I build myself up with kind words.
Words I do not hear from the person I want to hear them from the most.

Sometimes the things that are best for us are also the most painful.

I hurt so much, I don't want to hurt any more.

But I don't want to hurt any longer.

I have been lilac  

I have been the sea.

I have been black as night,

(brown was just alright)

and a honey-blonde me.

I feel like every color of the rainbow

wouldn’t be enough to draw you to me.

My demons are my best friends
The ones who hold me in my times of need
Who press themselves into me
Without me ever asking
Despite my protests

They sow the seeds of anguish
Amongst the fields I reign
Like plague they reap
Before I may ever thaw.

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.

I open up my bleeding heart and let it leak upon you
Let it stain your skin, let it blur whatever sure sight you had

For whatever reason, you welcome it
Now soaked in my blood, I look upon you and realize

How ugly I am

The life force my heart pumps
Barely enough to keep me alive
Weak in the light and strong amongst lies

I am not your lighthouse
I am my own ship, lost at sea

I am as ***** and worthless
As the one who first crushed me.

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.

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 *******.

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.

“I’m gonna get it done this year.”

I speak the words, just above a whisper. Some sort of self assurant mantra, but mostly I speak them to you. You - two feet away from me.
You - two million miles away.

And as my lips shut, my heart opens, like always. Waiting for some sort of response.  Some kind of reassurance that you have the pride and hope in me that I always seem to lack in myself.

But you - two million miles away, with your nose buried in the vapid pixels of your phone.

My heart closes yet again.

I’m gonna get it done this year.

Done.

This.

Your own heart with its hand on your throat
pictures of your would-be lover.
She still sleeps with another man.

As the days crawl by,
lust grows in your belly again.

And the self restraint you so torturously practice
is a gift from god himself.

Never the right time.
Forever the wrong place.

Maybe in the next life,
she will come to you
wearing white instead of black
and the owner of a different face.

She's in such a hurry.

Your time is too precious.

You will not waste.

Decisions, decisions.

I will never be the loved one.

I will never know the mirroring
of the love, affection, attention
adoration
that I so willingly give unto others.

I will never know what it is like
to be treated like a queen
to be sung to every day
to be pampered and cared for
to be lusted after
to be wanted.

I will never know devotion.

I will never know what it is like
to trust blindly
the knowledge that to you,
I am enough.
I am beautiful.
I am perfect.
I am loved.

I will never be the loved one.

I work hard.

I break myself for the better.

I choke on my own exhaust.

I sob on the long walk home.

I lash out intermittently, as if someone would care about my struggles.

I cry for help.

I snap at the hands that reach to touch.

Like a wounded animal.

Screaming.

Fighting.

For what?

Where is the line between fighting and dying?

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.

despite the amounts
of sleep and sanity
I sacrifice
to ensure the extinction
of the other woman

she thrives.

like flies to putrid corpses
the threat multiplies.

you attract.

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.

after ***
I read about self care
self healing
self love
to make up for the fact
that you will not hold me
you will not heal me
after wrecking both my body
and my expectations.

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.

we kiss
your hand on my thigh
pulling up my leg to hook your hip
just like in the movies.

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.

There is something disturbing in the scarcity of my name leaving your lips.

It comes in a whisper, in a hiss. It comes as mist on the wind. It comes, but never stays.

Is it necessary for me to lose control of the corners of my mouth, my throat bubbling in a giggle, when you finally say my name after two months?

As if it were something to be kept secret.

every day I waste away here
I entertain the glorious idea
of getting up
and walking out

Alas

I need this job
more than I need my dignity.

I pass myself along
from man
to man
to man

in search of shelter
I cannot find
in the graves I dig
with my own two hands.

oh
****

I wish I could stop getting attached

anybody

who dares to show me the slightest hint of attention, or affection

interest

an instant reply

just wanna hold you
let you hold me
I picture in my head how we could be

pathetic.

what a wonder
to be comfortable in your own skin

and my body
scarred by every sin

what a life
to scorn the skin I’m living in.

Red, like the river that flows between my legs every so often.

Of course, this the color I paint my nails, as if the subtle yet bold mark of femininity could make me feel any more like a woman. As if the pain in my abdomen suggests that, yes, one day I shall be worthy of the burden of bearing human life - a parasite within, a martyr without.

Such gifts these are. Never asked for, so oft granted, regardless of prayers for fragile offspring.

We gasp at the guarantee of torn womanhood. We sigh at the kick inside.
We are women - strong, unyielding beasts of the northern stars. We bleed ourselves dry in hopes that we may find our way back home - our blood ever thicker than any sweat or tear could dream to be.

The red of our bodies shimmers bright beneath the moon.

The perfect pathway from mother
to daughter
to mother.

I know
my mother is not proud of me
when I change my hair
bejewel my face
or tell her about the newest boy.

I am my mother’s daughter,
and we have made so many of the same mistakes.

I hope
my mother is proud of me
when I get a nice job
in the tallest building in the city
wear nice clothes
and sell my soul
to become another piece
in the people’s machine.

I look for love where it cannot be found
I search barren places for any trace of fruit
honey
sweetness
sensations that have no place in the bed I have made

your lips are rough with sugar
I would rather keep you ripened
than let you rot away

ever still
selfishly
I beg you to stay.

these days
i look less and less into your starving
stunning
open
absent eyes

in your vacancy

it almost makes the one-day
inevitable pill
easier to swallow.

I wonder how long it takes
to complete this transition
from despair
to apathy

I've been waiting for ages
for this hurting to stop
so familiar, but so much sharper
than time and time before

in my past
the pain was not chronic

But you go on
and on
and on.

every time I make the decision
to drink myself half to death

I rely on you

not him

to dry me out.

it is 2 in the morning
and I am up, sick
pregnant with such wishful thoughts
if only things had turned out differently

hello

goodbye.

I try too hard
and the taste I leave
on your god-given lips
is heavy,
chalky and bitter.

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.

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.

I am not the girl you admire on the train
I am not eye candy
grown wild in the streets

I am nothing beautiful
nor mouth watering
not desired
nor dreamt of

I am the fire and I am the eye

I am wits-end
calloused fingertips
split ends
tired eyes
and cracked skin

with every hope in the world, still
that I could lead one more heart to demise.

I dream so fondly of the dark
But I do not have the courage to see it through
The same cowardice that grips me
Holding me hostage
In every miserable corner of this life.

I'm the subscription inconvenience
Waiting for you at home
The love you don't have time for
The obsession you didn't ask for.

And despite my best efforts
I continue to restart each day

Fear in my chest
Water in my lungs

So heavy my head
So frail my heart

So easy to break.

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.

I want to have gardens on my arms
I want to carry pictures of all I have loved
and all I have lost

I want roses
and roses
and roses.