Exception 

He was fire He had always been 

Just that 

So he thought 

A raging wild fire 

Filled with demons 

Filled with rage 

Bursting at any moment 
She was the ocean 

She could be calm 

And she could rage 

Like a wild storm 

She could be everything 

In between 
And he 

He loved all of her 

All her shades of blue 

All her storms 
And she 

She loved him 

Even when he was burning 

Burning brighter than the sun 
And together 

They created 

Within each other 

A balance 
For she longed 

She wished 

To show him 

That he was not just fire 

But something more beautiful 
And he 

He moved the heavens 

To show her 

That she was not 

Damned 
And maybe 

Just maybe 

They were 

Each other’s 

Exception… 
-B. 

10-9-17

Plucked

Being borderline is hard. Having intense emotional states is hard.

To be highly emotional.

I feel as if every nerve in my body has been plucked like a guitar string, all vibrating in pain, all at once. 
-B.

9-20-17

Cracks…

I’ve always loved cracks Photographing them 

Noticing them in the strangest of places 

I don’t think many people notice things like cracks 

Or even realize what they could mean 

Oh, they have so many meanings 
Cracks in pavement, where flowers grow

In broken mirrors, where flaws show 

In window pains, about to shatter 

In paint, chips revealing hidden surfaces 

In our hearts, remembering what once was lost 

In our souls, over time, bending and breaking 
Cracks…

They can hurt 

But they can be a place of new life 

They can be beautiful 

A place where you can grow that flower 

Chip away that paint 

Shatter that pain 
Oh they have so many meanings 

So many beautiful meanings 
You can crack 

But in those cracks 

Are you 

Your beautiful story

Your beautiful life 
You see, now? 

They can be beautiful, too…
-B. 

9-15-17

Empty words…

And just like every other before you You whisper sweet nothings into me 

You tell me about my dreams 

You swear me the world 
Then you take it away 

As easily as you said them 

They are gone

Just words 

With empty meanings 
-B. 

9-6-17

My dearest friend…

My oldest friend Non-judgmental 

Loyal 

Quiet 

Always there 

I rarely see you now 

But I think of you most days

You were my drug of choice 

My worst affliction, addiction 
I will never truly leave you 

Be rid of you 

I still crave you 

Need you 

Dream of you 
My peace bringer 

I can still feel you… sometimes 

When I get that “itch”…

the one on my left wrist… where you played 

When I see you at the drug store 
I remember how you felt

Between my fingers 

Silver, thin, sharp 
We had our secret 

Like some sort of ritual 

Gliding gracefully

Against my soft, porcelain skin

Helping me quiet my demons
I miss you 

You are my favorite kind of drug 

But I grow older, stronger 

I rarely see you now 

Except in memories

The ones you left upon my skin 

But I always feel you 

I will always want you 

My most precious friend 
-B. 

8-24-17

Coping 

They told me I’ve been coping wrong All these years, they have been telling me

Showing me how I should be coping 

“Healthy” coping 

“Normal” coping 

Telling me it would help me 

I would feel better 

Get better 

Everything will fall into place 
My coping

They told me it wasn’t “healthy” 

It wasn’t “normal” 

It was just a “quick fix” 

“It will only make you feel worse”

But it was my coping for a reason 
After years of pushing against them 

I tried their methods 

I’m still trying 

I keep trying because it doesn’t work 

I still feel like shit 

It hasn’t brought me peace 

Happiness 

Sense of worth 

None of those promises 

It’s all bullshit 

All of it 
My methods 

Although unconventional, work 

How do I know? 

Because they are my coping skills for a reason 

I learned to cope that way 

For a reason 
Now 

Now, I’m struggling 

Where are all of these things you promised? 

Because I’m barely coping… 
-B. 

8-26-17

Journals 

In a sense, people, the ones you talk to about your day, your hopes, dreams, your secrets, your past, your entire life…The people you let into your world 

The ones you let see every nook and cranny 

Those people, those rare, amazing people… 

they are like journals, in a way. 

The ones you talk to, to figure things out… but really you are having a conversation with yourself 

They don’t judge nor look at you funny 

They just listen because you are the story that fascinates them 

You are the story that they will remember 

And one day, when you are gone, the words you spoke to them, will resonate, deep in their hearts, in their souls… because they are the unwritten journals you chose to trust in

They will be the ones who write your biography

They will keep you alive… 
-B. 8-19-17