This suitcase is mocking me.
It's hanging wide open, laughing hysterically at me with its patent leather clown lips.
It's begging me to fill it with pretty sundresses fit for the streets of Paris,
and it sneers when I suggest my paisley swimsuit for the beaches of Italy.
I can hear it saying,
"I know you're not going anywhere, so can you please just put me back in the attic to collect dust before I get my hopes up?"
Fine, I will.
I'll place my dreams right beside you, I believe they'll collect dust nicely as well.
"Fair enough," it said.
Fair enough.

I lay back and run my fingers over my skin,
tiny travelers roaming over hills and plains,
ridges and crevices.
There are cracks and tears, the scars upon this terrain shall not heal.
They are the reminders and the tale tellers,
reciting stories of battles lost and loves won.
Will these blemishes deter the common traveler,
proving to be too complex for their
short-lived trail making?
Or is there a hidden beauty to these detours,
a mystery that attracts the adventurous and the brave?
Is it any less than other pathways?
Perhaps it has a hint of wildness to it,
a bit more tree roots to stumble upon
and branches to push back...
I turn over and wrap my arms around myself.
This is my land, with many stories and many battles lost.
Tread carefully, dear traveler.

No more.

Today I just want to run.
Run so far and so wide...
I only want to hear the wind rushing past my ears.
But I'm here, hiding out in my car from the beast, trying my hardest to block everything out.
Just breathe deep. Push it all down and focus on the music...
I want to run to the sea and leave everything behind.
I want to plop my *** in the sand and watch the deep blue undulating until I'm old and gray and blown away like dust.
I want to disconnect from everything and run free.
Just for a while, just for a while.

It really gets under my skin the way I don't hear from you in a couple of days and I become this sullen, anxiety ridden mouse that burrows her nose in the pages of books, filling her mind with the troubles of made up characters so she doesn't have to deal with her own feelings and problems and life.

Is it possible to feel like a mouse and an elephant at the same time?
You make me feel so small while I fumble around and destroy anything with the smallest of movements.
I hate missing you.
It's like my heart is fighting a cheese grater.
Yes. A cheese grater.
I try so hard not to even think about you sometimes I'm sure everyone can just see it on my face.
But I try.
I write. I talk to other guys, even though I find them so dull I want to throw personalities at them and pray it hurts.
I have so many more actual life problems that are right here, screaming in my face.
I need to focus on school.
But I'm missing you.
I need to lose these extra 10 pounds.
But I'm wallowing and missing you.
I need to finish that scarf I started knitting ages ago.
Stop.
I don't have time to miss you.
There are books I haven't read yet
and recipes I haven't tried and people I haven't met and places I haven't seen.
But I'm wanting your arms around me.
And I know this doesn't even make sense.
But I'm missing you.

I am sick to death of love poems.
So bored of them my heart dries up
at the mention of sweet eyes and longing lips.
All of these old, dead men were crazy.
They must've made it all up,
finding just the right words to string together,
forming a beautiful chord for the heart and mind
to play battle ship over, engorged vessels
enveloped in the deep peaceful blue.
And the victor, oh the victor…
The victor is the champion of dreams and hopes.
But what will these get you, my sweet delirium?
I don't want the high praise and swoons the words
of these dead, beautiful dreamers achieved.
I just need enough money to share a cup
of coffee with you any day.

There are two sides to this,
this mess.
Two completely different reflections in a funhouse mirror.
There’s the part of me that hears you
Hears your sweet words
And sees your full, gorging desires.
Your dark eyes haunt me as I brush my teeth and feed my cat.
They are a twisted trick, seducing me to hopes and dreams.
Of us.
And I stare back into the mirror. And there’s the part of me that
plays along and continues to talk about romantic scenarios of us.
As if they’re actually going to happen.
This is the enlongated, blurry, barely discernable reflection of something
that doesn’t even exist yet.
And then there’s the squat, fat, ugly reflection.
The truth.
The truth is you’re going to smash these mirrors one day.  
For good.
And I’ll be standing among these shattered ideals,
cursing your name and digging my nails into my palms.
But you won’t know me.
You won’t recognize the real, heart and blood girl standing before you.