i'm trying
isn't that all i can do?
isn't it all i have left,
the only breath that's slicing
heavily through my chest,
ripping through the chambers
of this empty hollowed heart,
can't you hear it beating? do you hear
the fireworks exploding, right
from the start? razor blades
gliding down my throat
embedded in my tongue
and i've never prayed so hard for
someone to be happy because your
smile is like the sun and oxygen and if
i don't see it, at least once a day, how am i
to survive? you were here and then
you weren't.
i've written it a thousand times, i'll write
it a thousand times more -
don't go.
don't forget me.
you are my biggest regret.
not because i said too much, but
because i never said
enough.

every other line, underlined;
a life preserver sewn together with words,
ink circling my wrists like it could
anchor me here in existence, even if
it's nothing short of a distracting illusion.
in them, i saw my own struggle resurrect
itself, still a burden from my past
haunting me relentlessly since i was
thirteen.

isn't that a terrifying thing?
that kids of this generation
swallow pills like candy, cut wrists
like ribbons, drink liquor like
sweet-and-sour medicine? they give us
a bad reputation for hyperbole and
self-diagnosis, like the things we see
in ourselves are any less valid,
like the science and drugs they "cure" us
with have any meaning when our
mental mortality is broken and sick.

they say it's for attention, but
breaking news: it isn't.

why would you want to fake this
disease? it's a miserable, dead end cave
that collapses around you daily and suffocates,
squeezing until your insides are a barren wasteland, until
time ceases meaning anything and the clock ticks, ticks,
ticks, until we feel
the ticks of time teetering towering above
our heads, and we wait for the minute hand
to come slicing down like a
guillotine.

i remember that summer night vividly,
in muted colors and looming black screens
three a.m., weighed down by
self-loathing, wishing for an escape route.
they don't tell you about it; there's something
taboo about the slithering double s slipping
through your lips.
but every year, people succumb to this battle
they can't win, because they're so unaware,
frighteningly ill-prepared.

it's twisted how "i have a headache"
can be an acceptable reason to stop
trying for a day, but yet
"i can't get up today
i can't get up at all everything is
pointless and my body won't obey won't
perform basic survival functions and i
haven't eaten haven't slept right in days
i don't care why should i care
i don't care i don't care i don't
why do i keep going on like this like
a dead man walking like nothing
is wrong like this smile isn't badly mixed
plaster like it isn't chipping away
cracking breaking the ice around me
drowning me in the never ending black hole"
isn't quite good enough.

i never knew it affected anyone besides
adults. adults never realized
we kids could get totaled, too,
that we could be hopeless and
hollowed out, walking infinitely
in darkness and dissolving each
second. so yes,
when i found quentin, i wanted
to change his end. i wanted
to make things better, because i remember
finally finding a name for the churning beast
in me and crying with relief, no longer
alone or empty, even if the feeling was the fleeting
shooting star in a the vast dark cosmos.
i want to save him from the violent end
because i have to, because i owe
every kid like me an ear to listen, an
understanding smile, and some battle tips
from someone with invisible scars.
i'm healed, now, but quentin and so many
others have already lost, and
god forbid we lose another
to the parasite in our brains.
in his words, i hope someone
can find a steel lifeline,
and that they learn to let go
of tricky ticking time.

married to fate, chained to the future
my wounds won't heal, not even with sutures
the roulette ball rolls; who knows where it'll land?
will i know to take hold when you outstretch your hand?
each day my doubts plague me, gnaw at my soul
and sometimes i wonder if this is why i thrive in the cold
what prompts us to write, to shove words out in the open?
who can look into our eyes and know that we're broken?
the pen is a blade; my heart is a trigger
this place is a maze; my blood clumps thicker
three years ago, i thought i would be different,
thought i'd be bigger, or less worried about insignificance
i thought the world would turn on its' axis boldly,
and that i wouldn't crave days where i want someone to hold me
three years ago, i wonder if my sails had a stronger direction
and once upon a time - i swear - i had more connections
fear still finds me,
a panther stalking its' foolish prey,
and time still blinds me
with how quickly it ticks away
is success just a feeling? is it only a name?
is it even a level, a possibility in this game?
is passion a feeling, or just a thirst for fame?
is home a person, a place, or an imaginary plane?
my mind still haunts me, with its' rattling doors,
and sometimes my demons whisper that i'm doomed to bore
questions ignite my being, setting me ablaze
as i wonder if i will ever be ready for the adulting daze

i've been thinking a lot about regrets lately.

