After weeks spent parading around, letting everybody and their mother know the day is near, we are finally here. It’s the night of your 21st birthday. 3 shots, 2 beers, and a joint or four later, and I’m feeling pretty alright.
Your mother brings out your baby book, the entirety of your childhood life simplified into pictures and momentous small enough not to cause the pages to crease, meticulously placed between two hard covers.
She flips through the album, licking her fingertips between every other page and reading aloud the entries with the most significance to her. Suddenly she stops and points to a date.
January 19, 1997. The first time you smiled.
I look over at you and you smile back at me. A smile so radiant, there’s no need to explain the significance.

Can you believe it only costs $4.17 for a 10-pack of razor blades?
Free if you pocket them.
But after paying for every mistake I own, it seems so wrong for suicide to be so free.

After being painted over
In black and blue

When we split in the Spring
I carried on I bloomed

No longer recognizing
Such vibrant hues

I flourished more beautifully
Without you

Although I’m sure my presence is starting to become more than a little vexatious, I still hold your hand as often as I possibly can. Partially because I find how rough your hands are compared to the rest of your body to be very pleasing, but mostly because I feel obligated.
Don’t take it the wrong way, I don’t feel obligated in the sense that I’m being forced. I just know that we humans come into and leave this world alone, and I know all that you’ve seen.
So I’ll hold your hand while we lay in bed at night, cross the road, and walk through the grocery store, readjusting my grip as our fingers start slipping.
And when I notice you start slipping and losing your grip on this world and all it has too offer, I’ll readjust whatever it is that need readjusting. I’ll hold on even tighter so you don’t have to.
Just don’t give up. I know it’s hard, and I know you know that we humans come into and leave this world alone. But when I hold your hand, I have the entire world at my fingertips.

I’ll readjust as needed.

I embody the bad vibe felt in a room; the heaviness on your chest. I am both the rock and the hard place.
This world is not made for me; I can do no right. My birth was an error, my death is inevitable.

I long to belong.

Sometimes I think I'm a ****** human being, until I remember the ***** who walked past me in the bathroom last week without washing her ******* hands. Or until I think about the fact that there are people in this world that forget their hot pockets in the microwave for five hours straight- Or even worse, pizza rolls.
Don't even get me started on those ******* who have the audacity to leave the comfort of their homes at 5:30 in the afternoon, when they know **** well there are 500 tired people taking the same highway to get home that they're using to pick up a jar of pickles from Walmart.

But I digress.

Sometimes I think I'm a ****** human being because, despite it being all I have; this world, everything, and everyone in it still isn't good enough for me. I step heavier just to spite the world for only giving me 360˚, mumble under my breath when I'm not simply given what I want. I'm not grateful enough for what I have.
I throw pennies in the trash instead of the wishing well because, just like my wishes, I know nobody will be able to retrieve it. When I wish I only think about myself, knowing **** well I can drive a mile in any direction and see somebody that has it much worse.

But you know what? **** that.

I have the right, as a human, to be angry when I'm breathing the same air as those ****-tards who are ****** up enough to leave their poor, helpless pizza rolls in the microwave after only three ******* minutes. Three. *******. Minutes.

Sometimes I think I’m a ****** human being, but at least I’m not that ******.

I inhale smoke through lips I've kept shut for far too long. Through the depression and anxiety, finding a reason to breathe is hard, so talking about it has never truly been an option.

Exhaling I whisper only to myself under deep, harsh breaths.Understand I cannot let you witness how I really feel inside.
Although you beg to differ, not even I am willing to put up with myself through the heavy showers and sleepless nights.

My mind is as endless as the ocean, and this isn't last time I'll question whether I should let myself sink. At the bottom you can't see my puffy eyes or tear-stained cheeks.
When all you can comprehend is darkness you'll finally understand what it's like to be stranded in the abyss of me.

But it's kind that you say you'll stick around when my hurricane hits. The sun can't guide you on days like these.
I can't help you help me when I can't help myself. I can’t comprehend why I'd need to stay afloat.

So I'll inhale smoke through lips kept locked, and exhale still in whispers. No more deeper than the ocean goes, I know the smoke can’t mask what's inside when the storm comes.

I understand why you would leave.

I often think about our impending doom
How one day we must say our goodbyes
And go our separate ways in the universe
Whether we are complete or not

I like to imagine that you’ll move on to be
The brightest star in the midnight sky
On the first night of a new moon
When it’s hard to see past the darkness

That’s what you’ve always been to me
A light only bright enough to help
See that tomorrow can be a certainty
And that the night can only be so somber

Often times I look up into the sky and wonder
How I managed to find a star brighter than the sun

Between your branches
I’ve grown too comfortably

My roots have recognized
Every gap every blemish

Becoming acclimated
To only your atmosphere

I can no longer flourish
Without you

Despite living in San Antonio my entire life, I had never seen inside the Alamo; The same way you said you used to drive around my neighborhood on your way home from work every Sunday, but never inside.

If you or I had turned in, though, I'm sure we wouldn't have liked the view very much. Crooked, outdated, houses lay out along uneven roads, paved decades ago; The ghosts of those who had died fighting a battle that seems so irrelevant and far away, trapped inside heavy stone walls. What was the point?

They're just buildings. Another sight, seen.

How small the must the world be for us to pass each other in our day-to-day life, ignorant to what the future holds?
How many times had I seen you out and about, without ever longing for a deeper connection?

If it wasn't for meeting you, I still wouldn't have went inside the Alamo. You would've kept driving around my neighborhood every Sunday night.
We both would've been unaware of the ghosts that reside behind these heavy walls.

