It feels as if these walls are paper-thin and I’m trying to stay within the margins,

Somehow I still bleed out of every page

Maroon red

I guess that's what my psychiatrist meant when she told me to bleed on paper instead of my bathroom sink,

These wrists aren't canvases for a poet, 

You can't paint pictures with words on walls that lack the durability of five star spiral notebooks, 

You can't tell the world your horror stories with scarred half sleeves, 

Lacks quality,

I was 13 years old when she told me, "instead of counting your blessings count your dreams

You'll realize that your nightmares are made subconsciously,

You have more control over your own suffering than you think,

So write about it.”

I haven't stopped writing since, 

This pen is a savior to me

She came to me without pierced palms willing to fight the demons within me,

She might not have legs to walk over water

Nor the keys to the gates of eternity 

But she's my savior, 

She'd wrap me up in her wings every time my anxiety played hide and seek with my lungs, 

Count to three and she'd resuscitate the fight left in me

Even when there was none,

This was never a talent but Gods most generous gift

I am humbled by your presence, 

By your ability to mold something as broken as me into your image,

There's nothing beautiful about 

These growing insecurities

I can barely be with myself alone,

My minds a padded room with thoughts that overflow

I don't recognize myself anymore,

These mirrors show skull and bone 

From letting the world define me,

I've been torn down to shreds by men unable to value me, 

I never knew my worth until my father’s recovery hugely depended on me, 

"You need to be strong for him,"

But I can barely stand on my own two feet,

I have thoughts the angel of death will drop a visit while he sleeps, 

I find myself wiping away the tears every time I watch Threes Company,

I Love Lucy, 

I Dream of Jeanie,

Anything that brings me back to you and I being happy, 

I just hope someday I'll hear you say you're proud of me 

Even if I have to physically separate the clouds from my view of the heavens 

Just to see your smile 

I owe you everything I've got, 

Even though it’s not enough, 

But I'm writing.

Writing till my fingers go numb,

Writing till I can find where these demons come from,

Writing so that you can save me from myself, 

I need you to be my savior again,

Poetry.