i know it's because time is running out,
i know it's because i'll never see you
again. i know it's because there's
a forest fire raging green
through these tired smiles.
i know it's because those baby blues
have been drooping heavier
each day and yet no one seems to see.
i know it's because each time
i look at you, i'm paralyzed with
could-have's and maybe's.
i know it's because each time you
open your mouth, i think
"this is the last time i'll hear him
sing, talk, laugh, tell stories,
mumble and scream and be happy."
i know it's because each of those
seventeen muscles it takes to smile
at you in hopes you'll smile back
weigh a ton apiece. i know
it's because you don't know where you
want to go to college and i keep hoping
you'll end up where i want to be, even if
it means i run away should i see you there.
i know it's because i wear more perfume
every day in hopes it might send
signals to your brain and cause a
change of mind, a change of heart.
i know it's because i hear you
in every lyric and i'm poisoned by
these scenarios and worlds of paradise
i dream up in the middle of flipping a page,
writing notes, reading the same page
thirty times in a row until the words are
reduced to stains across every page.
i know it's because i watch you move
and see grace where you see bumbling,
steady feet. i know it's because i
can picture meeting you again years in the future.

i've been thinking about regrets and there
are a thousand, each one another pound
pushing me forward, as if
i can redeem myself by walking a million
miles. but my biggest is when i convinced
my heart that telling you would have
consequences that i could not bear.

I.
when i look at you,
i feel a mixed reaction
as emotions collide
inside this feeble cavity we call
a chest. in general,
there are three things -
the three, most important things -
that cross my mind.

II.
butterflies. my stomach drops,
on its own personal roller coaster,
engineered by your smile.
another part of it drops because we
dance around each other, on tiptoes,
sometimes painfully. other times, we are
one, and in sync. and occasionally
we are both lost in separate worlds,
lost in thoughts and dreams.
i don't believe in prayer, but maybe
you could pray for me.

III.
desolation. loss and grief course
through tired, worn veins. already, you're
intangible. sitting right beside me,
i'm hindered by the space between us, the span of
space and infinity and this parallel universe we're
trapped inside. with time passing at snail's speed and
slipping away at jet speed, i can't
hold on. you're still here, still a concrete noun,
but you feel like an abstract dream, a haunting
memory. if you look out the window someday,
and you catch sight of the moon,
i hope it reminds you of me.

IV.
greed and begging and hope. all of it, every feeling,
encased in my thinly veiled heart. the strongest of
fortifications can't suppress my petty,
jealous words and my leveling glare. these feelings,
though unwarranted, are mine. you should be mine.
i wish my fate line crossed yours, but i'm starting to see,
trying to convince myself,
that we aren't meant and these worlds don't match. i can almost
believe it, and deep down i know it's true. i know that we can't
exist, not based on likes and dislikes when what we want,
where we want to go,
are so diverse and specific that it
(we) would never work.

V.
still, the overwhelming feeling
that sparks my reactors
is that gnawing, pleading one.
the one that i have to choke down
in an effort to make things semi-okay.
the one where i tell you everything,
and apologize, and explain my reasons
for it all. the one where i tell you i miss you,
where i tell you i will miss you,
where i say i can't imagine life without you.
the one where i confess this pathetic,
undying devotion,
even when i know this is the last
time i'll ever see you
again.

VI.
you won't ever pray for me,
or think of me when your vision
latches on to the moon. we won't ever speak
again, because that isn't how it is,
not with us.
i miss you.
don't leave.
don't go.
stay.

VII.
please, i'm begging you,
get out.
be everything you want.
do everything you need to.
and above all,
be the superstar,
the exploding supernova,
the entire galaxy
that you are.

Dear Charlie,
Nothing worthwhile is easy, right?
I've heard it before, a thousand different ways.
So that must mean that living is worthwhile
because it's hard. It's so ******* hard,
and it's like I'm fighting my apathy
every single second
while being chased around by the frenzy,
comprised of responsibilities and expectations
and that look in my mother's eyes when
she's proud.
I'm trying though. I'm trying
to get better.
This year was better than last year,
because I didn't swim a black sea.
I merely floated,
and only once was I pulled down.
In a month, I resurfaced.
I'm stronger, I think. I might have
that infamous Achilles' heel,
somewhere inside this ice cold, stone heart.
But the monsters didn't keep me,
didn't ruin any holidays,
didn't even make me consider
swallowing little white pill after little white pill.
I'm not perfectly healed, or even three quarters
okay. But I'm getting there,
Charlie.
You know what I mean.

In the next year,
I don't want to dream
to be happy. But I do want
to be even happier.
I want to do something,
whatever that may be.
And I want to see so many things,
and appreciate life.
I'm getting there, Charlie. I'm finding
my way there.
My only resolution next year
is to be able to say,
"I made it. I'm doing better.
I can live. And breathe.
I am going to be okay."
And that's more than enough,
isn't it, Charlie?

Some blades sting
as they slice through skin;
laced with backhanded
compliments, a withering glance,
and the steady hand of
an executioner, they aim
to demolish, stick by stick
of explosive hatred.

