Crumpled like another page torn out of your journal.
Almost like I wasn’t good enough.
Am I not good enough?

If you didn’t like me, just toss me out
Crinkle and tear me to shreds
Thats how this feels
And years from now
Many years
You know I’ll still be yours
I’ll still be a page from your journal
Your feelings
Your love
The things that you decided you didn’t want anymore

Poetry
to me
is taking
my pain
and making
it sing.

The country lane is covered with powdery snow,
Like a blanket it clasps the street and field;
The icy wind is uttering an auspicious sough.
Trudging towards my destination that niveous fir trees yield.

Amidst the eerie lonely hush, down in the frozen valley,
A glimmer of light reflecting on crystalline snowflakes;
The place appearing like a lighthouse down the alley.
I reach your house, next to the frozen solid lake,
It is the only bright glare in this devouring black night.

You are my stars in the universe, guiding me through the dark,
You are my anchor in the untamed tides, precluding me to roam;
And with a violent streak of intuition, like a sudden spark,
A feeling of bliss - I realize I finally arrived at home.

i'm constantly stuck between
bones and blood and amphetamines
i keep thinking that
i can have it all if i just find the right scene
and i can see toxic thoughts like toxic waste
contaminating the oceans of my mind
a bitter aftertaste, a better nursery rhyme
the glowing eyes of my demons
reflecting off the blade of a knife
and the half smiling rings on the coffee table
are the only things keeping me
company at night
i never thought i'd ever describe pain as
"bright"
"vibrant"
"almost warm in the right light"
i'm stuck here, falling apart
a glass object breaking in slow motion
becoming bones before tomorrow starts
fissures turn to fractures, an explosion
kids these days call that abstract art
who i am hates who i used to be,
and who i was always wanted to be
this
a human typewriter who knows
how everyone's stories begin and end
a tree limb that never breaks, only bends
the back end of a horse
a street with a dead-end
a best friend a godsend
wind me up and watch me pretend
turning circles and spitting up my
heart on my bedroom floor.
"this is as good as it gets, my friend."

In English,
we’re learning about
Winston and Julia
in 1984, but
it’s 2017
all I want to study is
you.

I want to study less
about the
control and freedom
Big Brother has
and more about
the calculation of your
moves.

I want to study the way
your knuckles could be an
infant’s home, small
hands reaching out
longing for you
or the way the veins in
your arm makes abstract art,
beautiful enough to be showcased
in any gallery.

I understand now why they say
“as pretty as a painting.” Because
you’re as timeless and
breathtaking as
Mona Lisa.

And your blue iris's,
swirl with dark and light
tones with a slight
a golden glint,
I could stare into them for longer
than any
Starry Night.

Maybe,
I’m just better suited to an art class.
I want to learn the primaries
so I can swirl them all together and
get your dark brown hair.
I want to add the most expensive
white, so I can paint the
faint freckles on your nose and

I want to mix blue and red adding water
until the colour is a perfect match
for the faintest birthmark
on your shoulder.

Instead of the History of Russia,
I want to learn the History
of you.
I want to learn what makes you smile
and what makes you cry.

I want to study you,  
I use each brush stroke to
perfect your skin,
each pen writes down
notes until
I have a whole book
full of each heartbreak,
so I can learn a lesson
in you.

The obsession you have with the size of your hips.
They should be smaller,
Don't you think?
Oh, and be sure to do whatever it takes to have that thigh gap.
It's so worth it.
That thigh gap.
The more space the better.
The emptiness of your body.
The jutting collar bones.
Feeling dizzy.
Feeling depressed.
Worth every inch lost off your waist.
It is worth your once full and lushious hair now falling out like dead leaves.
Because you're dying.
You are killing yourself.
But it's all fine.
You're obsessed with telling yourself that it's all under control.
Isn't it?
Theres no sleep at night.
Not when your anxiety is this intense.
Not when your up planning how to skip the rest of the weeks meals.
Use that time to be productive.
Like right now.
Lying awake... obsessing.
Obsessing.
Obsessing.
But it's s all fine, right?
Because that thigh gap.
And bony fingers.
You're deliriously falling over every **** time you stand, and you think it's all still fine now?
You think it's still worth it?
Isn't it?

last night
i came home late
to my mother yelling

i tried to reason
to no avail
she didn't believe any of my words

her hand on my arm
her voice high and loud
she tried to push me inside
she wouldn't listen

tired and angry
i walked away
she followed

then i ran
and ran
and ran
and ran

till i could no longer hear the flopping
of her shoes
behind me.

i had to return later
but the feeling of that run
of disobeying
of my heart beating fast
of my small lasted freedom
is still in my mind
causing me
to want to run once more
and never stop
till i'm so far away
even her in her sliver car
can't find me

i want to run
and run
and run
and run
and i don't wanna ever stop