safe place, my playground, my sunrise. You are my smile after
a week of struggling. But you grasp your chest and gasp for air
and the clouds I created to block the future from my
view are lifted a little more.
I don’t want to see this.
I don’t want to lose you.
I can’t let you go yet.
I can’t loosen my grip.
She remains, muttering the same two words
Bruises cover her delicate framework
Blood stained, on her scraped knees looking upward
How did she fall for his every small quirk?
Now she spends her useless time dressing wounds
Thinking back to the times before her love hurt
Her tears form lakes, depression all around
His hands always return to squeeze her heart
Electricity fills her crippled bones
Tension rises with the shake of her hands
She pleads, he screams without a change of tone
The air escapes her lungs with his commands
Her courage heightens for a mere moment
Left her life behind with one last movement
They look down at me spitting words like
I wasn’t like that when I was a kid,
boulders already on my
I am from the generation of hand shaking nausea and beds that haven’t seen sleep in years.
The generation of counting a piece of gum as a meal and
ripping open our wrists in hopes of feeling
better or feeling
maybe we’re just really good at
The generation of quiet
tears at 3AM, holding our breath and
sinking our teeth into our blankets
terrified of waking our alcoholic father or abused mother.
The generation of helpless children
clawing at locked doors. We didn’t ask to be put in this
goddamn room and half of us are
stuck wishing our parents had a better understanding of
birth control. Maybe then everyone’s
lives would be easier.
The generation so painfully aware of the
mistakes of our ancestors, this mess
hanging above our heads like the
chandeliers we only see in movies.
The generation of struggling to remain breathing.
Of brightly colored hair and
stretched earlobes and
“how do you expect to get a job looking like that?”
Of falling short of expectations,
but when we were playing with dirt and rocks in the backyard,
we never would have expected to grow into
The generation of desire.
More than what we have in front of us. Maybe that makes us
greedy but we are
not satisfied jumping from therapist to therapist,
staring at bookshelves of journals at midnight when
no one is willing to listen.
The generation of loneliness.
I am from the generation of trying.
We are trying.
I am trying.