Some blades have poisoned tips,
dipped in a brew so wicked
that it lurks from vein to vein
and blacks you out, strikes you
from existence by hijacking your senses
and drowning them with intense,
heady emotions like loneliness, and fear,
and fiery anger.

Some blades are disguised as a handshake,
one that grips and cracks your bones into splinters,
shards of what once was dignity
and pride. A grip that convinces you
to admit that you are nothing, that you are
less than, that you are inferior.

And then there is the blade,
tipped like a pen,
upon which I ****** myself. This
blade, unlike the others,
is choice and stupidity and release.
It is a forfeit, a crushing defeat
that the writers succumb to. It is this
blade, ink pouring from our pumping aortas
to our gnarled, stained fingertips
that dance across a page, that charm
our own minds with the drowsy lullabies
and delusions of omnipotence so that
we can spill the deepest, blackest pits
of our shriveled peach hearts
and spit them out into the universe.
A million voices collide and create the void
where we all end, where we all begin, and
forge the path of self-destruction it takes
to fish out a handful of temperate words,
biblical verses, even historic epics
to release ourselves of our woes
and of every singular thought.

Some blades are caused by the average,
the ones who would not ****** a dagger
through their chest, not even
for the truth.
But our blade, the wicked fiend,
sweeps through every bone and ligament
until she reaps what is due;
the words you're reading,
my thoughts scattered out
for you.

i don't give second chances.

if you hurt me, over any
tiny, insignificant thing,
then i will push you away.

and even if, someday, i let you back in,
it will never be the same
because as a rule, second chances
do not change
a person whose character is
flat.

however,
the day i met you,
something changed.

i let you rip my heart
into bloodied shreds;
i watched as it fluttered down
and landed in a pile
that included my dignity,
my sanity,
and what was left of
my innocence.

i watched, completely detached
yet insanely aware of
how you could look at me
and of how i would do
anything - no,
everything
to make things okay for you.

i would move earth,
crash my car into a wall,
even sew my lips shut; i'd do
all of it
without  complaint,
especially if i knew you'd grant me one
second,
minute,
hour
of the attention i craved.

so it was no surprise,
that each time i declared
to be done or
pushed you away,
that you could always
find your way
back in.
there was always some kind of
charm, lurking
in those crystalline eyes
and tucked into your laugh.
there was always,
always - no matter how much
i changed, or moved forward -
some part of myself that i
left with you;
some part of myself that -
while i don't even want it -
i will never get back.

so it is no surprise
that you smile at me on a friday,
or that it is so painfully familiar,
or even that it strikes me down
as hard as the first blow
Cupid aimed towards my heart.
no, the surprise lies in the sharp ache,
the realization that part of you and i
are still lodged in our past;
we are still just kids,
still best friends.
there is still a part of me
that wishes to rewind time
and return to the golden era
of us.

there is still a part of myself
that would give you your twentieth
second chance
if all you did was
laugh.

broken boy,
let me cradle your
mind; let me be the evacuation
center you resort to when your soul
needs some rescuing. i will save a place
for your heart right between
the fissures running through the canyon
my hands create.
these padded walls do nothing to stop
those dreams; they won't
slow your tears or comfort you when the terrors
are too heavy to bury on your own. they'll just
absorb those screams you've been suffocated
by, the ones that make you bite your lip until
waves of crimson pain crash and flow
and you can taste boiling iron trickling down the cracks
in your worn lips.
broken boy,
i can't fix you. if only i could.
i wish that i could **** your pain through my veins,
let it poison me so that you could be liberated from
the demons clawing at your walls.
i can't.
i can only offer comfort on those dark days, when the
restraints you've placed upon yourself drive you to the brink
of madness. i can soothe you when your fingernails are ******
stubs and the monsters strip you of your soul. i can
slow the gears in your mind and do more than the
ticking, whirring of a broken-down brain to aid your sanity.
white cushioned walls can't ease your worries. they don't
guarantee exorcisms, and there's a no return on your stay
inside this vacant chamber chock-full of shadows.
hold on, broken boy. i know you'll
find that light at---

in the sweeping sepia tones of my monotonous,
rushed life, my chest aches to be sprung free.

the urge of flight has never been more viscerally real,
more capable of pinning me to the spot
until my very bones burst from this body bag
suffocating my chest. never have i felt
so wickedly sick, so obviously the cliche
broken fragile thing bleeding out all over the page.

never have i felt so devoid of words.

it's like before, i was full -  brimming with half-thought
ideas and plots and characters, thrumming with
elementary concepts and words but at least i was flooded,
at least my soul was alive.

with the pain came a different flood, a tidal wave in the dead of
night, a cool soaking of the wicked flames that etch in
the monster's shadows. with a muse came my best
works, my raging thoughts, my torment and despair
and bloodthirsty butterflies battering my guts. with
the depression came the rawness that they lapped up,
crowed about, choked back tears. with another muse, i found
desire and passion and lust in the sinful tonguelipsteeth,
the bony handshipsframe. with all these things i found
the words and found a freedom, however temporary.

