Meet me in the meadow
under our favorite willow tree
meet me in the meadow
where I'll give into thee
I feel your breathe inside my soul
and, I love the sense of no control
there's a river flowing by
and, we're making love under a
beautiful ...
blue sky.

It has started
occurring to me
that I rely
too much on my
muses
to give me worth.

We are
too young
and I am
too small
to start giving
bits of myself away
to be stretched and
expanded upon
by others.

I cannot
be restricted
to dependency
or limit myself
to the dead-end
streets
paved by
people with names
I forgot.

I can walk
in whichever direction
I choose
and write words
that I will not
dedicate
to you.

Snipping the
stitches
sewn into
my heart
and letting
it all
fall apart

7 | 31 Poems for August 

I haven’t been answering any of your texts or calls.
I needed some time alone, I know it has been a while.
It has been a while since you’ve heard me laugh or seen me smile.
I’m a mess, lately I’ve been feeling really stressed and depressed.
The things I’m holding back are things that need to be expressed.
I’m a mess, I need to get all this pain off my chest.
I don’t know who to run to or who to run from.
Or if I should be running at all.
If I’m willing to talk, will you listen like you always do?
We take life for granted knowing very well that tomorrow is not guaranteed.
I’m praying and hoping that someday I’ll be someone that they need.
I write to write, put the pen to paper and then I let it all bleed.
I never believed in people like you before but that was until I met you.
Vibe with me, pour a glass of wine and spend some time with me.
I promise that you’ll get blown away like autumn leaves on a windy street.
Breathe, breathe and listen to the echoes of your heartbeat.
That’s what it feels like to be free.
That’s what it feels like to vibe with me.

I can see your smile
Even when you are not around
Your laugh haunts my dreams
But I'd prefer to call them nightmares

Like two ends, we meet in the corner.
One more compulsive affair.  
We're everywhere and nowhere.
Like summer somewhere.

The silence you clothe yourself in will become a second skin. You will work hard to remove it. You will scrub yourself raw until the sweet scent of orange blossoms replaces the lighter fluid that has seeped into your pores.

When you finally tell someone, you will be drunk. It will be 2 a.m. You will tell your parents, it will spill out of you as you hover over the toilet. Your secrets mixed with ***** and something sour, something burning, something permanent. It will feel good, to flush the pain out of your throat.

It will be hard for you to be intimate. When you talk to that boy in your English class, you will feel butterflies for the first time in months, those same butterflies whose wings were clipped that night last July. You feel the butterflies, yes, but you will cringe when his hand brushes up against your own.

When that same boy asks you out on a date, and he opens the car door for you, you will want to run. You will feel the air in your lungs combust when he kisses you. You will think he is trying to draw blood when he bites your lip.

You will wonder if he can he see the bruises and fingerprints that still stain your nakedness

You will not believe him when he says “I love you”

When he asks why you never want to touch him, why you talk in your sleep, why your chapped lips are a graveyard eroded from the salt streaming down your cheeks, you tell him everything.

You do not cringe when he tries to hold your hand this time.

I remember how your touch traveled the valleys of my skin. How you held on so tight and  how easily you've slipped through my fingers. How i've let this happen. Each night i suffer. Aching for your words. Dying for your unfinished poetry about the first girl you've ever loved. How i was that girl. Now, your words speak of how thirsty you are for your new love. Each word you dedicate to her is a dagger. Stabbing its way through my chest, killing what was ever left inside me. I cry through my flesh that you've slit open with your razor sharp tongue. My blood are tears. I learned how to scream myself mute with my lips completely shut. My voice started to sound like a symphony. Each promise you've said that were never done served as a note played by this dismantled orchestra. You were never mine. But it felt like i always did. We were a collection of could have beens. We were just something that had potential but wasnt good enough to work. We were something. We were almost something.

When you love someone who is not there
Your mind will learn to create
Draw images of how everything should be
Erase ones that depict how it actually is
Eventually you will forget what is real
And what is make believe
You will convince yourself
That you are not forgotten
And that even though you haven't heard from him in days
He still thinks of you
You will tell yourself
That you are still wanted
Regardless of the fact that you barely want anything to do with yourself
You will somehow believe that someone else does
He will not tell you though
You have to remind yourself that he is too busy
Too involved even for a hello
You will have to remember
That his life never intended on having you be part of it
And that you
Will probably never be a part of it
You will constantly be reminded of every time you were promised future
And your wanting for it will become unbearable
You will lay awake at night like you always do
This time tasting of more than just alcohol and regret
You will swallow your own tongue wondering why fate never seems to be on your side
Thinking maybe you were never meant to love in the first place
That meeting him was a mistake
You should have known better anyway
To fall for a guy
With a heart already occupied
You know all too well
That there is not enough room in one for two
And you are the tenant with the most vacant body
Stop trying to fill yourself with things that don't exist
You will need to recall
Every single time you have built yourself up
Your expectations piling above you
Never anticipating the crash
You always seem to be staring blank eyed
When everything around you crumbles into disaster
You learn to pick up the pieces
And glue them into something decent enough to look at
Your mind is still painting pictures
On a canvas that will most likely never be tangible
And you will be reminded of it when you're laying in bed
And your hands grab for someone who is not there
When you love someone who is not there
You will spend every second of the day
Searching for them in crowded rooms
When in reality
You know
They weren't there to begin with
And they probably
Never will be.