Once upon a time
there was a girl
and how happy and swollen
her heart was in love.

a drunken disaster
of honeymoon blindness.

the satisfaction
of dreams come true
eyes always shut
waiting for the next kiss.

somewhere in time
she came into bloom.

the color drained
from her precious petals,
reality sunk into her.

heavy iron anchors.

the only strength remaining
learning how to cope
writing needlessly.

hungry, forlorn
the words make little sense
even ninety days later.

I'm afraid that I am starting to look my age because I am no longer carded when I walk up to the bar. I think the permanent wrinkle in my brow may be telling - the creases in my forehead are also unkind to my youth.

Whatever youth is left in this body, a breadbasket of stress.

Of course, drinking does nothing to help preserve whatever visage it is that I am so greedily clinging to.

And oh god, what an awful thing it is to be twenty three. How desperately far away it is from nineteen, bright and burning.

I listen to the voices of other men.

They tell me that I am a goddess,
worthy of all the love and lust in the world.

I listen to the music of their voices on repeat
artificial, prerecorded sweetness and affection.
Adoration and attention.
Sometimes dusted with lust.

Words that no longer come
from my own lover's lips.

i am his moon,
though he will never say.

i lit his way through the dark.
he was never without the promise of home.

he is my sun.

five hundred and sixty days
without sunscreen.
my flesh is burnt beyond recognition.

familiar trees
the wood I call home
play on repeat all the things that I know
something rotting
flesh and bone
yet undiscovered
dried up blood on the sidewalk
quicken my pulse
twitch in the lung.

there was a time in my life, not so long ago
where I shuddered at the thought
of accepting rides from strange men

my stubborn pride and hard caution
(along with my mother)
warned me against the dangers of this world

I would have rather sweltered
in the summer sun
than sit shotgun with a stranger

yet in these days of loneliness and repose
I have found any and all reservation lifted
I no longer mind the men of the road
aviators, mustache, gun in the glovebox

whatever unexpected kindness offered
whatever companionship, if just for a moment
I will now gladly take the risk to have.

There is a wrongness in this life that I cannot place.

There is something about the world that I wake up in every day
that makes it feel less and less like home
each time I open my eyes.

Something is missing.
Something is wrong.

As if I was transplanted here against my will
the wrong blood type, the wrong time
the more I try searching for meaning,
there is even less that I can call mine.

My vision blurs
and I beg my heart to let me see beyond.

There is so much more worth bargaining for
than exists here
on this day
in this life.

Sick in the sun,
and searching for the moon

The beacon to call me home.

Sometimes I feel so cute
wearing tall socks and short skirts
that I will send you a picture or two
so that you can see me too.

You used to get so excited to see me -
even just the pictures.
But now, if I'm lucky
I'll get a generic affirmative response
no adorable alliteration, no emoji
the equivalent of a head nod

just short and sweet enough
to rip whatever self esteem I have left
into tiny little pieces

always second guessing.

There is a place in my dreams
Where I meet you for *** and cigarettes

I feel your hands on my hips, tight as ever
You never say a word
And just like the waking world,
I'm not sure if you push into me
Out of love, or out of obligation

A year ago the dreams were more pleasant
And through feeling you, I felt the love
It was so much more than enough

Ten extra minutes in the morning to lay
Awake but asleep, in the silence
In the peace of one another.

And I still love kissing the skin of your chest
And I still brush your hair and call you mine
I still miss you more than the rest
Every single second, of every minute
Every hour, every day of my life.

And in last night's dream, we did little more
Than **** and prime for cancer.

My chest in the morning, full of hurt
Aching for the dreams of days past

Where my lungs
And my heart
Were crystal clear.

I'm 23 now.
and the weight of the world is too much to bear
I want for so much, so little the air is in my lungs
never enough to breathe
nor to give life to this heart once aflame.
again, I will admit, it is withered.
dead and cold.

I'm so tired.
every plan foiled.
every stitch come unravelled,
leaving me open and naked
and easy to ****.
I am the prey -
a victim of my own life.
a victim of my own mind -
my own, selfish heart
forever screaming
forever crying out
dying on the inside.

and the broken home I came from
I built
and and I burnt it down
myself.

now, my love is homeless.

and though I wish
and beg
and pray
I cannot keep the monsters at bay.

The longing precedes me
with the heaviest of sighs
I am so much heavier than you thought I was
and we are both in the wrong timeline
in this shared life

I adored you, for so long
I had such love
until I was proven wrong

and now, I have this rage
this resentment, burning too bright
my feelings and selfishness
pulling the strings one by one

oh god, I want to go back
I want to go home.

There is no shame
in the show of color from your heart
running to meet mine,
leaping at the chance.

The contrast between
what I have, and what I need
is too plain to see.

The pain of a bed that stays empty,
more like roommates
than lovers entwined.

The ache of a heart that is longing
for yet another
that I can call mine.

These crossed out plans.
The foiled intentions.
All the ideas in my mind
that I had
for someone else to save me
to save myself

They are gone.

And they are dead.

Much like me
myself
and my love for you.

One of the very rare times
that you hold me in your arms, of your own accord
I look into your eyes
and realize, in horror
that this is not enough.

you are not enough for me.

and that the hurt outweighs the laughter
and the shame outweighs our joy
and for all my tears -
every fear -

you are no longer
and have never really been
my beautiful boy.

I wish
oh god, how I wish
that I never latched on to every word you said
the hum of your voice kept my heart beating

and god, how I wish
I never caught your eye
I wish you hadn't put your arm around my shoulders
and I wish I never crawled into your bed
and slept through the night
next to the warmth of you

I wish we hadn't spent those long hours in the night
staying up so long, just to talk
just to be together
I wish I would have just slept on the living room couch instead

I wish I never widened the cracks in my heart
just enough to let you in
it became too full, too fast
and now it is bursting in pain.
infected.