with change, i found an empty cavern.

the bottom of the grand canyon, less spectacular up close than from the top. less than. empty. hollowed out.

there is before the fall, there is during. they don't talk about the after.
or rather, they do, but there's aftermath - there's cracks and broken
bones and heaving chests and blood gushing, rushing
to the surface to see the light of day.

i bled out before i hit the ground. what happens when you get
the perfect ten, when you land with ease? what happens
when the potential is there, but the words dry up?

i feel potential in the moments wasted,
the beauty in all the strangeness,
the agony of existence. i see the people and
i want to be their storytellers, their cartographers,
their artist. i want them all as my muses.
i collect them and name them and tuck them away
in pockets too full of secrets, putting them aside for tomorrow,
another day, when i get back to the room but find
myself drowning out my words in other worlds.

i know the potential like the sailor knows the seas.
i see the beauty like the diamond in the rough.
i feel the agony in every second like the swish of
the guillotine.

swish. swish. swish.
out of time, out of mind
existence was a phase; here is the end
of our glory days.

it's been a few weeks, and
i'm trying my best,
though i can still hear
some voices in my head.
i'm trying to go blind,
trying to do and not
escape from real life.
but it's hard to stay here,
standing ramrod still,
when there's dancing around me
that's making me ill. i can't
find a shortcut or some way out
so instead i'm just looping these
feelings around
and around, like a cassette tape
being rewound,
looping and looping the same
tired sound.
taking all of this in is a bit
of a struggle and i'm finding
that i'm drowning
inside of this puddle and god,
i'm not much of a believer
but i sure think i'd like
if you could send me a sign. i need
some reason, give me a rhyme because
i'm trying to force these words out
but here i am typing and i can't
hear a sound
it's like radio silence from every single end
and i know it's just school
i know it's just them
and i know it's that friendless
might be my middle name,
right between selfish and
still-can't-tell-you-the-game,
can't give you a clue,
can't bring you the truth,
even though i'm advising other people
on how to do what they do. so maybe my
first name is hypocritical and my
last might be *****,
but at least that's an itch i'm
quite familiar with,
and oh god i think i'm crazy
i can't see straight right now,
the typing of keys, the clicking of
cows, i might need a break,
i'm getting one now.
but i still see your face, and
try as i might, i'm fighting
your sweetness,
oh my god i hate this,
can you stop it please?
dear god can you hear me,
can you consider my pleas?
i'm not very special and
quite wish-washy,
but i think i need your
guidance because i'm lost and
without, help me decide
where my heart is standing,
help it find solid ground so i can make
a soft landing.

crying over you like
i'm thirteen again
and i can't fathom life
without you once again,
can't believe i'm losing
you for a second time,
can't believe that these
same regrets still weigh
down so heavily on this
fragile, broken down
chest.

how can i love
something so much
when it was never
mine from the
start?

sick to my stomach,
shaking hands, lips
trembling while the
hourglass drips grains
of sand. time drags on,
time flies by, time to
turn around and say
my final goodbyes.

shivers wracking thick
shoulders, crawling down
my spine, somehow i pray
that you realize you
are always on my mind.

they say that darkness falls.

they believe it overtakes the
Sun, in all its brilliance,
at the end of every day.
in their eyes, the clutches of night
abduct the light that is exuded
on to our haste-driven,
humming lives.

per contra,
black waves have never conquered
the biting bars of golden sunlight;
instead, it has always billowed
from opposite ends of the Earth
to replace a fickle Sun, one
that forsakes stars and city stripes
for new moieties, and
new existences.

at night, a duvet of ink swirls above us,
blanketing bodies and nature alike
under enchanted, glittering tapestries
woven together with the glittering tears
of galaxies out of reach, sewn and fitted
to the quintessence of shadowed alleys,
whispering fields, even
the dimply lit room where two beating hearts
unify.

they say darkness falls,
when the truth is, it rises.
darkness always rises like the calm, gentle wave.

the darkness sings and the pages sting
our hearts collide; they're shattering
we're drifting towards a new dimension,
our tongues so heavy with mutual indecision.
being hand in hand makes no difference
when we're separated by eons of distance
our spirits yearn to work this out
out bodies ache to tune logic out
but our souls are broken, and
you're not sure they can mend;
my thoughts are a token,
and i do not want this to end.
our prayers read like devotions,
our words bleeding emotion,
and though you'd never admit it
you can't fight a tear
and though i'll never forget it,
the fact is that you aren't here
it isn't physical distance that truly sets us apart,
but rather the paths of our future
and the ache in your heart
i cannot stand here, blocking your way
and you cannot afford to let your dreams slip away
maybe someday you won't be a fantasy
and i won't pour over every line

all i ask now, is for you to be kind:
if it's the last time, don't do this
like you're about to say
goodbye.

