Here. I. Am.

Nobody sees the scars because they're hidden.

Swallowed up in the sadness of an untold story. 

But that's what I am. 

I'm made of 

broken pieces, 

untold stories, 

hushed secrets,

glass kisses,

dangerous inspiration, 

unsaid words, 

and hidden scars. 

Full of 

lost hope, 

empty promises, 

smothered memories, 

shattered joy, 

wounded fear,

and fallen dreams. 

Haunted by 

burnt shadows,  

faded beauty, 

quiet love, 

delicate fingerprints,

worn out laughter, 

fragile loss, 

and blank pages. 

I am 

torn edges, 

crooked lines, 

crippled feelings, 

aching tears, 

silent thoughts,

crumbling walls,

and endless mistakes.

A damaged heart.

A frayed soul.

A stained mind.

An imperfect whole.

...But Here I Am.

bricks and blood and broken people.

it's like a mountain sitting on my brain

a dam that's clogging the river, that runs out back, of creativity

covering the crosswalks of an eternal dreamer.

i call it writer's block brick (not block).

it's not the kind of brick you would use to build a house

but the kind that you would use to draw pictures on the sidewalk with the crumbled pieces when you don't have any chalk

the kind that you take pictures of because they're old and faded like my broken past 

(but please don't take pictures of that)

the kind that surround my slightly beating, battered heart

a secret garden.

the kind that hide the love, the war and the burnt lungs.

you knocked on the bricks of my heart

and they never knock back

but for you they did

and it hurt like hell

like all of my insides shook and crumbled as the walls went down

and i could hear the sound, it was the sound of me breaking.

and you came in

scratching at my heart

and leaving scars where you touched.

and i left little pieces of myself where i went...

it's easier to feel without them.

and when the silence comes, all i want is to sleep to the sound of your heartbeat next to mine

because for a moment i thought i felt my soul smile.

the bricks broke.

and the silence came.

and the sounds died.

and my heart stopped breathing...

poison and little white memories.

"You told me I was beautiful.

But I didn't believe you.

Your words felt like poison as they spat on my imperfect skin.

Burning into little white memories.

How could something this dark and broken,

This destroyed, be beautiful?" -me.

The walls.

My-My Heart.

Untouchable. 

Protected.

Just not from you...

You walked through my walls like rain

And touched my heart so gently that it burst into tears.

JUST. STAY. AWAY.

i love you. i love you. i love you.

the whisper is all i have left to give.

and it sounds so strange...

cold to the touch, gentle and easy on the eyes.

a stern, heartless monster that kills.

love.

love.

love.

and i think i might actually feel something if i don't cover it up.

a random little something. . .

WE STOPPED HIDING FROM THE MONSTERS UNDER OUR BEDS 

WHEN WE REALIZED THEY WERE INSIDE OF US.

            

untitled.

Like a pen on a page, you cut deep into my soul; wrote the words of my heart.

But then the pen broke.

And the ink bled.

Leaving a black spot on my life, my very existence.

The ink just continues to spread.

Never stopping.

Stretching to the very edges of all that I am.

And my once clean, empty pages are now forever stained with your memory...

A BARELY BREATHING MEMORY.

the creativity was pulled from our fingertips. stripped from our souls.
and the childhood fell.
fell from our lips and blew away in the wind.
got stomped under the feet of....grown-ups.

was kicked and beaten right out of our souls.

left dead in the dirt. and we're just left empty.

we're still trying to pick up the pieces and put them together with our tape and glue sticks, to put the child back in us. 

but it won't fit anymore. 

it's so broken that the edges don't quite fit the same way, they cut up your insides. 

trying to break out, to get some air. 

all it needs is some air. 

to heal. 

to fix itself. 

then the child would fit again. 

the grown-ups know but the grown-ups don't tell you this. 

they don't care. 

it's not like your pet dog that they tell you to feed and water everyday so it doesn't die. 

because they love the dog. 

it's your childhood, they don't want it. 

so you just try to keep it inside of you, to hold on to it as long as you can.

but it's broken and dying. 

and you're starting to forget...

the pain tickles, trying to remind you that the child is still there. 

but you brush it off, ignoring it. 

because that's what the grown-ups told you to do. 

and now the crayons are melted and my childhood sure as hell ain't never comin back.