If you still love me, stop.
Run for ten thousand miles,
then row halfway across the Atlantic,
and when you're finally far enough away
from every other soul,
dig down and wrench out all the things
you think you feel for me
and all of those memories,
the ones that keep you up at night.  
Then, when you've gathered them
all up into your shaking hands,
drop them. Watch them fall and float
to the bottom of the Atlantic.
It will hollow out a piece of you;
don't fill it with anything, not yet,
leave it empty, just as my heart was
when I told you
my love for you never existed,
but oh, how I wish it did.

In 1814, my grandfather’s barn collapsed
from the greediness of the farmer’s
haying to their own delight
and stocking the barn to the brim
with more hay than it was equipped to hold.
It broke and fell on top of them,
my grandfather too.

You have to stop letting
the weight of the world
make a home inside of your heart.
You can take it all in,
and shake and sob until
you can’t feel any longer,
but don’t linger.
Don’t stop feeling,
but before every problem you face
and every demon you meet,
reach down deep inside and grab
all the pieces that don’t belong in your soul,
because your heart can break,
and it will,
if you don’t realize you can’t heal the world
(but please, don’t stop trying)
but first, don’t let the dark camp,
scab, and scar inside of your heart
so that you can no longer
see the light.

My mother tried to send herself to hell,
and in turn, my sister did the same.
Only, my sister succeeded,
at 11:03 am, there for the eyes
of her five year old child.

You see, I’ve never known poverty
or what it’s like to drive a used car
because we bathed in money
to drown out the sorrows,
and we tossed our spare change in garbage cans
to try and lose the devil.

What if Shakespeare’s not right,
and all the demons aren’t here?
What if my sister plunged herself into a hole
filled with all of her darkest fears?
I swear to God himself, I hope he’s right,
because I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,
I can’t even imagine.

I thought I was fine,
but I was only coaxed in
to the lies upon lies,
the same lies my father drowned in.
My habits are like chained skeletons -
they’re bound to the ground,
but also to me so
by the time they decay
and let me be,
it will also come my time
to host a party themed with black.
So welcome, my old friends,
I thought you’d gone and left town.
Stay for awhile, please, let yourself in,
before I gather enough strength
to push you back in your coffins.

You are a lifeguard.
I jumped in the pool today,
and I almost didn’t
come back up for air.
I thought of your hands on her hips
and his hand smacking my face,
leaving spots and scars
I’d have to conceal for weeks.
I thought of my mother crying
all alone in her bed,
and my father
with his face buried in
that other woman’s hair.
I almost didn’t
come back up for air.

I did, though I was choking
and coughing and wishing I didn’t
as I tried to dispel water from my lungs.
You are a lifeguard
because the months
you spent tracing and kissing and healing,
guarding my heart against days like this,
whispering, breathing, sighing at
one, two, three in the morning,
‘I love you, I love you, I love you’
all came rushing back
and reminded me
that I am not weak
and I don’t waste time,
and that I don’t need you
because you could never save me -
you guard hearts
but He saves them.