Last night we screamed.
You broke things,
I ran.
This morning we hugged.
You apologized and I could tell that you meant it this time
because you cried and you begged me to stay
and you cried.
That's how it works, right?
People cry when they mean things?
Or has every day just been practice
and last night only the dress rehearsal
leading up to your main act right here
kneeling in front of me
on a tile floor glued together by lies
and a carpet woven by false love.
And I know that I should pay more attention
to the man behind the curtain
but right now, in this moment, I forget.
I forget the thunderstorm in your voice
I forget the earthquake in your fist
and the volcano in your eyes.
I forget the fear that made me sleep in my car
I forget the sadness that made me want to end my life
I forget the manipulation that made me think it was all my fault.
Because in this moment, none of it matters.
Because people cry when they mean things.
Right?
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 10:49 PM UTC
Sometimes I want to curl up and cry.
This is one of those times.
I don't always know why
Maybe there isn't a "why".
Maybe my body just needs to feel an emotion.
Any emotion.
Maybe the sadness is just residual.
From past disappointments
Past grievances
Past conversations
Or just the past in general.
Sometimes I need to reset.
This is one of those times.
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 11:39 PM UTC
"Wicked" is a witch that you hear stories about on Halloween.
It is the step-mother that keeps you locked in a dungeon
Or the half-sibling that nominates you to be the royal scapegoat when they **** up.
"Wicked" is not you.
It is not the sincerity in your voice when you say "I love you"
Or the warmth of your hand when you trace the battle scars on my skin
Or the soothing calm that tells me "everything is going to be just fine".
"Wicked" is the other half that leaves imprints in the walls when it doesn't get it's way.
It is the sharpened tongue that has me cowering in the corner,
Waiting for the cyclone of words to pass.
It is the crack in the otherwise perfect glass that is your soul, the proof that no one is truly perfect.
"Wicked" is not you.
At least, not in public.
Not where there are eyes other than my own.
So tell me, then...
What is "wicked" to you?
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 3:43 PM UTC
I didn't expect it.
I didn't notice the change.
Not in your smile; in your eyes.
I was naive and in denial
Observing your actions and behaviors
Hiding behind the cloak of your disguise
And at once believed
That your spirit could control the ocean,
Your heart conspiring with the moon.
At a far away glance it was hidden,
A little white lie, a grain of rice
That blended in with the rest.
But once that was blown away in the wind
That little grain turned into an undeniable grease stain
As black as the ink in your pen.
The same one that scribbled hieroglyphics on my heart
Undecipherable to all but you.
I should've expected it.
I should've seen the change.
Your smiles becoming fake,
Your eyes menacing.
The Devil stole your soul,
Or, bought it, rather
And you say that this is love
Written in blood that you lather.
But this is not love
And the lies will always matter.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 3:28 PM UTC
Dear Best Friend,
I love that I can tell you everything,
no matter how weird or intimate.
I love that I can trust you to support me,
no matter how crazy the idea
I love that I can call you whenever,
whether it's 3pm or 3am,
and know that you'll be there for me.
Dear Best Friend,
I love you.
Dear Best Friend,
We haven't talked in a while.
We speak, but not as much, not really.
Not about important things
Not about real things.
We don't spend time together as often.
When we do, few and far between,
Your mind is always somewhere else
We might as well not be together at all.
Dear Best Friend,
I feel like I can't talk to you anymore.
I feel like you're never around,
Even though we live 15 minutes apart.
What happened to all the late night talks?
All the promises we made, and
All the adventures we had...
Can they really be gone?
Why don't you make time anymore?
Why don't you try?
Dear Best Friend,
I'm tired.
I'm tired of making the first move
Like our friendship is a game of chess that you've forgotten about.
I'm tired of being the only one that wants things to get better.
I'm tired of feeling like i'm the only one that cares.
I'm tired of not being listened to.
I'm tired of feeling like it's all my fault.
I'm tired of trying to help and not being taken seriously.
