Fingernails up an arm,
down an arm.
red lines, then nothing.
Head banging into hands,
not so hard as to damage,
but to say stupid, stupid, stupid.
A brain that won’t work right,
a mind that won’t stop,
words that circle, in circles.
Breathing is an art,
regret is a black mark,
panic is the cause.
Control is the craving,
an addiction, but not quite.
You can’t cure an addiction.
Arms hug me tight –
You are okay and fine
Wait, those arms are mine.
When you don’t feel like you’re enough,
please remember that you are.
When you don’t feel like you’re worthy,
remember that you are absolutely worthy –
of love, life, happiness, and all things good.
You are worth fighting for –
no matter your flaws and imperfections,
you are a human being –
a beautiful inside and out human being,
and for that alone,
I never understood love to be a choice – until now. We’ve always heard that love is patient, love is kind, love is slow to anger, and love is not-self serving – lines that sound great in a birthday card or maybe a tattoo, but seem to rarely be put into practice. How often are we kind to one another? How often are we patient with one another? How often are we quick to be angry? How often are we self-serving? A lot.
We demonstrate love when we choose to be patient and when we are kind to one another. We demonstrate love when we serve other and when we are slow to become angry. Love is the choice to keep doing these things when everything else seems like it’s going to hell in a handbasket. Love perserveres and the reason it does is because we consistently choose to be patient and kind and servient to those that we claim we love – and even those we don’t.
Love is sometimes hard to give. It is difficult to choose patience when it would be easier to be angry and lash out. It is difficult to remain calm when someone does something to offend us. It is difficult to serve others when we feel that they are not serving us. Love is humble, too. Love is stepping back from where you’ve been and saying “yep, I messed up.”
Love is a choice that we make everyday.
I feel hollow,
But shells were meant to be filled.
The things on the inside that no one sees.
The things that kill you slowly and silently.
The things no one will believe –
that you never wanted to be crazy;
that you have words you want to say,
but you can’t because they’re trapped in your head
right behind that smile you put on.
right behind that smile.
I can feel myself fading away.
One bit at a time.
Small chunks at first.
Then bigger and larger
until there is just an outline
where I used to be.
People say cruel things now,
Their words are harsh and unfiltered,
cold as steel and ice and salt;
words that exist only to burn
some other human being.
A repertoire of vindication;
crueler, harsher, colder words
that are supposed to prove ones righteousness,
that are supposed to prove ones right to be,
that are supposed to combat the first cycle of viciousness
But it doesn’t.
Instead whatever humanity is left,
if there is any, was any,
is faded just a bit more –
a red wine, coffee stain, grass stain
that gets smaller and dimmer and duller
with each wash,
until it can barely be seen in the brightest of lights.
That’s us now. Them now.
One against the other,
as if we, they, aren’t all in this together.
As if we, they, can escape this planet
in any other way except death.
We all die, sometime or the other,
regardless of whether we have lived happy lives
or sad lives or fulfilled lives.
It’s the between that is important.
What they do with themselves now –
to see them so awful and miserable
and not the least defiant –
Not the least willing to listen to their God –
the one who said fear not!
The violence in their words leaves black marks,
like black eyes and bloody noses and dark yellow bruises;
and they mean it so,
to be cruel and harsh and cold.
The repertoire of vindication –
without a sun there is no light
and without a light there is only darkness –
and they are content with the windowless rooms
they have built over the dreams of others.