gentle                                        but kind, your
touch                                         sends shivers through my veins,
down                                         my spine, across the plains of my
skin.                                          you are
careful,                                      as though i might be startled and
run away.                                 you're wary, and with good
reason,                                      because i am restless and a flight
risk.                                           i am the whipping wind and the weighted
anchor,                                     the concurrent push and pull, rise and
fall                                            of the churning tide. your fingertips slide across
my                                            skin. my gut rolls and twists, tightly coiling, injecting my
body                                         with venom and excitement and lust and longing. you
ignite                                        my neuroses and sparks fly; firecrackers bursting against a
clear,                                         star-lit July canvas. splatters of paint
coat                                           the world and my sight blacks out for light years and milliseconds
all at once.                                i shiver but bite it back, revolting against the warm
chill                                           clutching at my bones, vying for survival.
powerless                                  to you, even when i know in my heart i have to
accept                                       that there is nothing to become of
us, no                                        more than the dance of two partners at a
masquerade                             whose fates are only temporarily entwined. thread tickles my wrist,
i laugh,                                     and i hold my tongue. i hold back
every ******* word,                like it's a dam about to burst and sweep away everything,
devastating                              the entire world. my words could
destroy                                     what i have gained, what i have settled for, what i have
done.                                        what have i done? .  .  . but the words slink back
inside,                                      always on the brink, never to be heard or
seen.                                        i wish to see you gone, like the sun to the moon and like the moon to the sun.                                        yet there was comfort,
knowing you'd return.          knowing that you'd
always                                    circle back around, constantly on each other's tails, a
thrilling chase.                       the end is nigh, the sky is burning red, the world is on
fire.                                         flames lick the tips of my toes, race up my arms, and
ashes                                      of my safety net tumble and glide
down, all around me.            hazards surround me. i am a
hazard.                                  you are a road block and a shortcut, one i find myself led to in
temptation.                            let me free, guide me home, be
the one -                                 or perhaps, maybe... no? the
bittersweet goodbye,             the final tears - i hope- will be
freed                                       in five months time. five months is not even a
moment.                                not when you're praying that time
slows, crawls, halts.              the harder i cling, the further away
you go.                                   your fingers leave my wrist,
leaving                                  behind lilac string as a reminder. my heart
collapses                               on itself. five months is not enough. the twenty
seconds                                 were not enough, not even as you
touched me.                         shaken, fighting laughter and fears and
tears,                                     watch me shove it away. the
inevitable                             only comes around, only is real, when you're forced to
face it.                                  and i will not accept that you're gone until you're finally, actually
gone.

the worst kind of Sad is not when Sad tries not to be Sad.

it is when Sad hides in your closet,
threading it's claws through the slightly healed,
fresh scars
that litter your entire being
the way that Freddy claws
at his victims of sleep.

it is when Sad creeps up upon you
as you listen to your favorite song
and it suffocates you -
suffocates you with your own scarf,
letting you fade in and out of life
as you lose yourself in memories you'd like
to forget.

you know which scarf Sad uses, don't you?
it's the red one, with the black stripes,
the one you threw in the furthest corner of your closet
because it reminds you of that day,
and summer sweat,
and the aching empty feeling that consumed you
until you were swallowed up
completely eaten alive.

Sad is only Sad when it keeps you from precious slumber
and drives you to the brink of drowsiness, all the while
weighing you down with
bone crushing, eye drooping heaviness;
Sad hibernates there, sound asleep behind the cavity in your chest
and it makes you think you're okay again.

the worst kind of Sad
is when it resurfaces -
though only when you're alone -
and replays your entire day,
a constant loop through each dragging second,
until you doubt it ever happened.

the worst kind of Sad
is not Sadness itself;
it is not even the chest clenching feeling
that it brings, forcing you to think
about each breath as you make it
but rather, the worst kind of Sad
is the one that breaks your ribs with the strength
of a wrecking ball
and prematurely reminds you
that someday
they will be gone - for good, forever,
a ghost haunting your life.

the worst kind of Sad is the
inevitable and unalterable reality
that there is nothing you can do
to stop it.

(I bit my tongue a thousand times, but had we reached the thousand and first, I would have told you the truth. Why are we allowed to become close now when you are sure to be gone before I can blink my eyes and gather the courage to say goodbye?)

