Again and Again

When you first said,
“You make me happy.”,
my gut reaction,
my initial response was,
“Why?”

Why,
how,
could some pessimistic,
worrisome,
neurotic,
clusterfucked,
disorganized,
self-loathing,
son of a bitch like me make you happy?

I ask why,
remembering every time you tried to be optimistic,
tried to tell me,
“It’s going to be okay.”,
keep me from losing it,
only to be shut down—
remembering each time looking in the mirror,
seeing the jagged,
gnarled,
wounds that have only physically scarred,
thinking of how it will pain you to see those for the first time.

And yet here you sit,
sighing to yourself though with the same jovial lilt in your tone,
still saying,
“You make me happy.”,
again and again.

When you first said,
“I’m the lucky one.”,
my gut reaction,
my initial response was once more,
“Why?”

Why,
how,
are you the lucky one?
You put up with the tangled,
frayed,
fucked up little ball of crazy that is me.
You put up with the breakdowns,
the ASI,
the PSI,
the mood cycling,
the periods of unresponsiveness,
because I just… shut down.

I ask why,
remembering every night of silence,
every morning of sleepless panic,
every tear I’ve shed,
every tear you’ve shed at my own fault,
every medication rollercoaster,
every manic high,
every depressive low,
every mental break,
every frantic call,
every anxious question.
So tell me,
why are you the lucky one?

And yet here you sit,
chuckling a “For fuck’s sake” under your breath,
still saying,
“I’m the lucky one.”,
again and again.

When you first said,
“I love you.”,
my gut reaction,
my initial response was still,
“Why?”

Why,
how,
could anyone love… this?
A broken,
angry,
tired,
empty,
scarred husk of a… human being.
Am I human?
Who am I?
What am I?

I ask why,
seeing every character flaw,
looking at every physical imperfection,
remembering every shitty thing I’ve ever said,
ever done,
to you especially.

And yet here you sit,
shushing my protests,
still saying,
“I love you.”
again and again.

However,
you can’t shush me permanently,
Schat.

So, no
You make me happy.
Before you,
genuine smiles and true laughter…
Those were but long faded memories.

So, no.
I’m the lucky one.
Before you,
I hadn’t known what love was,
or what it was to be loved.

So, no.
I love you more.
Before you,
I was a lifeless,
shell of a creature,
merely going through the motions—
but you were a jolt of electricity,
striking a cold,
dead,
black heart.
You did the impossible:
you got a pulse.
You showed me that I am,
in fact,
still human.

You make me extraordinarily happy.
I am the luckiest person alive.
I love you very much.
Please don’t ever forget that.

~Little Bird

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You Are

You are a massive fuckwit…

for even thinking that you are not good enough.
I should be,
I am,
the one,
thinking this,
saying this to you.
Every.
Single.
Day.

You are intelligent.

Not smart enough for psychology?
Really?
Then why do you know my tells?
How did you learn them so quickly,
and through text even?
“I’m not trained.”
I, however, am in training,
and it looks like you’re learning through osmosis, love.

You are a kind soul.

If you weren’t,
our paths would have never crossed.
We’d be running parallel,
never intersecting,
never tumbling to the ground in a head-on collision,
and never deciding to hang around and talk,
even after making sure the other was okay.

You are a patient man.

You, one of the few, picked up every shard of a broken woman,
piercing,
potentially venomous,
without a second thought.
And when she hurt you,
when those shards pierced your flesh,
drew blood,
more than once,
you smiled.
You held on.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The woman cried;
you took every fragmented piece of her for who she was.

You are the better.

“You deserve better.”
You fucking muppet.
Your words were a punch straight to the chest;
I couldn’t breathe.
“Why?”
I asked.
Two reasons you gave me—
I shut them both down in four minutes.
I would have only needed two had I not been typing.

You are my better.

I’d never found my better here,
because it is currently seven time zones,
5,150 miles,
8,288 kilometers,
and an entire ocean away.
They say every person has their perfect match,
a single person out of 7.4 billion,
and what if we’ve found our’s?

You are too good for me.

How did I,
some angry,
shattered,
defective,
little ball of crazy meet you?
Capture you?
And somehow,
despite making you bleed far too many times,
keep you?

You are my better,
and for reasons I have yet to comprehend,
I am your better.

Usstan che dos.
愛してる。
Я люблю тебя.
Te amo.

~Little Bird

Just a Little Bit of Happiness

“Do you even know what he looks like?”

You really ask me that?
Honestly,
I thought you’d be happy for me.
For us.
You know what I’ve dealt with,
lately in particular.
I can’t just have this little bit of happiness?

“He’s only seventeen.”

And just who the fuck are you to judge?
Twice your age,
not that it particularly matters,
but playing petty games even?
You’re to blame too, you know.
I told you as a friend.
I thought we were friends, anyway…
I just want a little bit of happiness.

