Sincerely October

Label - Lost

L for dictionary poetry.

Label
The lines have remained endlessly blurred thus far.
I don't know where this starts and I end.
I can't recall when or who or why.
The memories are fuzzy, I cannot tell you where I was when I did this. I wasn't there, not in the way you'd think. Time is lost and disregarded. I'll run into walls when trying to recall why I did such a thing. I wrote that but I didn't.
What's your name? Tell me again. It seems I have forgotten again and again and again. I'll lose the information in the process, the memories wiped clean.
I know why I am this way, at least I'd like to think so. What does it all lead back to, what are the roots of this strange thing?
What does this mean for me? What do I really think of this mess?
I wish I could put it in boxes, I wish I could organize myself by color but I've never had much success doing so.

Labyrinth
I am lost in the woods, disoriented beyond words or comprehension.
Where did the days go? Where was I? I can't even begin to live with the pieces of what is true.
Firm in what is real until it changes again. I wonder what the truth is.
Where to begin? Where do I start?
The pieces are unseen and hang together loosely. They rarely connect, if ever.
It's hard to see this all living within one mind, I wonder how so many contradicting truths live within me, but I guess they always have.

Lack
I know that when I begin there is no telling where I'll find myself in the end.
I miss it, maybe more than someone typically would, more than I'd like to, more than I'd ever admit.
I miss it more than anything, I am grieving what I once had.
I know that within me I lack the internal resources to remain temperate, I'll start and I won't stop.
I understand that when I go back to my old ways my old life will be waiting for me, I will return to lying to cover up the poorly concealed truth and dissatisfaction because it will never be enough.
I forever lack the internal well to regulate this, I was born already across the line, there was no middle ground, there was no moderation, there never was.
So I play the tape through again, I look at the mess my life became and I ask myself: is this what you really want? Again?
Will I let this define me? Will I let this consume me? Will this be the very death of me?
The other side is there waiting for me, it's not going anywhere, lighting my life on fire is always an option.
But this can't be the thing that I become, this can't be all I am and all I'll ever be.

Lantern
I miss it, more than I can put into words, more than I could ever admit.
I miss the routines, I miss the relief I had when I knew it was all going to be okay now, I miss the ache in my nose, as much as I hated it I miss it, it's hard to imagine not wishing I could do it once more.
In times like this I remind myself of the moments in which I am grateful to be without, I remind myself of those days I am so glad that those times are over.
No longer needing to go hide somewhere to feel okay again, no longer wondering if people will start to notice, no longer wondering when they will see through me, no longer stepping on and disregarding people in order to get my fix.
As much as my heart aches for it I know I stopped for a reason. I know I didn't stop because I was enjoying it, I know I didn't stop because it was going well.
The days in which my addiction is easier to live with are like a light in the dark darks when it is not.

Lens
It seems every painting is tainted by the eyes that perceive it, it seems I cannot remove my lack of objectivity from everything I do, I am deeply affected by my ever changing state.
During my darkest hours my pain appears to be the truth, I cannot tell the difference between a lonely night and a pointless existence. Everything worth doing before is worth avoiding. I feel lost in an endless gray.
During the times of elation my rainy poems seem like a lie, I can't imagine ever feeling so low. It's hard to believe that today is a part of the same life as last night. I am not the person who wrote about aching and loneliness.
This moment is just as real and tangible as moments past, it always has been, but at times I find that hard to understand.

Letter
A letter to my past self.
I have a lot I'd like to say to you, there are so many things I wish I could tell you about. I wish I could knock on February's door and tell him the stories of today.
The overarching theme of what I would tell him is that everything turns out okay in the end. The rape doesn't ache in my chest quite like it used to, I have been sober for months and I'm starting to think I can stay this way, and I have a hope I never thought I'd hold.
I remember feeling haunted, like no matter where I went the memories followed me, that no matter who I became the past still stung. I still have the fear of the child I once was within me, but he does not define me like he used to.
For much of my life I thought if I was not intoxicated I wasn't happy, those two things existing together and together only, but it seems otherwise is true. It seems my happiness is far greater than it ever was. I never thought the day would come.
I am starting to believe that maybe I can be better than I ever imagined, that my life is not worth giving away.

Lie
In my addiction I believed that the only thing that could ever make me happy would leave my throat aching and my nose burning. I knew no satisfaction without a substance.
I believed that I wrote endless poems about how I had found the answer, but answers like that shouldn't leave you aching and empty in the end.
What I felt wasn't real happiness, each high straying me further away from any peace without a chemical con-job.
I felt that I had fallen in love, that I had found what I had always been looking for, but that was never true.
Love doesn't bruise you, love doesn't break you, love doesn't leave you empty, love doesn't kill you in the end.
I believed the lies, that this was everything I needed, that this was the answer.
The more distance I have between me and my last day the more I can see how I was lied to.
I lived in an elaborate act of self deception, I didn't see it until I was months away.
Happiness is more than feeling good. What makes you truly happy won't kill you. What's making you sick will not heal you.

Linger
The drugs still linger in my mind, as much as it tore me into bits, I miss it.
I miss it when I hear my old favorite songs.
I miss it when it's late at night.
Sometimes I miss the aching in my nose.
It doesn't make sense, it never did.
I taught my brain awful lessons, I taught myself to look for happiness in all the wrong places.
The stories rewired my brain and tainted the truth.
As much as I know that is not the life I want, that I don't want to be defined by this, part of my mind still thinks it's the answer I've been looking for.

Live
I am still learning to live.
Learning to live without a secret,
Finding a way to be truthful, beginning to understand how I can know and speak and live the truth, I am creating a life I don't need to pretend for.
Learning to live without drugs,
Finding my happiness in things outside of substances, getting sober and staying sober, living life without a pill to make me melt into my bedroom floor.
Learning to live with the memories,
Finding parts of my life he didn't take from me, acknowledging the parts of me that did what they had to do to survive, letting the child in my mind know he is safe now.
I have spent so much of my life not really living, I've spent years biting my hand until it bled, just trying to survive today, I am only just learning to live.

Lost
Somewhere tucked away in the attic of my mind lives a child who never got to grow up.
He knows the most vile parts of humanity, he knows what it's like to be hurt, he knows what it's like to take the worst of it because there's nothing else left to do.
He's lost pieces of himself along the way, he's been broken into bits, he's been disregarded and unheard.
He knows the sound of that man's footsteps, he knows the position that lets this go by easier, he walks away from his body and watches as the rape happens, again and again.
He embodies fear, it's all he's ever known. He lives in terror that he will hear those footsteps again.
He feels more alone than I ever have. He knows what it's like to be used and disregarded and used and disregarded and used and disregarded.
Somewhere in the in between he lurks.
I want to tell him that he's safe now. I want to tell him that it's not his fault, it never was. I want to tell him that it's okay to be scared but he doesn't have to me anymore.