-a.c.

sleep is nothing more
than pressing pause on netflix;
our minds are put on hold,
our worries forgotten for the duration
of a few REM cycles.
the events of the past day,
week,
even our whole lives -
all of it is suspended,
frozen in the clutches of time -
lurking in the back.
Grendel in the shadows,
only woken by glaring sunlight
and the sound of joy.

the beast slinks inside
and it interrupts
the tranquility of transgression
with splintering, mind numbing, earth quavering reality.
and consequently,
reality is nothing more
than an empty space in a too cold bed.
it is nothing
but a series of unsaid goodbyes and
pleas for you to return;
but only in the mind,
because the words are burning holes
through my lying tongue.
the only reality left is sometimes,
i catch an icy blue glare in the mirror,
haunting and devastatingly familiar.

sleep is escape
if only to a universe where we
were not;
if only to a land where what is done
can be undone,
as easily as pressing undo while typing.
at least there, where i dream of you once,
again,
you cannot leave nor hurt me.
and we always have happy endings,
because i always pictured
that that was all you could bring me.

i never dreamed i couldn't dream,
or that the monsters lurked not in the shadowy alleys,
but instead, inside of me.
and i never imagined them seeping into reality.

i never knew losing you
could **** me.

if i had the energy,
maybe i'd cry over the fact that
i can't get the words to flow in this paper,
this assignment, this tiny grade
swimming in a lifetime of letters and numbers
all meant to determine my worth.
if i still had the energy, the perfectionist
buried inside of me would kick in and critique
the work; it'd tear apart the letters and mangle them
until they came out sounding somewhat intelligent,
until everyone glosses over the fact that this
paper clearly has no point, no direction
(like my life)
and no energy leaping out to greet the reader,
a.k.a. my professor and literally
not another soul.
if i had the energy, i might care
that this reminds me a little too much of three years ago.
i might try and figure out what the **** to do
in order to make myself care.
then again, if i cared,
i wouldn't be in this position in the first place.
if i had the energy, i'd stop here
and fling myself off the roof - at least,
i would, if i didn't think dying would hurt
like hell and death wouldn't be terrifying as ****.
if i had the energy, maybe this paper would already
be finished, and i could be sleeping, instagramming,
living. but the energy and my soul are dried up,
and the words won't come,
and i keep clacking on these tired keys,
a desperate prisoner trapped in dizzying
whirlwind college days.

my blood's running through my veins
ice cold, so slow
my mind's stumbling over memories
from a lifetime ago.
my eyes don't shed tears,
but somehow they cry,
as i listen to the sound
of a broken heart die.
you listen to the lies,
i listen to the feelings,
bleeding through the words
that float to the cloudy ceiling.
watch the angel's wings,
last breath in her eyes,
wings spreading wide
as she chokes out her goodbyes.

a heart full of love,
couldn't see the dedication.
you loved her like she was
a prescribed medication.
when you saw the light, and
made a fresh new start
you threw away the pills,
stabbed a dagger in her heart.
so when the love ran red and
the truth came out,
you held her hand, just once,
as the rain poured down.
in her last living moments
you swear to keep her safe,
but in the end, God's hands
tore her from this wretched place.

we find ourselves in words and phrases,
the moon consistently turning through its phases.
we live by the sun, love by the moon,
and each day i wish that i could see you soon.
under cloudy skies, my mood is weathered
and around your neck is a wreath spotted with heather.
and though distance is time and time an illusion,
you glance my way and i find my willpower in ruins.
at the end of the world, i'd lay by your side;
even if a comet came, and surely we would die.
regardless of the afterlife, and whether we agree,
the stars spell out a destiny fated for you and me

in your eyes i see the past,
on your palm i trace the future
with your lips i taste salvation,
even though it's a damnable sin,
and in your smile i see creation,
and with your laugh the flames begin.
engulfed and engaged
by the smooth swish of your hair.
befuddled and betrayed
by the blush these pale cheeks wear.
though you huff and hide your heart,
it bleeds out through your lyrics,
and through your music i find a home again
if only you let me near it.
in the night you break the silence
with the softness of your moans
and through your love i've come to realize
i was never truly alone.

Dearest,

This thing is claiming me again. I write only to express a great need to see you, or call you, or maybe even crank up the engine of this beat up junker I'm sitting in now. I'd very much like to see you again, or once more, even if it were just your eyes. It's been three years. Three years since I last heard your voice, or laugh, or saw you smile. ****, do I miss that smile. It's been three years since you left without a decent goodbye, you ***. You never had a ******* clue - but, anyway. That's not why I'm here.

I was thinking of you today, as I have every single one before and will continue to until my breathing ceases. Did you know it's the anniversary of when I realized I was hopelessly in love with you? Of course you don't. I never told you about that moment, or how I really felt. I swore I might, before you were gone, but it's been three years and I never did. So that's that, I guess. This is such a waste, writing to you. Yet here I am, painstakingly scrawling these thoughts whirling around in my brain on to a sheet of loose leaf paper. The best part is knowing I'll never send this to you. This is going to sit here in my pocket until I wash it, or burn it when I'm searching for the cigarettes I don't smoke, or even lose it on my walk through the city.

