It’s been nearly a decade,
but I still think
about that one day…

I was only home two days,
attempting to begin healing
physically, mentally, and emotionally,
when you decided
I needed to know.

You called me a selfish monster,
a hateful beast,
and blamed me for destroying something
that hadn’t existed in years.
You decided
I wasn’t broken enough,
so you unleashed
your bitterness, your anger,
and aimed it at the fresh wound
in my chest.

You told me I needed to learn
how to make sacrifices
for the benefit of others,
but I guess carving out
my own heart
and giving it to someone
who needed it more
wasn’t enough.

So you broke me further,
the one I had always been told
I could count on,
no matter what;
you twisted my vulnerability,
clawed at my mind,
and ripped apart
what was left
of my sanity.

But I’m still here.
I put back the pieces as best I could;
I’ll never be the same,
not with all the gaps
where some pieces
were obliterated,
but I’m alive.
I’m living.

And you’re still
just a

My Own Worst Enemy [TW]

I’ve never touched you in a menacing way physically;
no intentional bruises or cuts to be found on the surface,
but I beat you with my words
and carve deep wounds with my thoughts almost daily.
We meet face-to-face each morning
and I pick you apart until your shoulders slump
and your head hangs low.
I gift you with grotesque descriptors and
bequeath to you heinous attributes.

And even still, I know I am wrong.

You do so many wonderful things,
things I see every day and
things that go unseen by all.
You convert oxygen into carbon dioxide
and can occasionally puzzle out complicated problems;
you practice abilities and talents again and again
until they become second nature
and you execute them almost expertly.

More importantly, you keep me alive.

And I am grateful,
but the Depression and Anxiety,
they love to lie.
They tell me you’re ugly
and that you’re unworthy
of love and friendship.
They stand on each shoulder,
whispering into my ears
about how you’re a fake and a phony,
and you’ll never be good enough. . .

. . . and I believe them in spite of myself.