The fact was, I didn’t want to because I was afraid of addiction.

But then I had this thought—
1. if you do it right, it’ll only be once so you won’t have to worry about that.

That’s how it all starts, right?

2. Just this once,
you swear it to yourself,
only one time.


Except we all know it’s never just once.


3. You don’t even want to, but at this point it’s become more sort of a, “Why not?”.

4. Staggered footsteps and a headache later, you forget your feelings.
Regret doesn’t matter when you’re too busy giggling at the spinning ceiling about nothing.


5. But then you crash.

And you’re tired.
You’re so ******* tired.


6. Rinse and repeat.

You don’t know what’s next, and that’s alright
You never really understood the idea of success
It is, in its nature, a self-defined word

You always thought you had to prove your worth
Why?
You felt the need to change something, and become noticed.
You wanted to be known.

I can only offer what I know so far.
You have to learn to validate yourself
Otherwise you will live your whole life trying to please other people.

I know that twisted wrist behind your back, I know that fake plastered smile,
I know the gritted teeth and the tired eyes.

Walk away.

A long time ago, I used to stare into the sky.
Watching with amazement,
breathtaking glory.
That was until you happened.

I felt a fluttery feeling in my stomach
every time we talked.
I began to realize this feeling.
It's what they called
love.

We were young and dumb.
Hopeless adventures.
I used to think,
maybe,
"does she love me back?".
We could talk for hours
and never tire.

Suddenly,
hours seemed like only seconds.
Every moment we couldn't be
together
was a living hell.

I became too invested
in you.
I abandoned my health.
Sleep didn't matter
anymore.
I'd lay awake until you would respond.
Messaging until the new morning.

I started to worry about how you thought
about my looks.
I parted my hair differently.
You saw it, smiled, and said,
"You made my day brighter."
I was foolish.
I thought you loved me.

Various unfinished artworks.
Too afraid to give you my confession.
I remained quiet
but somehow
you already knew
and said nothing.

Until that fateful day
my dad forbade me.
I couldn't spend time with you anymore.
Only in school.
That was all.

I grew depressed,
started prying open my skin.
Wanted to feel pain.
Wanted to feel "alive".
I quit after my mom saw the first scar.
You knew
but said nothing.

I told you about
my restriction
on seeing you.
Next weekend,
I am brushed off like
A broken toy.
Once used, now boring.

You brought someone else.
I was shattered.
I sunk further
into this endless void.

Eventually, my sexuality got leaked.
You were hesitant around me.
Nothing was the same.
Nothing.

You knew
everything.

I decided to end it all
right there.
11:34 p.m.
I sent you a text.
Waited for a response
with tear-stained cheeks.

You knew
everything.

You told me those words.
You saved my life.
A week later,
you had the other person over again.

I throw away all the art.
Everything I poured my heart
into.

I sink deeper.
You never loved me.
I knew that
but said
nothing.

Here we are
once again.
I pull back my sleeves.
That red spot on my wrist
it looks like a burn,
except it was pencil.
Scratch.

It reminds me of the night sky.
This mark is my
star.

I hate being right about things
that I don’t want to be right about

Shame on me.
Guess I should’ve known better than to hope.

Poets constantly compare
saying “this” is like “that”

If there’s anything I learned from comparison
It’s how it can **** you slowly as a poison of  expectancy.

So, to put it simply,
You are not like anything else.
There is no comparison to you,
Because you are you and nothing else I could ever describe can come close to you.

Cold hands,
pale skin,
blue eyes.

Snowflakes,
ice skates,
gray skies.

Bad news,
illness consumes,
happy dies

Cracked lips,
fake smile,
telling lies.

Lonely boy,
wondering if
he can fly.

Bleeding knuckles,
broken body,
sobbing, "why?"

Rainy day,
dressed in black,
try not to cry.

Cold hands,
pale skin,
glass eyes.

