I realized it was not your job to keep me afloat, so I stopped looking for places in conversation where you said something shallow and I tried to add depth. I stopped saving the text messages you sent past 3 AM because those words were not formed with love for me to cling on to, no, they were baited lines waiting for me to bite. Hook, line, and sinker I surfaced gasping for breathe in unfamiliar air. Writhing around in my discomfort, hoping you would throw me back into the water rather than watch me struggle. They never tell you how many fish in the sea are actually sharks waiting to sink their teeth.

Some day, we have to stop blaming everyone else.
Our father for leaving.
Our teachers for not letting us be kids.
Our sister for needing more help.
Our mother for not giving more.
Our friends for not understanding.
Our exes for not being gentle.

Someday now it's time to woman up
Get in charge
And **** all those external influinces.

You have so much in your hands
They have nothing over your happiness.

Don't ever fall in love with a poet
because they will indeed admire and watch your every move
they will write about how the pen marks on the side of your palm when you write
don't ever because they will trace
every single freckle you have on your face and
write about the color of each and every one of them and
describe how they smile so brightly under the sunlight
they will want you to want to know every little thing about them
even if it's just what hand they write with and want you
to be wondering why they write with that specific hand when in
reality it doesn't even matter

the poet will watch the way you dig
your eyes onto that book and your small quick remarks onto the 26 letters all crumpled together and will know that everyday at 5:28 p.m. you smile

they will look deeply into your eyes
to see if they can at least take a little
peak of your soul and they will write
about you like if you were the only
thing they see good in this world

they will want to know what you think
about when you look at them and
see if you also count each and
every freckle and hope and write  
that you do but they will
love you endlessly and they will
show you that they love you and only you

but don't date a poet if you aren't
capable to watch them and
admire their imperfections
when they sleep late at night
beside you.

j.f

i. you told me that my eyes are moonbeams, and
that sounded wrong because my eyes are small and
scared like an animal cowering in fear of a predator
and you used my tongue as a punching bag whenever
we kissed and bruises started showing up on the
toughest parts of my skin but maybe that was because
you painted them there to remind me that it's okay
to be scared /
to be vulnerable /
to be human

ii. it's easy to think that i am nothing but a
jigsaw puzzle of bones wrapped in someone else's
skin with a corrupted mind and a half a heart and
you came along with your crooked smiled and your
conflicting morals and i didn't understand you, but
that was okay because i didn't understand myself, and
that was okay because you showed me that understanding
yourself isn't important, and that's where things started
to go wrong

iii. you smelled like nicotine and honeydew and you
were cliché in such a subtle way that nobody noticed
and sometimes it felt like you were a figment of my
imagination and it took me too long to realize that in a
way, that's exactly what you were because that's all i
allowed you to be

iv. sometimes falling in love feels good, but other times
it means bleaching your skin so when you're laying in
an empty bed for the first time in a sixteen months, it
still feels like it's your own and that is something i know of,
but may never understand because i still feel the need to
wrap myself around you every night like a caterpillar that
doesn't want to become a butterfly and you tattoo my body
with your ink stained finger tips and it's safe to say that i am
poisoned by the constant thought of you

v. i don't know how much distance is between us but
there is always a home for you in the back corner of my
left side brain because you were really the only ******* thing
that made any sense to me

Everybody talks about depression as if they know it.
Like they can feel the blood dripping down their skin,
And they know the sick thought of "Oh -- look how beautiful the red is."
(They always say red is my color.)

As if they laid on their bed for hours on end,
Salt tracks lining their face like the scars on their ankles,
Because tears just won't come anymore.
As if they know staring at their ceiling, tracing patterns in the paint
And thinking "Maybe if I stay here awhile longer, I'll go away --
I'll cease to exist" because they're past the point of suicidal thoughts --
Accepting death in life with this hole in their chest and thinking
Death is a reward, an escape from this pain I deserve to feel.

I know depression. The kind that goes unnoticed --
The kind that takes the metal from a hair tie and not cuts --
But scrapes at the skin on her arm, lying on her bed,
Tears not yet dried up with a mother screaming "MONSTER"
Outside of her door.
I know the kind that cuts on her ankles, not her wrists,
Because she's scared she'll get in trouble but she
Desperately needs to be seen.
And never is.

I know depression. The kind that stops cutting because
She gives up hope that she ever will be.
The kind that accepts being alone, that accepts the pain
Like a gift because she deserves it -- that didn't smile for a year,
That went so far into herself that she forgot what connection was like
Not that she ever knew in the first place because

I know a depression that's always been there.
That started some time before the age of 10 but
She can't remember because the monster inside her chest
Stole those years, those memories.
And that monster took the place of every connection she might have felt --
Stopped it, muted it, because it wanted to be her sole companion.
So it was, and has been for 19 years.

And no one ever knew. Or --
They did, but they'd call her crazy.
Demented. Pathetic. A creep. Tell her she had no right --
That because she had a family, a home, money, whatever,
Because of this, her pain was irrelevant.
Fake - selfish - vain - wrong - she hadn't earned it -
So no one cared.

I know that depression.

11/23/13**
my only friend
mr.e.d.

i wish he would leave me be for awhile
maybe let me pick myself up off the ground
brush the dirt off of my clothing
take a warm warm shower
and let myself feel human again

but mr.e.d. is selfish
as am i
we both want beauty
we both want to risk it all

i dont quite remember how i met him
we must’ve shook hands one night
when i was feeling too low
because i know he lifted me up
and kissed my nose and whispered
"ill help you become yourself"

i knew mr.e.d. would become my everything
but i didn’t understand what that meant
until he had me gasping for air
between pools of half digested food
crying promises to the toilet bowl
"ill change ill change i promise"

i don’t want to leave mr.e.d.
because he helped me become
who i am
and i owe him
my
life

im sorry that my friends don’t like you mr.e.d.
im sorry that i promised them i’d leave you
but you know me better than that
im loyal
and you
are my everything