It's been hours now,
 and I'm turning to tequila instead of yoga,
 drinking deep instead of breathing.
Because I don't know how to do this,
I don't know to be wanted,
how to be want-able.
I think I did once,
 or twice
 maybe it just happened and no one knew why.
Or maybe those others,
they were trawling for an innocent,
someone with fragile bones.
And there I was.
The thing about bones is that once you break them
 they'll always be easier to snap.
 Yeah that's okay,
 I knit back together each time thinking I'm
stronger than the last
but if you find the right spot to tap
 I'll split down the middle
old hurts spilling onto the pavement.
I don't know what I'm trying to say
except when I'm standing next to you
all the words melt into nothingness
and when I get back home
they explode onto my tongue.
So I'm killing them with tequila,
and sending them into space.

sometimes when your chest gets tight
when the voice in your head won't quit
 if you catch yourself dragging fingernails over your skin lovingly like home grown knives
the best thing you can do is write
take a sheet of paper and an ink pen
spill your cliched heart broken soul
cover the page
and cry on it
coat your feelings in gesso
it smells like house paint but that's okay
paint strips downwards
watch your ink blur and grey
hide it under something beautiful
pretend that you could have been an artist
if you'd wanted
and if that teacher hadn't said you lacked originality
don't stop
dip your hands into primer
cover your scars
make your skin new

Do you ever slip your knuckle between your teeth,
and wonder how hard you'd have to bite down,
to break bone?

Sometimes, reading backwards I really want to delete things.
Things that I said, but didn't really mean. Things that I wrote trying to convince myself that I was happy and fine. I am not good at lying.
But I am very good at pretending.
At skirting around the issue. Writing at length about a lost ring, neglecting to mention that I never wanted it in the first place. Neglecting to mention that I wasn't remotely even in love-ish, but that it was nice to feel loved.
Love is nice. It is warm and comforting and safe.
Until it turns into control, and then it isn't really nice or safe anymore.
It's scary feeling and smothery.
 Except you're not scared because you haven't been told that you're scared. You are fine.
And while we're at it, you are helpless and weak and shouldn't eat that thing because you'll get fat. Fatter, really. And why don't you come out tonight, I said you'd come, they're your friends too, if you don't come I'll look stupid, I said you'd come without asking you therefore you must. And you wouldn't even be passing university without me. Do you remember what you were like when we met? And now you're getting As. Do you remember what you were like when we met? You couldn't even eat in public or finish a meal (No don't eat that thing you're getting fat). Look at your belly, what do you mean you're not in the mood? I have needs. You're still beautiful to me, I'm trying to help you. I have needs. What do you mean you won't? What do you mean no?
You really overreacted last night.
But it's okay.
I understand.
It was your anxiety.
Remember what you were like before you met me?
You're really so much better now.

It turns out that freedom, is actually nicer.
Wonderful even.