Written

I went to the edge of a cliff sometime last week and thought about jumping. If I were good enough, I'd swim to the top for survival I thought. I couldn't.
After all these moments I gather up inside myself and find that timing is still well, everything. I get it all down in miniature words. I worry that this has become what it is. Without fail, betrayal proves to override my theory. What are we but bodies anyway? So many things, so many each one of us is complex. But we live to survive. Go through it, I think - now I can become someone, else.
 Life has a funny way of showing you with each self fulfilled prophecy that the system won't fail you. One plus one will always equal two. Numbers, seems I've been racking up the toxins long before it was waste.
You want to know what gets under my skin for all the wrong reasons but I don't. I want you to trust me, whoever you are, this is not enough. I could say more but somehow I know- it won't matter to you, some.
I consider the pace at which a small snail crawls. Without meaning to I've weighed my options accordingly. Without consequence there is no bravery. Without honesty all else crumbles and I find you: me. I am parting ways with beauty and embracing the body's faults, I fold back unto the self. My body bares marks and scars, some from history that I am learning to face the truth I believe in time, heals. What misery lurks in my eyes is not the death of hir.
My body is broken and I can see this so plainly.
You tell me all that I know- my heart on my sleeve, I am all telling. My face is a voice all it's own. In a glance that is telling "hold on to me but don't love me." In my bed is the memory of what didn't happen to me but the truth conjures up the truth. I learned to recover but I feel nothing that dwells on like this pain. I've created it, this story, in a sense all my fears and my traumas are only imaginary.
My sensibilities covered the sheets. The lies trained my faith to trust in the lacking and all the things- a person can't become. I kept on so ferociously, I never stopped fighting. I started first by tossing it out. But that garbage has no end. I notice that a box contains a lot of stuff but collecting things and confining them are too little space a space to expect that throw will rid me of it. I withdraw and walk away. I am able. I haven't stopped believing, so I strip.
I know that every time I get tripped up on tales, conjured up in my imagination, how unnecessary that was. Confusion. I clear the table and begin again. At the drawing board I see the plot, laid out for me and dried. In my head are the thoughts I'm never saying, I try so hard to not give in. But I want revenge.
The stop I make rids my body of symptoms. Writing's but another symptom I won't give anyone the credit. Whom do I owe my love to but no one, my words here aren't enough. I see words as associations and people in bodies, they get all mixed up. My demons, try as I might, won't be rid of - at least not this lifetime. Regardless of my faults, I am able to continue because I remember. Even when you won't love love exists. It's not tied up or beat down, it's not sexy, only ugly - there's a humble truth in every wall and speak of this seems arbitrary. But I don't want a mess here in this heart, I don't want a cover for my thoughts. I want everything and nothing but I can't help that. If space dictates what is between us only I am at fault for such thoughts which are difficult, times to tell us all the real truth.