My favorite season
is the bite of the wind as it brushes your cheeks.
It's the cushioning of a purposeful fall.
It's the muted gray skies and the hush of the world.
It's the crunch of the frozen fractals that support and keep you from falling in.

My favorite season
is the echoes of voices bouncing from the trees,
the only sounds to be heard.
It's the coze of a warm drink and the crackles and pops of the fireplace.

My favorite season is the temporary loss of visible life
until only by my favorite season's death
does the world start to breathe once again.

We weren't ready to love;
on that, we agreed.

And now as we part ways, you ask
if you killed my muse?

No, darling,
just halted temporarily.

Lies, for it is worse.
Every past love has killed a part of me.

Like a swamp ****
it grows in the boiling water of saucepans.
That seems to be the only way people cook it.
It's slimy and soggy
and tastes of death.
The corpse of a once thriving plant,
now in the coffin of the saucepan.
Disgusting.
Revolting.
Why would anyone see that ditch ****
and think,
"Looks edible!"
Obviously they were very wrong.

Expected to know what to write.
Expected to fill these pages with wonderous words.
Expected to be good at that.
Expected to be a natural.
Expected to be the best.
Expected to be successful.
Expected to be more.
Expected to do more.
Expected to know what to say and exactly when to say it.
Expected to be kind, always.
Expected to be "normal".
Expected to grow up mentally past my years.
Expected to make a lot of money.
Expected to know what I want
Expected to know what I don't want.
Expected to get over it.
Expected to change more.
Expected to never change.
Expected to not be destructive.
Expected to always be happy.
Expected to make other people happy and keep them that way.
Expected to live.
Expected to recover.
Expected to want to recover.
Expected to live.
I've said that.

Today,
1 year ago,

I killed her.

“  Don’t ask me how I’ve been
unless you’re prepared.

Truth is, I haven’t been great, but that’s
predictable.   “

I’m not even looking at her anymore.
Just staring at the ceiling, this deadpan expression carved into my stone face.

She asks me if I need anything.

I just laugh.
Bitter, cruel.
This is past the breaking point.

“  No, no.
It’s too late.

You’re too late.  “

It rains a little
It rains a little
It rains a little
Rain song
It rains a little

Cleanse the heart.
Cleanses the skin, cleanses and relieves pain.
"Very good. Too bad."

Sing a clear song
Hurt the lungs
If you want to change your name, humble yourself and know that you will not be insulted.
"Nobody believes you. You're lying."

Become a holy soul.
The dragon flew through the air.
By strong winds and terrible falls.
"What you see next is good.”

I can't sing on my own.
His voice turned green.
Heavy rains filled my heart
The sun is on
Honey, they took me to a beautiful place.

Sometimes I get tired of my body
Not in a self-hate way,
More of like a disdain for all the things I have to deal with

Tired of the stiff, clunky joints
Not bad enough to warrant a diagnosis,
yet not functional enough to get through a week without some kind of ache or pain

Sometimes I wish it would just hurry up and get worse instead of being in this in-between,
In a place where a professional would excuse it as something I brought upon myself rather than an actual problem

The matter of fact is,
I am 20 and losing flexibility and mobility of my joints, mainly in my hands
This started in February of 2023, and has been getting worse.
So much so that even when I don’t aggravate my hands (for example: by taking a **** ton of notes at uni) they can still hurt

It was July, and I was at the zoo with my mom.
It was going to rain later that day, and I could feel that in my hand joints.
Which was a first.
My hands flared up so much that by the end of the day I needed to wear my compression gloves.
This lasted for about a week, with the first two days being the worst.
This was the first time that my hands hurt without me having done a lot of writing.

I haven’t had a random flare up since then.
My hands have been hurting about every day now that I’m in uni, but it’s manageable.
I haven’t needed my gloves yet.
It’s mostly because I need to write a **** ton for uni and I can’t use my computer because I don’t retain information by typing.
It’s not writers cramp.
It’s in my knuckles.
The joints of my fingers.
I know this will only get worse.

