[I appreciate all of the people who have recently taken an interest in my writing since my poem was featured on the front page!]

"It is not the critic who counts;
not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles,
or where the doer of deeds could have done better.

The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena,
whose face is marred
by dust and sweat and blood;
who strives valiantly;
who errs,
who comes short again and again,
because there is no effort without error and shortcoming;
but who does actually strive to do the deeds;

who knows great enthusiasms,
the great devotions;
who spends himself in a worthy cause;

who at best knows in the end
the triumph of high achievement,
and who at worst,
if he fails,
at least fails while daring greatly,

so that his place shall never be
with those cold and timid souls
who neither know victory or defeat."
-Roosevelt

Here is the line I draw in the sand.
Here are the words you spoke to me.
Here is the complete detachment of care and empathy you've shown. Here is documentation that I'm going to be alright.
There-
is the place for you in my heart.

Why do you focus on the worst in us?

These are my lips still untouched
by how much I thought you loved me.
This was the motivation I used to show you my world.
These are the walls that saw everything, here and there.
These are your letters collecting dust.
This is me staring at the place where you were supposed to be still standing.

How could you let me go?

Here is my realization.
There is your pride.
Here is the phone that won't be ringing.
Here is your realization.
There is a year gone.
Here is one of those other fish in the sea.
This is how quick I can rip that band-aid off.

Where are you running to?

This is the image of me.
The lack of my being in your life.
There- is the fading reminder of who I used to be.
This is how strongly I loved and believed you.
The only (  ) who did what ( ) did. There-- (  ) was.


This is the love that still stands.
The love that forgives and never forgets a second.
The place in our hearts that can't be filled by anyone else.
The love that knows no limit.

Here is the clock ticking, recording it all.

Here is how quickly I can rip that clock off the wall.

-r0

Well, as fun as all this was, at least I'm fast on recovery now.
Like riding a bike.
The body just remembers, I guess,
The horrible, traitorous thing.
The ears remember to ring
The stomach knows just how to clench
The head can spin all day long
And those hands
Do some truly impressive shaking
All so that the eyes can shed a couple of tears
As a result of all the trauma and sickness
And the heart doesn't have to open
Just
The ribcage.
It all remembers,
Being tortured by you
Is like
Like riding a bike.
The body knows how to suffer.
But at least it remembers how to peel itself off the floor as well.
I've got to say
The recovery's impressive
The timing
Way less than years prior.
The body has learned
Even if the mind hasn't
I have to say, props to muscle memory.

this is an open letter to anyone who has the audacity to try and love you like i did.

dear whateverthefuckyournameis,

i apologize in advance for spilling my boiled blood on the hem of your skirt. what you need to understand, is that you are standing on ground previously reserved for my feet, so forgive me for any bitterness that seeps through the cracks in my clenched fists. i don't hate you, but i can't be your friend. you probably don't know about me, and if you do, let me commend your bravery. i have a tendency to set my problems on fire, and in my bouts of anger everything looks flammable, especially girls with paper complexions. i'm sorry. i have never been one to walk away, so i don't know how to explain to you the holes in the bottoms of my shoes. but i have been further than you will ever go. this is not supposed to be an angry letter, but lately that's the only thing coming out of me. i don't even know your name but the thought of your hands reaching for him makes we want to break them. i will douse your dreams in gasoline and strike the match against your cheek. but i know that's not right, see, the poison crawling out from the end of my pen belongs to a scarier version of myself i try not to know. my heartache is an insatiable war cry in the dead of night, that will stop at nothing to shatter all your windows. it shames me to admit that i've found a sort of twisted satisfaction in using passive aggression to breach your armor. i am sick with missing a set of arms i was not privileged enough to know. i speak with all the grace of an atom bomb and wonder about the rubble at my feet. you are white picket fence and i am barbed wire. some girls are lions, some are lambs, and i learned to love, teeth bared and snarling. one of the only things that keeps me going is the hope that one day i'll learn how to love something without making it bleed. i may have never been his, but for a time he was mine, so please understand why i taste acid when i think about your mouth on his. again, i am sorry. i know it is not my place to be so full of resentment, but there is a part of me that sincerely hopes it bothers you to know he dreamt of me before you were even a thought. there is a side of me that thrives on the image of the color being drained from your face when you read this. but i am trying to learn how to be softer. this letter is the manifestation of a self-inflicted war that has been raging in my chest since he first told me about you. you will try to be good to him, and you might even succeed. if you ever find yourself singing him to sleep, like i did, don't ask if he wants to hear another song, just keep going until his breathing slows.

- m.f.