I wish I never invited you in.
I wish we had never been lovers.
I wish we had just stayed friends.

All my life I have been obsessed with the idea of being in love. The thought that if I gave my heart, my soul, my entire being to someone, that I would be repaid in kind. That the sweet nothings, whispered so much, would buzz on for days in my heart. That my mouth would be so often kissed, my lips would bleed. My body would ache from how often I would let my lover have me.

What a dream.

This fairy tale *******.

Some days I'm okay with sitting at a desk
staring at a computer for hours on end.

Other days it's a ******* nightmare
because I have nowhere to run
when I suddenly remember how you broke
every promise you ever made.

If I could only be stronger -
shrug off the hurt
and tell myself that if I matter
so little to you,
so you should be worth nothing to me too.

How strange it is
that we will write until our pens run dry
yet we will not dare to open our mouths
when we come face-to-face with the ones we love.

How awful.

One day I will be some teenage boy's princess
a widow to myself, but in full bloom
longed to be taken
and more than just poised on the posters in his room

And as much as my eyes
will glimmer just for him
I will be some girl's witch
to be burnt at the stake.

Never in this life will I know how she will martyr me
for my words, or my face
for my selfish suffering.
Never in this life will I know
the confusing duality in being both loathed
and lusted after.

My face on a million blogs
my skin in someone's dreams
or my words inked beneath their skin.

The infamy I hunted after
commercialized, torn apart, over analyzed
and made out to be
just another man's sin.

Boy, remember well
just speaking my name to her
is a sin.

I remember the first time you put your hands on me.
I remember feeling the fire in your heart,
and tasting desire on your tongue.
I remember the way it felt to lay against you
and how perfectly our bodies seemed to fit together.
It was like we were hand crafted for one another.

do you remember?

And then, slowly
but ever certain
the fire bled out until it was but an ember -
barely glowing among the ash.

I'm so cold now.
Your body used to keep me warm.
Your breath kept my heart beating.

But now, I am alone
and I am cold
and all I have left to keep my heart humming
are these bittersweet memories
of honeymoon passion
played over and over again in my head.

like your favorite **** star on repeat.

Everything I am is too much.
I am an assault to the senses,
and no longer do I dare
to brush against your heart
for fear of an allergic reaction.

Most nights I put myself to bed alone.
I smoke til I'm dizzy and I tuck myself in.
I wait for the opening of my door -
The creak of the bedroom floor -
but I fall unconscious
far beyond the point where you finally join me.

And some nights I feel you pull me close.
And you whisper "I'm sorry".

I cherish the few moments I have with you
As brief and as warm as they are,
they are fleeting.
But my love for you is not.

I blink hard in the darkness of the evening light, struggling to find your eyes. I find your mouth instead, soft and gentle against mine, pleading for my tongue and so much more. I find your hands - and I feel them move up my body. You leave impressions of your fingertips on my most hidden skin for the first time. For each chill you send down my spine, I gasp and moan into your ear, hotter and hotter each time. But still, I cannot find your eyes.

Instead, I find you less soft, less pleading - more demanding than ever. How could I deny you - how could I deny myself? The hottest dream I've ever dreamt.

And the only way to measure the passage of time is how many times I feel you, again and again, for the very first time. Your skin against mine. Our breath fogs the window. Your hands in my hair. Sheets strewn, bodies bare.

Babe, you took me there.

The clock ticks on and it's easier to get by. The sun comes up, the sun goes down. So do I. But as bland and listless as these days are, they beat on. Without a care from my mother, without love from my lover. And each morning I still do manage to muster the strength to crawl up and out of bed. No matter the weight of my bones, my heart, or my head.

As much as I don't want to be, I still am. As much as I fight the human need for light and oxygen - the sun still kisses my skin. I feel every breath that I take in. I must find peace not with another - but within.

The days are becoming a blur. A sickening blend of everything and nothing. You could almost call it a bad high - if it had any of the slightest pleasure of one. I have felt too much, and now I have become too little. I have negated myself and I am a walking dream in this waking nightmare. Now if only I could remove myself from the equation.

I feel so heavy. And my bones, with rusted joints, need far too much care and coaxing to move. And I'll be honest - it hurts to stay in bed all day. But it hurts to make myself exist, too. It hurts to breathe. What is the point? How can I help anyone - how could I love anyone - when I can barely take care of myself?

I keep waiting for my knight in shining armor. I keep waiting for my true love to materialize out of thin air, here to save the day and tell me that everything is going to be alright.

I keep writing, as if it will keep me numb and from feeling.

And as much as it burns my lungs,
I keep breathing.

I keep hanging on, for some possibility of a promise that the air will clear and the sun will shine through the dust and smog, and bring me a beautiful day, and a beautiful love -  and I will wipe the mud from my face. And by the grace of god, maybe one day, I will be beautiful enough to deserve.

I used to paint myself to plastic perfection. By the buzzing light of my squalid bathroom, I would paint a portrait of a queen on an otherwise less stunning, far less beautiful canvas. Synthetic eyelashes, artificial pigments and all, I was something to devour.

And as I adorned myself in little more than lace and elastic, I felt less like a plastic gem. I felt far more like a diamond, primed and ready to be displayed to an endless array of lost souls from every dark corner of the internet.

I had never been more lauded in my life. I was some sort of ethereal creature to worship.

But only as much as I was a ***** to purchase.

And all too quickly, the gems lost their sparkle. The tokens lost their shine, and I lost that glimmer in my eye.
As much as I was a work of art to inspire, I was cheap, and thrown together. Meant to be torn apart.

And now, so many people own so many parts of me. So many secrets.
I cannot even own myself.