I love him
I tell myself
I know that
We will be together forever
I don’t believe that
We could be separated
My thoughts tell me that
He’s the love of my life
Sometimes my heart lies and says
I could live an eternity
Without him
Like my friends say
“We’re perfect for each other”
And you can’t tell me
He’s not the one.

Now read from bottom to top.

Loneliness is a strange thing
Sometimes it longs for people
But when something comes along one can get scared
anxious
unsure
Now wanting and longing for the loneliness to return with open arms and a tight comferting hug
Where one knows it’s safe

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't

I cannot help but compare people to plants.

We are born,
Blooming throughout our lives
We sow seeds and bear fruit.

Like trees,
We take root spreading far and wide
And yet we wither and die in the same soil

Even still,
The flower petals dance through the sky
And our greatest adventure continues.

Why does it always feel like
no one's listening
when I talk?

my collection of sweaters keeps growing
each filled with adoration from ex-lovers
the way the cheap polyester would rub against
my bare skin
somehow reminding them that i
was theirs.

Too bad.
They forgot that I favor another sweater more--
that I wore it first,
that I am comfortable in my very own
skin
that I don't need their flimsy synthetics
to keep me warm on a cold and lonely night.

it's my birthday.
i cried last night of the thought that i really made it another year.
the rain seemed to push me down so hard and i can't believe i'm still here.
walking with my friend yesterday,
i looked at her,
just by looking at her,
i knew that i should be here.
in that moment,
i knew i wanted to stay.
it's birthday and i'm --,
another year of breathing,
another year of crying,
another year of smiling,
another year of feeling like i was nothing,
another year of loving,
another year of me.
i don't know how to feel this year about myself yet
but
i'm here and that's all that matters.