Poems from the dark

Triggered

Well fuck.
I don't understand how to make this better.
There is nothing that is working, it won't stop hurting.
I am fucking destroyed.
Please rip the bloodied pages out of my notebooks when I die, because I can't decide what to do with the words I can hear the voices in my head telling me to say. 
I can't just walk away from this because I can't confront it without destroying the only human being on my side.
But I... I. I cannot deny you anymore.
You're creeping closer and closer and it's making more sense to just give in, let you back in, and let you have your way with my body.
To just fall back into shoddy, and let my mind begin rotting, as you fumble away with my chest.
I can't take the fucking vomit rising in my throat, I am living with a moat inside of my chest, trying to keep me out, push me out, smoke me out. 

17 steps away from me is the kitchen.
In 17 steps my life could go from vomit stained trigger tears, to tequila shots and Mary Jane lollipops.
In 34 steps I could be back in my bed the complete opposite of sober. 
I think maybe it would be nice to just drink myself away until it's over.
I'm too tired to be sober.
I can't keep myself together on my own, and that's a problem when you're completely alone and all you do is fuck up all the time.
I am a fucking wreck, I am the titanic of tidal waves of massacres of dead ladybugs on moonshine leaves.
And I think I would appreciate being dead a hell of a lot more than I appreciate walking the same earth as you.