I’ll Take The Blame So You Don’t Have To

i’ll take the blame so you don’t have to

so you can sleep at night

but be sure to keep one eye open

because karma has no deadline

one day you will ache like i ached

you will bleed like i bled

and it won’t be red it will be pitch black

with yellow clots

and the cut on your body is will never heal

because the memories of me will tear open your flesh

making it seemingly impossible to salt the wound

making it impossible to look at your skin stretched over your frail bones

you will stumble down vacant hallways watching my name echo off the shattered windows

you will feel this pain

and you won’t see yourself as the victim anymore

you’ll finally understand that there’s no villain in this story

there’s no hero

you’re no hero

one day when you feel the backlash from all the chaos you transpired

when you try to right your wrong

i’ll be gone

because if there’s anything you taught me- it’s that time is the only thing that’s really real

time is the only thing that’s real

Crash (part 2)

It was a cool day.

The sun was wide awake.

The tar on the highway kissing the tires gently.

The Strokes were playing, track number three.

Then slowly, but all at once- it happened.

Crash.

We were hit head on.

You in the drivers seat.

Not paying attention to the one-way street.

You never asked me if I was okay.

I’m still living with whiplash.

The seatbelt is permanently tightened around my stomach.

You immediately started feeding excuses.

You had no proof of insurance.

And sometimes I swear I’m still watching you wipe tears from your eyes in the rear view mirror.

You weren’t crying because you were sorry.

You weren’t crying because you were hurt.

You were crying because it was an inconvenience to you.

Everything was always an inconvenience to you.

You never cared that I was in the backseat.

You never cared that from that day forward you taught me to always flee crime scenes, you taught me to always point my bloody fingers at the victim

You were always the ambassador of bad things.

You always taught me to be the chaos transpiring.

But I just want to be soft, and sweet.

I just want to purge you from my memories and recreate them with something more filling.

I never wanna ride with you again.

All you ever do is

crash.

A Soundless Echo

And just like that-

You felt the rush of a thousand heartbreaks.

Like swallowing shards of glass, and grinning as it punctures your lungs.

You didn’t care that it hurt, because at least you could finally feel something.

Do you remember when you were a small child, and you stuck your fingers in hot wax just trying to cover the tired flesh stretched over your shaky hands?

You always told your family you’d leave your handprint on the world but you were constantly covering your tracks.

Remember your first kiss? How everyone told you that you’d feel those butterflies in your stomach, like they’re swarming around in the fresh, crisp spring.

Remember how they told you it would be unforgettable?

But when the time finally came, it felt like black tar settling in the settling in the pit of your stomach.

And you can’t recall who it was or when it happened, all you know is that you’ve kissed a million strangers ever since just chasing that euphoria you read about in story books.

They said your first breakup will teach you a lesson but leave you in shambles.

When you and your first split all it taught you is that love is always conditional and people just fucking suck.

It didn’t leave you in pieces more or less with a blank stare and a soundless echo.

It made you question if you were capable of feeling at all.

You feel more at home at a cemetery than you do in your own house.

Another manic episode comes crashing over and the flickering between your ears gets you buzzing like a bee.

The thing about chasing highs is that once you fall, you hit rock bottom and it’s gonna take more than your impulsive choices to dig you out.

Didn’t they tell you that putting chemicals in your hair won’t make up for the imbalance in your brain?

You beg the psychiatrist to spare some serotonin.

You don’t know how to tell the people closest to you that you’re broken.

So you allow them to admit you into hospital treatment centers.

You sit in group therapy and listen to the boy who nearly died from a heroin overdose.

You listen to him compare the pulsing in his veins to the heartbeat he felt when he’d put his head against her chest.

You promise yourself you’ll never go down that path.

Till one day you’re sitting in a 7/11 bathroom using a dirty needle.

You were never good at keeping promises.

Your wrists serve as enough evidence.

One day you’re coming down from doing enough cocaine to spell out heartbreak and you tell yourself you have to stop living this way.

So here you are again 63 days inpatient.

Swearing up and down you’re gonna get your shit together.

Doing everything you possibly can to try and get better.

Your counselor says you’ve overstayed your welcome so you pack your bags and head back home.

Or not home.

More like the place you just reside.

You always made houses out of flesh and bone instead of brick and board and maybe that’s where it all went wrong.

But today you’ve grown.

You’ve shed the skin of yesterday, and you’ve outgrown old habits you thought you’d never kick.

No more hospital treatment centers, no more padded rooms.

You’ve learned that your pain demands to be felt. So when it comes, invite it in. Let it sit for a moment and allow yourself to feel it. But don’t let it overstay it’s welcome.

Right your wrongs, take inventory of harm you may have caused.

Reconstruct your idea of reality, shift your perspective, change and change again because there’s no limit on who you should be.