Maybe I would've found a reason to go, and maybe you would've too. Curiosity? Boredom? Perhaps we would've ran into each other. (I like that thought).
Maybe, at that time, instead of embracing these ghosts, they would've scared us away for good.

Either way, I would've never gotten to know you, and that's more terrifying than any ghost we could find in each other.

Contrary to popular belief
You don’t stop loving a man after he hits you
If anything it just leads you to wonder
Why did I deserve this? What did I do wrong? This is my fault, I should’ve seen this coming.
What can I do to fix this? How could I make myself better? How can I prevent this from happening again?

Contrary to popular belief
When he says he won’t do it again, he doesn’t actually mean it.
It’ll only gets worse.
How far can I go? Why does she stay?
I have her wrapped so tight around my finger and my fingers so tight around her throat.
Why does she love me? Will she believe me when I say I love her, that I will change?

Contrary to popular belief
Things will only change for the first couple days.
He will apologize.
Why do you love me? How did I become such a **** up? I had a rough childhood, I don’t want to end up like my father. Couldn’t you see how you provoked me? What would I ever do without you? Could you please forgive me?

Contrary to popular belief
You will forgive him with a lump in your throat, this time is no different than the last.
Things will never be the same
You’ll step more lightly when he’s near, breathe more quietly. You’ll feel the same fear you felt when he first pushed you against the wall every time a door closes too hard. You’ll still lie to everybody about the bruises.

Contrary to popular belief
You can only lie to yourself for so long
You don’t really believe he’ll change, but you’re afraid of change anyways. You’ll settle. I know the real him, he didn’t mean to hurt me. His anger just gets the best of him sometimes, but it’s not his fault. He’s really sweet, I swear. He loves me.

Contrary to popular belief
He doesn’t love you
When he struck you your best interest was the least of his. He knew he did wrong.
He doesn’t understand the severity of what he’s done, nor does he care to. History repeats itself.

Contrary to your beliefs
He never loved you

Anxiety is a destructive friend
That comes and goes
Briefly filling the void
Making you feel at home
Within yourself

Anxiety is a destructive friend
That uses your weaknesses
Against you
Ultimately dragging you
Further down

You lay still in the morning light
That snuck in through
The cracks of the blinds
Welcomed but uninvited

It kisses you and I follow it’s lead
Slowly caressing down your cheek - I realize
I’ve seen such beauty once before
But only in my dreams

I wanted to start a dream journal until I realized I haven't dreamt in a while. A long while, now that I really think about it.
As gloomy as it may seem, laying in complete darkness isn't as bad as you'd think. Not when I'm next to you at least.

I haven't dreamt in a while. A long, long while, now that I really think about it.
The last time must've been a little before we started crawling into bed together, waking up tangled in each others skin. I don't mind it. Not dreaming, that is.

I spend a lot of time daydreaming these days. My anxiety takes place of the nightmares. I'm used to thinking out every possible outcome of every possible scenario. My anxiety, these nightmares, have been around for a while. As long as I can remember, now that I really think about it. I'm so tired of it crawling into my head, pealing back my skin.

I've been thinking about starting a daydream journal instead, but the nightmares are too constant. They've been around for so long that it makes laying in complete darkness every night feel okay.

You have this scar on your right collarbone, about 4-5 inches long. Rods underneath help keep it intact, you can feel the screws if you run your fingers over it.
You said you broke it while skateboarding 6 years ago, I figure you tried to do some trick that felt right in that moment. A trick I would probably drool over, if I'm being honest.
Sometimes you get insecure when you notice me looking at it or touching it, and I don't understand why. It's pink hue reminds me of the sky at the perfect time of day, when it's not too hot or too cold outside.
I imagine you went through a lot of pain to acquire that piece. I hear that pain is beauty, and it's definitely more beautiful than any sunset I've seen.

I keep running back again and again
“Baby I love you, but let’s just be friends.”
“I’ll go to every corner of the world, every end.”
“I can’t stand you anymore- Let’s try again.”

Make up your mind already honey, I hate this;
Fighting, kissing, acting like it’s painless.
Don’t act like you understand how much it pains me.
I loved you so much that I just let you play me.

What game in your mind are you even winning?
Burning bridges when there’s no new beginning.
When you realize all the things that you’ll be missing;
I’ll be at the top, looking down on you, grinning.

For now I’ll sit and look at the sky above,
Wondering what it could’ve been and what it even was.
What does it matter if it’s better in the long run?

The only thing I’ll truly miss are your hugs.

Though the stars are in

            i                                                  ­       a
d                                          r        
                      s
                                 a                       r                     y

                                                 They still somehow

                                             a
                                             l
                                             i
                                             g
                                             n
                                             e
                                             d

          For you seemed to have found your way
                     to me at just the perfect time

Broken broken record
Love songs on repeat repeat
I Got You Babe
Unchained Melody
Let It Let It Be Me

In a world scary and blue
Every love song seems
To be written about you

She loves so wholly
But even god himself knows
She can’t be fulfilled

I need to stop being such a sap
I have to leave that job to the trees
But with the high I get off your air
I can’t stop writing lame poetry

Another little chump loser stuck
With birds circling around his head
Under your richly green canopy
I‘m sure he would much rather be dead

A poet and hopeless romantic
What a “unique” horrible cliche
Recounting recounting syllables
Your sap keeps him trapped in such a daze

This sucker thinks he’s in love again
Must have fell straight from the very top
And made a home safe in your warm shade
Now the poetry just cannot stop