You could call me a sort of broken. The sort that knows not of repair, but adaptation. The sort that weeps in the darker hours out of fear. And is painfully unaware of the root of such anxiety. No part of me is whole. No part of me is complete, or remaining pure.

I am filthy. I am shattered. I am beaten to the core with satanic hatred. I am lost.

I no longer find myself leaning upon faith, but the idea that faith may not be present. The idea that I may still be in a reality where I do not trust nor love the God I think I have come to know. I am lost inside depths I cannot describe and every second I am looking downward. Deeper.

Lying to myself that I have met with change. Lying to the world that there remains no life to the past. I rejoice in times of cleanliness, only to meet the thoughts that gave me purpose to do so. No part of me is okay. No part of me is making it. No part of me is new.

Could it be so that the light at the end of this tunnel is a train? Could it appear that I am traveling only to rediscover pain? Oh what a life it could be, to live one that’s free. No scars to run fingertips over, only dimples in cheeks. No family gatherings with demons of the life I have lived. No ghosts or beer bottles in my closet, only pretty dresses and books I’ll never read. I don’t think you understand where I pose in life. I am the wrong end of the spectrum, the side that raises worry for the people who give a simple damn. And thankfully, I can only name a few. Yet even from those I couldn't give you two. who knew of where I speak from.

Empty bedrooms, full beds. Littered with vision altering substances. Because oh what a life it could be if I could just get myself together, or quit what has captured me. But you see it was there when I was not. It was awake when I was unable to be. And it clutched my lifeless body. when I let go of it.

I cannot tell you I will condemn myself to the walls I once placed my body in. With parents whom cared not to see my success for they were too comfortable with my suffering. After all weren't they the ones feeding the tired bones I had come to know? Leaving marks on the skin they created, I cannot tell you; I love them. Because you see, try as you might to grow fond of whom created you, the moment they birth agony to your life, it becomes harder. Over a decade of doing such, repairing mends, resembles the mental images; ever-present.

My life is built upon the firm foundation of “Next time”. Next time I will be smarter. Next time I will say something. Next time I will fight back. Next time I will be braver. Next time I will tell more than half the truth. And I find that next time occurs as often as never. Resulting the vicious cycle of a repeating past relying on a day never to come.

As so I sit here. Pouring my guts out to whom it may concern. Though I am fully conscious of those it does not. Adding to my inventory of regrets as I drug every sober thought. Wishing it be no more than the metaphor it seems.

But alas. Maybe next time.