Ward off negative energy and surround yourself with those who lift you up rather than remind you of your wrongs.

Of course you’re the villain in someone else’s story, but all that matters is that you’re the hero in yours.

Love and War

I hate to see you this way.

Depression oozing from every pore.

Paranoia strapped to your body like a piggyback you never consented to.

White powdered dust still eminent in your nasal passages.

I’m trying to love and tolerate you with the same compassion I’d have for a sick person.

Because in all reality you are sick.

Mentally and spiritually ill.

I told everyone we lost touch but I’m tired of lying to my fingertips.

It’s the same game with you, I know how this goes.

The ticking clock in your mouth gets louder by the minute.

It gets harder to distinguish the truth in all your lies.

And I’m left with no choice but to cut ties.

Honey it’s okay, I know hands like yours only know how to let go.

And destruct.

You told me how you were just trying to fill the void with anything that’ll pour into it.

You told me you’re sick of waking up with raw knuckles from fist fighting the demons in your sleep.

The ones that whisper in your ear and tell you to question everything.

Question everything.

Like the emptiness in your stomach

And the water in your lungs.

I heard you stopped smoking cigarettes.

But you still hang on to old habits.

I guess they’re hard to kick.

I saw the light fade from your eyes,

there’s nothing left inside them.

No twinkle, no shine.

There used to be so much life inside you.

Now you’re someone I don’t recognize.

Somewhere along the way between finding yourself and finding something to fill the white spaces you gave up hope and abandoned all the qualities that made you unique.

Now you look like a dead end street full of vacant houses and mailboxes are full of all the unopened letters I sent while you were in the treatment center.

I’m not sure if this is something we can replace in all the empty bottles and nickel baggies but you said you’ll find a way to make it work.

I know the human skin can be hard to live in, so you pull at the layers of blackened scar tissue just trying to find some solution to the issue.

But baby the issue is you.

You’d break your own finger just to be sure it’s not pointing at you.

Wake up.

I’m not the enemy.

You’re fighting a war against someone who’s never pulled a weapon on you.

Guilty by Association

I used to pray I’d never have to say ‘I told you so’ ,but god damnit I told you so! I warned you not to play with fire. You said you saw sparks but paid no mind to the fire alarms in her chest.

The thing about foreclosed houses is the condition of the estate.

Her chest was deemed uninhabitable but you still shimmied your way into every crack and crevice because you wanted to believe you could make it work.

The stairs are crumbling and the welcome mat is covered in bloodstains.

The deadbolt is locked and even your feeble hands can’t pick the lock.

The thing about abandoned houses is that ghosts live there and they’re vacant for a reason.

You can hang curtains and patch the holes in the drywall but you can’t make that chest a home.

No matter how much you try to insist that it was love, all it ever was were chemical highs followed by an inevitable comedown. It was the kind of love that kept you up for days, high on the feeling of euphoria. But once her fists met the wall, it shocked you back into reality.

You kept insisting the show must go on because the audience applauds at the sight of your clasped hands. She kept reminding you of all the good times spent together and suggested you try to salvage what’s left in the wreckage.

She kept assuring you everything was okay. And you believed her. Not because it was, but because you knew how hard you were trying to make it be.

If you keep letting her hurt the same parts of you over and over, eventually the nerve endings will die and you will feel nothing.

But the waves of electricity running rampant through your veins, the flickering between your thighs, the way she replaced your hollow silence with beautiful, shiny, noise- it all felt like a justification to keep pushing through.

Sure, you separate yourself from her emotionally and mentally, but physically you just can’t break free.

I warned you about stepping foot in the crime scene.

She’s plastered with yellow caution tape, and you were just too color blind to see the warning signs.

She’s got skeletons in her closet she swears don’t belong to her, but if you dig deep enough, you will find DNA convicting her of the crime.

She’s no angel and you’re not capable of performing an exorcisms.

But you felt like it was a privilege to be loved by her.

So you ignored the emotional bruises.

You kept your hands locked with hers because she made you feel real.

You removed the bloodstains from the carpet, and set fire to the evidence.

That was your part of the deal.

Lost In Translation

I’m still trying to translate you.

But I know the language we speak.

It’s not foreign to me.

I know you love me, when you speak between your teeth.

Sweet nothings, sweet everything’s roll off your tongue and drip from your lips.

This I know. Just this.

You love me despite the incisions on my hips and the jargon in my head.

And on the days when the sun forgets to shine, and the weight of every single bad thing is crushing my chest, you remind me it’s okay to stay in bed all day.

I know you love me because you kiss me even when I forget to brush my teeth.

And you tell me to drink water and take my medication.

You remind me to say my prayers.

And every night a bad dream brings a chill to my bones, you hold me and remind me everything’s okay.

We’re okay.

It’s okay.

And I believe you.

Because for once it’s finally true.

Here’s to me and you.