“That’s some serious long distance.”

Really?
Fucking really?
Sure,
you two aren’t quite as far,
but you aren’t particularly close either.
How many miles?
Cross country, yeah?
Goddamn hypocrite.
I need just a little bit of happiness.

“I thought you weren’t into guys…”

Ever heard of fluidity?
I’ve had so much trouble,
so much fucking trouble,
with my sexual identity—
had to defend it to my mother for ten years.
And here,
someone who dares call me a friend,
tries to shatter that?
I deserve just a little bit of happiness.

Don’t take your problems out on him.
Don’t spit your acid,
mess with his head,
cause him astronomical amounts of pain,
confusion,
suffering,
because you refuse to face your own fucking problems.

Don’t call me a chameleon,
accuse me of “blaming my pills”,
not taking responsibility,
calling me my fucking father.

I will have just a little bit of happiness,
and you will not ruin it because you cannot find your own.

Please…

Please,
just make it stop.
I beg you.

I’m choking,
but drawing just enough breath to remain conscious.
Frigid water fills my lungs.
I feel everything.
I hear everything.

‘I raised your sister as a single mother in nursing school, you know.’
‘You don’t have cancer.’
‘If you’re that sick, I’ll have to take care of you.’
‘GPA: 2.78.’
‘Won’t make it through the winter… I just thought you should know.’

Though I could only see the fading lights,
shrinking and dying,
as I sank down deeper beneath the surface,
I somehow continued to draw that same breath,
just barely enough,
to remain painfully alive.

Be merciful.
End it quickly.
Let me rest.

My lungs are ripped from my chest,
body trembling.
I have no more tears to cry,
all soaked into the blanket around my shoulders,
down the front of my shirt.
My phone clutched in my hand,
I sit at my desk,
the blue light of my laptop staring me in the face.
Ask for help.
The words dance through Window’s the glow,
mocking me.
I’m stronger than that…
I don’t need to burden them.
I do the helping.
That’s.
My.
Job.

For fuck’s sake,
stop dragging it out.
Just let me die.

I’ve stared at you,
my silver-edged friend,
every night for the last five days.
I can hear Lilith in the back of my mind,
reminding me of the old days,
…offering to listen just like the old days.
Exactly why I don’t take showers after dark anymore,
especially lately.
The offer has been tempting,
but the pinkest of the scars are just beginning to heal.

Stop being a pussy!
Kill me, goddammit!
Just do it already!

I have my instructions all lined up,
legibly printed on clean paper,
stored and ready.
I lack a firearm;
however, I’ve calculated lethal dosages and combinations of my medications.
It’s just…
the letters.
They’re not all written.

I can’t leave anything unfinished—
leave anything unsaid.
And that list…
what was once only ten long and eight written,
is now 22 long and only 14 written.
It grows,
and so,
I stay.
Because I can leave nothing undone.

I fucking beg you,
just let me fucking rest!
Stop fucking dragging it out!
Just fucking do it, goddammit!

I just want to die.

P l e a s e…

I Thought I Had One

‘At least I have one good parent…’
I’ve been telling myself this from the time I realized I never had a father.
Funny thing is,
my parents were [and still are] married.
We lived in the same house.
We did these superficial little things together.

But, …if we’re being honest,
were we genuinely a family?
Fuck.
No.

My father was always absent—
drifting off into the recesses of his own mind,
ruminating on his self-serving need for the gratitude of others,
fixated on this mindless drive to be a caring, devout nurse, loved by every patient and coworker alike,
focused on his sole purpose in life of spreading love to the entirety of world,
…excluding his family.

So, what were we to him?
A wife: secondary income-earner and sexual object.
A daughter: the only thing he created to pass on his genes and continue his “legacy”.
A step-daughter: the seven-year-old came with the wife from the previous marriage.
Apparently,
not a whole lot.
Usually,
it felt like nothing.

Now,
as of February 2016,
a changed man;
a recovering drug addict.
He has a disease,
and just like that…,
it’s as if the last 25 years,
of which 22 I existed,
no longer mattered.
You forgave him quickly.
Easily.

I am so.

Fucking.

Disappointed.

In him?
Sure.
But in you?
More than you can ever imagine.

You were our rock growing up.
You were forced to raise a child, a teenager…
and a husband.
You worked the overtime.
You paid the bills.
You found the money to pay for Christmas,
when there was no money to be found.

You took the brunt of the physical abuse,
for both Sisi and I.
Even if you were so angry because you couldn’t save us from the emotional,
the verbal abuse,
you did everything you could.
You even grew a pair with age;
you’re no longer that meek, doe-eyed woman I called “Mommy” as a kid.