My mom thinks it could be rheumatoid, since that runs in our family, but I don’t get swelling.

My left wrist hurts sometimes, and my knees hurt if they don’t have support when I’m sitting.
My hips hurt if I stand or sit for too long as well.

So I guess
Overall
Something is not working like how it’s meant to.

But until something break breaks, I guess I’ll never know.

This is a poem about friends.
Like poems, friendship can end.

Friendships are like a poem.
Complex, or simple, friendships feel like home.

Some friendships are short, others are long.
Friendship is a recognizable song.

That all know the words to by heart.
"A friendship like ours," they say, "will never fall apart."

Alas, this promise isn't always true.
Friendships can shatter or fade, leaving us blue.

Despite this, there are billions of others we can befriend.
Ones from which we can hear the truth behind, "'Til the end?'"

I’ve been thinking about writing this for a while but I got stuck on how I thought it should sound and look and read so i thought to myself “**** it” and decided to just write down exactly what i want to say.
Sometimes I feel like I don’t know how to say what I feel, actually scratch that, all the time I don’t know how to say what I feel. I wanted to write this as a nice cute song but I got hung up on trying to make stuff rhyme and it’s not about it being good to anyone else I just crave approval so I know that I didn’t **** up. But enough about me.

This is for you and you know who you are and if you don’t, well then, if it resonates with you then it’s for you.


I don’t know how to describe how I feel love, but I know that I feel it.
It’s not something I can pin down with a word like other people can, how they say “exhilarating” and “selfless”.
It feels like a fluttering, an overwhelming joy, but at the same time it feels nothing like that, it feels like a cool breeze off the lake.
So, for me, the feeling of love is always changing.
But I can see it.
I can see how I love you when I look at pictures of us.
I can see my love when I feel my eyes crinkle and my cheeks ache from a smile.
Everyone around me has always tried to define my love for me, but my love is not like theirs because it is subtle and quiet.

I’ve been working on saying it out loud when I feel it.
If it’s ever changing for me, it must be confusing as hell to everyone else.
Because others have tried to identify what they think is my love based on what they think they know love to be.
It is not a universal feeling, I understand.
So, you may see a blank face sometimes, but I provide the clarity, and I say,

I love you.

My last words to you were, "I'm sorry. I should've told you before I left."
And yours, "Don't abandon me."

My dear, these bottles shake-shake-shake in my hands, in my mind.

If I don’t cut the threads on my legs,
will gravity finally pull me down?

Am I doomed here to drown?

I’ve spent 6 years waiting,
lost and confused,
stumbling my way through the dark.
Slipping rocks into my pockets to weigh myself down.

Thought about giving up reaching the surface too many times to count.

I’ve finally been handed a flashlight.
I’m going to find my way out of here.

And of course, I might get lost on the way.
The flashlight might burn out.
But I’m not going to back down anymore.

It’s time to recover.

I know I promised not to,
but man,
am I bad at keeping promises.

“He’s actually been less angry since…well, probably since he thought I was going to die.”

I stop and stare at her. Didn’t expect her to say that, but it makes sense. I had forgotten about her diagnosis. “…right.”

“He hasn’t said that to me but from how he was during that time, I think that’s what he thought,” She explains, breaking eye contact. I don’t want to remember this. I don’t want to talk about this. She hugs her arms.

I flashback to the drive back home with him.

“The drainage port got infected and those idiots, the doctors, they didn’t notice.” His brow furrows, but his eyes betray his resolve, tearing up as he tells me. He wipes his face and clears his throat. “She nearly died from that, you know.”

I didn’t know. I was 15 and all I knew was that I was getting picked up from my at-the-time girlfriend’s house because he texted me that she was in the ICU. I lied to my ex. Told her it was an appointment. I was scared. I think I was in denial, probably. I know that I didn’t stay in the room with her very long because I couldn’t keep pretending like everything was okay.

I don’t like talking about this, but I don’t like pretending like it’s not reality, or ignoring her when she’s still clearly sick even when she’s not on chemo anymore.