I walk every day, and not just to and from places. I walk to think. I walk to clear my head. Instead, I will pass somewhere you've been -- somewhere we've been -- and I will be right where I started again, plagued by the ghost of you on every new corner, in the middle of the crowds, and at the foot of the subway stairs. You are everywhere, darling.

You'd be laughing at this point, probably. You'd be thinking that I ramble like I used to and still don't manage to say enough to ever convince you that I'm true. Or maybe you'd be thinking how wasteful this is to this sheet of paper. How unfair that this piece of paper gets to carry this nonsensical message to you -- or not, actually -- and how unfair that it gets to sit in my pocket, close enough to be lost. Or maybe you wouldn't think that at all, and you'd be just blankly reading all of this and wondering whether I'm just bullshitting around the truth, like I've always done oh-so-well.

Or maybe you'd just be thinking that this is so typical of me, keeping things I'll never do anything with for the sake of keeping them. You always thought I liked the act of keeping things rather than the things themselves. Perhaps you're right, because I've always wished I could both keep you and be rid of you and the toxicity you bring.

But at the end of the day, I'm the one writing you. Maybe my feelings learn towards the former of those two extremes.

Anyway, you would have been right about the bullshitting thing. I'm really writing because the emptiness is back, eating me out and wringing my guts inside out, and it isn't even pleasurable. I wrote because I haven't done so in some time, and it's been a long time since I wrote one of these one-sided letters to you. I used to write more; I used to have dozens, even, though I never wrote those on loose leaf paper in an old junker, heat off in the middle of winter. Really, I'm freezing right now. This is ridiculous. And I've got to stop bullshitting to you, I do.

You know, I can almost hear you responding to this. I can hear your voice somewhere in the back of my mind, answering me. And maybe that makes me more insane than I ever was. Maybe this hollowed out body has finally been done in, and I'm just beginning my descent into the clutches of insanity... or maybe I just can't tell you the truth.  You know me well, you do.

The truth is that I ******* miss you so much, it hurts to breathe. It physically causes my chest to ache, for pain to shoot through my entire body with each pump of my heart. Unfortunately, my heart is beating ceaselessly and my breathing has yet to stop by choice, so it hurts every day, every single second. I am always missing you. There is no other truth but that.

I think that, by allowing myself to write this, I'm hoping this idea of you can save me. I know already that this is the dumbest thing I've let myself hope for, more stupid than letting myself hope for you and for change and for happiness. The point is, letting myself do this at all is stupid, But I can't stop myself. You are worse than any drug I've ever known, and I pity those whose lives you have touched only because I know what it's like to be cut off from you. God forbid you leave them, someday, and they end up like me. Or a few shades less crazy than me.

I haven't even eaten because of this emptiness. I can't eat, actually. If I feed the monster, it erupts and soaks me with self hatred. I'm afraid of it. I'm afraid to do anything to infuriate it, and it's always angry. It's always whispering to me, sexily and sweet, asking me to do things that are so wrong. I'm not listening, and I'm staying clean, but it's hard, dearest. It's so hard when you've got nothing to cling to, nothing to even dream about hoping for.

This emptiness takes and takes, and it does not give back anything but empty caverns and the memory of what it was to feel. It takes everything I've got and it dumps it on the ground, spreads it around and sullies it. And when it's tattered and worn and filthy and unrecognizable, it crumbles it between its fingers like it's nothing but ash. I hate this behemoth more than I hate living through it. It's never-ending, the terrors it brings, and it pounds against me when I trap it away. It is invincible though, and it will always win. It's invincible in the way I believed we once had been, a long time in the past. Like us, I am not as invincible as I dreamed.

I'm sorry if I've worried you. I didn't mean to tell you, not truly. But now that the words are out, I seem to be a bit less empty than I was. Maybe I'll find my way out of this... maybe. I hope you are well, and smiling, and the world treats you kindly. I hope the night sky is beautiful where you are, and the lights glimmer in the distance exactly as you've imagined them. You deserve it a thousand times over me.

-A.C.

i don't recognize you anymore
it's like starting into
blank spaces,
your words are hostage
between your frozen pages
a story left in the middle of the action,
your timing is drowsy, undeserving of
reactions.

when i walked outside
one fine summer day
the waves of sunshine
left me in such disarray
that i had to gasp for a lifeline,
claw for my breath,
and as i cleansed myself,
somewhere behind me you stood -
i left.

i don't miss you anymore
not much
days go by where i don't think
not about your laugh, your sea urchin
touch
and ****, it feels good, not to worry
and fret,
over a boy i once loved, whose poison
i thought i'd never forget

how lovely it is, to stand alone
no longer waiting for calls that won't come
i don't quiver with fear, nor do i
ooze regret
how free i am, at last -
i am home.

