I love you but I can't trust you anymore
Please just leave me alone for a while
I don't care how you're feeling, this isn't about your feelings
No, you don't get a say in our relationship now, the same way I didn't get a say in my own ******* bedroom
Do you know how much this ****** with my head
You were my best friend
Go **** yourself
I'm sorry
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
No
Because I don't want to
Because I said so
No
Because I said so
You're not going to change my mind
No
No
[His name]
Stop
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 2:07 AM UTC
***DO YOU REMEMBER THE NIGHT I HAD SIX DRINKS AND YOU HAD NONE
BECAUSE I DON'T***
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
The presumably burnt-out light bulb
merely needed to be
twisted back into place in order to
flicker on again.
The grey-haired woman standing on the chair
sighs, glad
she will not have to buy new ones.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
I know where you are right now because I have been there too, I know how it feels to be so sad for so long that you can't imagine being happy again, to be so sad for so long that you stop trying to be happy again and so you just feed the sadness, just try to give it what it wants in the hope that it will be content enough to spare you, but feeding it only helps it grow. You have to starve it out. You have to lock it up, have to tell it "no", have to fight it. It will claw at the back of your eyelids, it will moan and howl so loud that you cannot hear your own thoughts, you will ache because it is aching and you and it are one but you have to remind yourself that it is created entirely of you, but only a portion of you is made of it. You have to make it shrink. It will not be easy. There will be days when you give in, when you feel bad for it, withering away, and so you throw it scraps of food under the table but there will also be days when it is silent. It will have grown so weak that it can no longer pound on the door, it will lie still there in the dark and you will forget about it, if only for a moment, and you have to hold onto that. There will be good days, days when you think to yourself "this is how happy people feel on a regular basis," days that remind you why you are fighting this beast in the first place and the next day may be bad again, you may not hear that silence again for weeks but when you cannot see an end to this torture, you have to remind yourself of the good days, you have to keep them tucked underneath your pillow and reminisce about the way walking felt easy for a day before you go to bed, you have to keep telling yourself that although this is an uphill battle, it will be so much easier on the way down the other side and the view from the mountaintop is breathtaking. You have to convince yourself that you want that mountaintop, have to tell yourself that the good days are worth the fight, that the sadness will not last forever, that you are not made of darkness although it is made of you. You have to starve it out; it is so much easier to live when you only have to feed yourself.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 9:46 PM UTC
I have been told that a love left untouched will never disappear; that because the corrosive oils from our fingertips have not dissolved its coloring, it will, theoretically, endure perpetually. This love, left in its shrink-wrap casing, looming over the heads of the meek and the caustic feels like a scarlet letter hidden behind the robe, a feeling so foul none are to know but, Oh, what if it begins to fester, there in the moist dark?
This worry had been sitting in my stomach, churning with the bile and swallowed blood, coming up acid in my throat; I could feel it radiating out. Thought: it must be nuclear, must be radioactive and glowing, eating through me one layer at a time, but love –this uranium longing– has a half-life.
When first the reaction began it boiled and popped like lye on skin, singed off my eyelids so I could not help but see it there. I found myself woozy from the fumes, a high I had never experienced before so I inhaled, let it torch my lungs and leave me gagging. My hair began to fall out. I was soggy from the chemotherapy, tried pumping this bitterness into my bloodstream to remove the evil that already existed there, unaware that they were the same entity. It could not survive on a diet of itself and obsession, and so it began waning.
An exponential decay, the intensity of this passion varying directly with the frequency of contact and inversely with time, yet it will never be gone, entirely. It will decrease incrementally every time I say good bye, every time I see scarred knuckles, every time I want and he does not. I have counted the days since the day I counted on him and he was accountable and the number is growing larger and getting more difficult to remember. I have scribbled it onto scraps of paper and it has only browned the edges, no longer burns all the way through, and this love –this radium affair– has been losing its toxicity.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
I don't like change,
I keep it tucked away in my wallet,
the only space for it,
no good space,
really,
it just sits there,
weighs down on the frayed stitching in
my old jean pocket and makes things
too heavy on one side,
never worth much,
always just the leftovers,
the things I couldn't trade in for something else so
I got them back,
different now,
heavier,
a stale metallic smell,
not worth as much.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
boy finds brand new camera in his Christmas stocking
photographs the night sky, Polaroid comes out dark
tiny feet slide inside of Daddy's loafers
tie drags on the ground between chubby legs
there's something hiding under the bed, Dad
never saw anything
said night sky, only saw dark
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 11:02 PM UTC
His tales of a place he once called home, now reduced to ruins and smolder, carry a weight he has become accustomed to straining the muscles of his back against. He keeps postcards in his wallet, folded and creased in the center to the point of perforation, pulls them out when he is homesick or when anyone asks about his origins, always tucks them back into the pocket with more spite than he cares to portray. Most observers simply nod their head, "how beautiful it is," –was– "you're lucky to have been a part of it." He smiles, the genuine kind of smile that takes precise attention to detail and years of practice to counterfeit, says "I know." Some bold and curious or ignorant and inconsiderate listeners poke their furrowed brows into his upturned palms, ask him, "did you see the fire?" They want to know –must know– if he could smell the smoke from the next town over, if he could see the sky illuminated in the distance, the red hue seeping into the blue-black night, they want to know how big it was, a house fire or a holocaust, if he tried to put it out or if he stood idle, looked for faces in the flames, if it left anything but charred floorboards and fireproof safes, the combinations written on scraps of paper now insignificant. You can see him fuming from across the room, his face illuminated, the red hue dripping down his neck, his voice becomes victim, tries to keep it steady but you can see losses on his tongue, he trails off into silence, leaves nothing but stubbed toes and sentiments, "I'm sorry I asked." When he talks about the people he knows –knew– there, he always starts with a chuckle, a little grin as if something had just reminded him of them, they were all kids back then, his eyes turn child again while he talks about how they played in the storm drains and then he snaps them shut, remembers the cigarette butts, remembers the lighters they bought at the drug store, how they had loved to see things burn until they couldn't stop it. He talks about this place he used to call home, doesn't know what to call it anymore.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it
it doesn't make a sound but you can feel it shake the ground for miles
feel it rattle the good china in the cupboard
if a tree fall in the forest and no one is around to find use for the wood
it just lays there until the early morning damp soaks all the way through
just lays there until pieces of it start to flake off
if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to count the years in its rings
it might never have lived at all
might never have been alive in the first place
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 8:03 PM UTC