Still. I hate the uncertainty. I hate not knowing how much longer I’ll have my mom for.

Back in the present again. “Maybe.” I reply.

Why?

It’s not fair.
How could they do that?

I’m sick of being hated for existing.

Why do they hate me so much?
What did I do?
It’s not my fault.
I can’t do anything.

Why?

I could have saved her.
I failed.
Please forgive me.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

We dance on the stage, ballerinas practicing our routine.
We watch from the audience and applaud.
Personalities painted in pictures of pretty pastels.
Don't be fooled.
We may entertain ourselves with the blaring lights of the stage,
but it's a heatless fire.

you do too.

And soon, I am to follow.

Once, and again, and again.
How many times will I hear the same words?
The same diagnosis?

I can tell you all about how it’s not fair and how I’m sick of the people I love being told how long they can expect to live.
But this is so common.

Get over it, right?

Until I hear it again.

Don’t dwell on it.

Be free.

I love you guys.

Here I am,
once again.

It’s 11:00 p.m.

No words.
Shot nerves.

How am I supposed to sleep?

I’m staring at my phone screen.

Check it once, twice,
wait, check it again,
maybe something popped up between the time it took me to blink.

But it’s still the same.
No notifications.

It’s 11:00 p.m.

Bits of conversation float through my head.
There are a million things I want to text, to say, but how do I even begin?

I
want
  to
    ******* i n g
                     die

From card games and Legos,
towns of plastic people,
an architect of those tiny bricks.

From apple trees
and “sword”-fights with snapped twigs
on a summer breeze.

From road trips,
endless hours in that suburban,
endlessly asking, “Are we there yet?!”.

From curious clumsiness,
burnt hands on stovetops,
and scraped knees on pavement.

From the frozen creek,
gliding—no—flying across the surface,
on well-worn blades.

From Michigan trails,
glittering lakes and skipping stones,
hot against my palms from the sun-scorched sand.

From grassy, unkempt fields
behind an unfamiliar school,
painted with white lines and home to an ambitious team.

From “the sticks”,
or the country, as it’s better known,
bittersweet memories follow so that wherever I may go,
forever this was home.

I was born running
heart and mind ceaselessly churning
never-ending, never-ending
Told to keep running, encouraged, demanded

I got older, the path got longer
The coaches scrutinizing from the sidelines
Yelling, constant, demeaning
It's not enough it's not enough

I despise it
I can never catch my breath
I cross the finish line and another appears

I've learned to stop and walk,
put up boundaries, healing healing healing

My legs planted now, but my heart and mind ceaselessly churning
Life isn't a race, I keep reminding myself
But I was born running

I dreamt last night of someone waiting at the end of an aisle
And the sunbeams streamed through a morning mist
The piano clinked a charming tune
I walked through a garden towards them
But I think it was me watching myself from my partner's view
Because my parents were at my sides
It was as if no time had passed at all
And that's how I knew it couldn't have been me
Because my dad was tearing up
And maybe he would,
But I find it hard to believe that a man so averse to joy
Would be there and happy for me
But that's not the point
I was happy and it was more than a dream
Because it was a wish for something I desperately want to come true

I'd say I'm not a dreamer but I still hope for things that I know I will never have

I went to therapy again and decided that maybe I don't need it anymore
But then I sit up at midnight journaling and writing poetry in my notes app
I said I want to find happiness in the moment
Instead of forever grasping at it, never holding it

Dump my body on the steps of Capitol Hill
They know what they did

Know that I didn’t go silently
Know that I was biting, scratching, fighting the whole way down

Seek justice, not vengeance
Vengeance is only for my soul to reap
Do not give them any peace
Rest should not come to them, for it will not come to me

If it was one, pay them some heed, it takes a great effort to break me
If it was many, shame them forever
Only cowards and fools need a mob to succeed

Take time to mourn,
There is great power in feeling
Then rise up, up,
And fight like hell for the living