It isn't like I didn't try to forget you. God, I tried. I tried it all. I banned you from my thoughts only to dream of you endlessly, mourning your appearance in that suspended place while secretly praying for more. I cast you away every time you spoke but found myself listening harder than before, ******* in details like the color of your shirt, or how your lips molded to the words falling from your tongue looked as ****** as how you might someday kiss a lover, whom I always dreamed was me. I ached for your touch only to deny myself oxygen when we were in the same room, relying on a supply of imaginary wishes to fuel my laughter. Most of all, I let your voice crack me into shards, the scales and spikes successfully keeping out both you and everyone else, effectively leaving me to my own filthy disease. I tried to forget you, and push you away - all of it, only successful when you were far from sight, excommunicated from my tumultuous brain.

But it never quite worked how I needed it to, because some part of me is still ridiculously and foolishly drunk with the idea of you... of us.

beside you
breathing you in
watching you from under curtains;
curtains of feathery black.

cologne and heat and dryer sheets,
a scent more like home than my home,
your lips quirk
and your eyes widen
and my heart
skips.

you speak
and i am lost
in your voice,
in the melody that you sing.
you shine; i fade.

you pause, and now
i have observed quietly for too long.
my eyes drop back to
the bitten nubs of my fingernails,
and you continue speaking.

i pull every word from your lips,
twist them,
tuck them into my brain
for another time
when i can imagine the sweet things you could
say.

but these words,
they are not meant for me
my mind wanders,
and my heart misses some beats
one,
two,
and i find myself helpless
watching you, just out of sigh
so close yet so terribly far
unattainable.

i am gasping for air when
you smile -
sudden and fleeting -
my heart skips, once more
then
nothing.

i lock the words away again,
the ones hanging precariously
at the tip
of my tongue
as some things are better left
unsaid.

i think a lot about how
things that happen to people make
them different, change their
ways and point of view.

i think about the boy
whose dad died in the eighth grade
from cancer. i think about
how someone who was a ****
at heart turned to words
and found himself again, found his
father in verses about aged trees
and kicking footballs so high,
they're weightless for a
little while.

i think about my former best
friend whose dad left her mom
when she was little, and it hurt
her so much that she took her fists
to friends and enemies alike. i think
about how she used a sharp tongue
to drag others down with her, to shrink
them and make her feel better about
herself; i don't blame her for that.

i think about the girl who is so
afraid she'll never meet somebody
again who will love her that she stays;
she stays with a boy who does not love her
or care enough to tell her how beautiful
she is every single day.

i think about the boy so hidden
behind weight he desperately lost
and the mountain that his superstar best
friend's voice has created
that when he finally got his spotlight,
he tattooed it across his forehead so
everyone knew that he is greater,
that he should be recognized.

i think about you and how
somewhere along the way, between
one of your best friend's tragic accident
and the year i didn't get to know you,
you gave yourself up
so unflinchingly to god and his
words
and yet you bathe in a pool of temptation
because the people surrounding you have
been all but blood since birth.

i think about myself
and how i picked myself up
and glued myself together after
three years, surrounded by debt
and a lack of the most important
thing to living, consumed by betrayal
and the death of a beloved,
drowning in you and feelings i didn't
know could be so strong,
all while encased in a bulging skin poisoned
with (self) hate and withering
with blackness.

i think about how people become who they
are, how we struggle to survive,
how we find ourselves. i think
about it so much that often i wish i could
understand every reason, every decision,
that it was okay to ask.
life is tricky, but everyone
has a cheat to make it through
each wretched level
of existence.

sometimes
when i'm feeling low and i can't
speak, you look at me.
it is not an earth shattering,
heaven quaking, explosion
when you do. but it is
the way you are
attentive
and how you seem to care
that makes me feel
as though i am
important.

don't leave,
and don't you dare
say goodbye.

i am not crying
because you will be gone -
or, i'm trying to pretend
that that isn't the case.

i am crying
because you're like my safety blanket,
and my inspiration,
and you were once my best friend
i am crying
because i need you,
even if you don't need me.

i need things to stay the same,
and you disappearing,
moving to bigger cities
and starting a new life
is not the same.

i want to hear your laugh,
obnoxiously loud over things
that are never quite as funny
as your reaction
i need to know that you are somewhere,
close by,
thinking and living and breathing
the same way i am
and i need to know
that when the moon shines its beams
across us at night,
and i am looking at the stars,
that perhaps we are thinking the same thought
just in different visions;
relative, like the way
every person
perceives things differently.

i do not want to
forget
you, or anything you've made me feel
although i do know it's time to
move on.
but i must admit,
when i am in class,
and your name somehow stumbles its way
to the front of my brain,
it will hurt that much more -
like a sudden shock
caused by an imbalance of electrical charges.

i do not want you to leave,
and thinking about it now hurts too much.
i guess i knew,
always,
that this was coming
but i never realized it would come
quite so suddenly,
or quite so soon.