the other day I picked a flower
It was a long walk home
I like this one because it smells nice
But I don't really like flowers
I don't know it's name
Nor am I aware of its connection to the tree

By the time I got home
It Looked tired.
Didn't smell as nice anymore
It made my journey good though.

But I didn't notice
That it started dying
From the moment I picked it.
It kept its smile and never lost face
And it made it seem okay
To take it along with me
Now it's dead
Because it lied.

I promise you I don't want to **** myself
This isn't a letter saying goodbye
Not a poem blaming you for not seeing this coming
But sometimes
When I'm all alone
I sit in the bath just a little bit longer,
hoping and hoping I drift off to sleep
Or smoke three cigarettes
one after the other after the other
and hope my lungs get so filled with tar that I
stop breathing
Or stand dangerously close to the edge of a building
and close my eyes hoping the wind might *******
just hard enough to fall

It's easy to imagine
I know what everyone would say
How some people would cry
And some would secretly be glad
Some would feel guilt
Others sorrow
And in about a week it wouldn't matter

But I want to matter
Whether it be to just my mom
Or the man I helped cross the street
I want to matter

And so I tuck those thoughts deeper in the closet
And I step away from sharp objects and steep edges
And I sit and write poetry
Poetry will be the death of us all
Anyway

Let me post a selfie
how's my hair
makeup
angle
filter
how do I look
did I get likes yet?
Let me post a status
one about how much I love my besties
another on how I learned a new lesson
now here's a photo of my breakfast
I have to comment
like
poke
post new updates
every day
becuase that's just what you do nowadays,
that's just how it goes
because we're all so afraid
if we don't keep posting
if we don't get those likes
and invites
and pokes
and fill up our messages
and notifications,
that we're going to be forgotten.
That if we don't solidify our presence
on social media
then we don't have a presence at all.
We spend so much time
trying to make other people
think we exist,
that we never end up existing at all,
not really.
We don't need all these people
and confirmations
to tell us we exist.
we already do.
If only it weren't so easy to forget that.

Oddly enough, my first conversation with God (I call, for lack of it's true name) came as I began dating a non-believer. I recognized the voice, so I carried along,

She's onto something.
Think so?
Know so. She's onto something all of you should know.
How many of us do know?
Not nearly enough.
A great deal then, that I want nothing but all of her.
And think.. what to want, when you lose her?
I'd prefer not to ponder.

Our second came as any might expect. I took to the call,

Hey. Floating around still? How's the kids?
Humor is a fine coping mechanism.
Oh no, just the opposite.
I didn't believe I'd need to know. I didn't want to. You know?
I know.

The third came a year after,*

Is it too late to give my answer?
When is it ever too late for answers?
Never and always.
After it all, I really just don't know.
But I want to, and the world as my partner I will try to.
I don't think knowing is the point, you know?
I know. And it's splendid that you think so.
Now tell me, what is it you want for yourself?
You know, I don't know.
I thought so.

And right before the silence returned (as it always does), I could've swore I heard a whisper...

He's onto something.

Today the sun shed some tears
The cloud showed there fears
Scars were found on the stars
Heaven was stripped of bliss

I know between us lasts no more, melodies
I know last night the piper played out last tune
But I'm still in tune to your memories, so I will take these last steps to your heart's beat
I know the earth rotated on my decisions, but you were my sun, my world revolved around you.
Now, we stand on both ends of a bridge as we watch it burn
Somewhere I wish within the flames the phoenix would birth us a new world
Cause deep in my heart
I have no words to fill these blank spaces

He plays with my hair until his fingers get tangled,
I keep them there in fear that it's the last thing keeping us connected.