But you can see drug abuse,
unlike an unbalanced brain chemistry,
and because he’s a “changed man”,
your marriage is “better than ever.”
10/02/1993 to Present

“He’s just like you—he has a disease.”
You beg me to open my eyes,
to magically forgive a lifetime of abuse—
my own, your own, Sisi’s…,
all of which I had witnessed first-hand.

But you can see his,
because you can see drug abuse.”
The acid splatters across your skin;
my words—impulsive, resentful—are corrosive.
Don’t you dare compare me to him.
You can’t see excess dopamine.
The flesh on your arms begins to melt away.
The words erode further inward,
exposing more and more of you as I go on.
You can’t see disordered patterns of thought… maladaptive schemas!

Schemas…?
I read the question in your expression,
can see it in your eyes.
The rage condenses in my chest,
implodes,
forms a black hole.
It consumes everything,
beginning with me.

You know what?!
I’d explained it god-knows-how-many-times.
Once again,
you hadn’t listened to a goddamn thing.
Fucking forget it!
Shaking my head,
I walk away.
Again.

What happened to you?
What else did he do to you?
You were ready to finally leave;
for once, ready to think of,
think for,
yourself.

You were ready to do what’s best for yourself

I just…
Who are you?
Please tell me.
At least then,
I’ll know who I’m talking to,
because I’m sure as hell not talking to Audre Annette.

Lilith

This is the excerpt for your very first post.

I smile, looking back on the first time we met.
I was young… only 12.
I was just starting to hurt.
You called to me; however, I wasn’t ready to listen just yet.
You didn’t give up on me though; you were patient.
You waited.

“You didn’t need me then”,
you later told me. “I knew you would one day, and I was willing to wait; I couldn’t abandon you. I would never abandon you.”
You were so kind.
You listened.
You were so non-judgmental.
You didn’t ask for much in return; nothing monetary.
Of course, I could spare what you asked.

I turned sixteen two months ago, in November.
You’ve been back for eight months.
We spend almost every night together.
The agreement is the same: you lend an ear, and I provide payment.
Tonight is no different.

You travel across my skin.
Sting, drip, splash. Sting, drip, splash.
When you’ve had your fill, and I’ve told my stories for the day, I feel a sense of calm.
I watch the stress, the anger, the burning self-loathing that once pitted in the center of my chest, bleed into the water and wash away.
Not a single stain.
You’re smart; porcelain isn’t a hassle to clean up like carpet or even tile.
My secret is safe.
You are safe, tucked away in your box in the back of the last drawer of my jewelry box.
Everything is in place.
I sleep soundly as I always do on the nights we spend together.

…I awake this morning, and as usual, I wonder why I let you do this.
Why I do I let you tell me what to do with my time?
I can wear only what you tell me to.
I can have only the friends that you approve of.
I can only participate in the activities you say are okay; you’re taking softball and choir, my sport and my music, away from me.
You’ve gotten so goddamn demanding… controlling.

I despise you.

With every ounce of my being. 

I almost toss your sorry ass to the curb; throw you away for good.

…Almost…

I want to laugh in your face as you drown in the remnants of your own sin–the rusty brown tissues hidden under random scraps of toilet paper and old face wash bottles…

But then, in that soft, soothing, musical tone of yours, you speak to me.
I see your beauty–the same beauty I saw that first night we reconnected–and the way you glow under the light in which we first met.
You bring the spark back into my life.
You bring the color back to me when it fades and the world falls into a lifeless, monochrome blur.

It never takes me long to realize that I’m a fucking fool.
I can’t live without you.
I’m sorry.

Can you forgive me?

You only want what’s best for me; you’re trying to save me from myself.
Sometimes, I’m blinded by what I see everywhere else.
I forget what you’ve done for me.
I promise, we’ll spend extra time tonight, okay?
Please…, just don’t go.
I don’t know where I would be without you.
Just… stay….

I need you, Lilith.

Journey Through Depression #2: Anger

Soothing… Music is supposed to be soothing.
But it doesn’t work like that, at least not for me, …at least not tonight.
Papa Roach blares in the background,
but not even the blast of the bass subdues the beast within.

Fists clenched,
I search for an escape.
The metallic edge catches the dirty lamp’s light.
I sigh, relieved.
Tonight, I give in.
Tonight, the beast drinks.

Sliced flesh;
tension dissipates.
Sparkling crimson pours from fresh wounds.
The dulled world clears and brightens.

For now,
I feel no regret.
My self-esteem rises, even if only for a moment.
The pudge coating my bones doesn’t seem so bulky.

I smile; my self-loathing slithering down the drain.
My dark angel smiles back as she leaves.
I’ll be back tomorrow.“, she says

Tonight, I sleep well.

Tonight, my dreams are pleasant.