But that's just it, isn't it?
I'm just tired of trying.
I'm tired.
Dear "Best Friend",
I'm done.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 7:21 PM UTC
As I sit here
Watching the clock melt, like a Salvador Dali painting
The seconds and the minutes dripping down the wall.
The hours burning holes in my brain
All the time that I've allowed to pass
Without wanting to use it
Yet being afraid of it running out,
Of not having any time left to experience
When all along,
I could've put out the flames
That started in my head.
I have too many clocks
Reminding me of how much time I've wasted
How often I could've gotten in the car
Taken the road less traveled by,
Or gone the extra mile.
They say it's never crowded
But how am I to know
When I can't even clear the traffic jam in my mind?
As I sit here
Contemplating my worth, based on time used
I wonder how often the living truly live
Knowing that it is much more likely
That they are just shells of children
That were once alive.
The children that got lost
Staring at the overworked hands of Father Time
As I take the clock off the wall
And add it to my drawer of reminders,
I begin to wish that time didn't exist
Or rather, that we hadn't created it
Because too often I find myself walking the line
Between memorizing every detail of the clock
And ignoring its existence altogether.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 7:04 PM UTC
My body aches.
It aches for your touch,
Your lips on my neck
Your hands on my hips,
Your chest against my chest.
My body aches
To feel your breath on my skin
To feel you pulling me closer
To feel your hands in my hair,
Your heartbeat in sync with mine.
I miss your voice;
Your touch, your smell.
I miss your rough hands
And your soft touch.
I long to trace your scars
To memorize your imperfections and
To be the reason you want to be better.
I want you to want me like I want you.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 5:39 AM UTC
They were friends before Kindergarten, he and her
Long before either of their troubles would occur.
Laughing and playing from night until day
Neither of them thinking that the other would stray.
When elementary school started, they were the best of friends
But his parents were having trouble making amends.
When his father left the scene, he became home schooled
And for being his friend, she became ridiculed.
But not caring about the opinion of others,
She continued to think of him as one of her brothers.
By the end of elementary school, she was his only friend
But at the start of middle school her popularity began to ascend.
When middle school came about, it was as if she had been crowned
And slowly he began to seep into the background.
The years went on and it seemed as though he had disappeared
Which had been on the top of the list of things he feared.
What he did not know, was that his disappearances caused her grief
And despite her mother and father's warnings, she became a thief.
Being reckless and silly caused her mother's death
And her sadness had almost caused her own last breath.
After the tragedy, he came back to public school, hearing of her devastation
Soon after his timely return, he became her rock, her foundation.
She had crumbled on the inside, getting into alcohol and drugs
Walking around empty and lost, living life as if she were wearing earplugs.
For the rest of middle school through the end of high,
She was living in her mind, her life flying by.
He finally convinced her that she needed to change
Because she was being perceived as strange.
It took her a while to realize that she
Cared for him more than anybody.
The two eventually got together
Attracted to each other like birds to a feather.
They married young and had a child
Who looked like his mother an d always smiled,
The older they became, the more she remembered
That in her younger years she was very dismembered.
She thanked him every day
For saving her when she had gone astray
He told her that is was her friendship that he was defending
And their love was completely unending.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 1:20 AM UTC
A new car without a horn
An old dress that was never worn.
A book with no pages
A year without ages.
A pen with no ink
The sunset without pink.
Love with no hearts
A play with no parts.
A desert without dunes
A night with no moons.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 12:55 AM UTC
To promise is to create a bond,
A bond which cannot be broken
Except by lies and by hate.
So today I will make a promise to you.
I promise to be your's forever,
I promise to never say never.
I promise to put differences aside,
And to hold you through this wonderful ride.
I promise to stay fair and true,
And I promise that there is none other than you.
This promise I'm making is special.
It is real and genuine and your's to keep.
This might seem a nit overwhelming,
But, in short, I am saying:
I promise to love you, for you.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 12:51 AM UTC