When I was little,
I used to hate having my door closed,
I would scream and cry
In fear of what the shadows could hold.
I was afraid of a box
Where I’d be held hostage
Caged with a lock
And no key
Back then
That pain was like the sting of a bee.
Now at 17 I realize that I wasn’t afraid of the dark
I was afraid of depression
Making its mark.
I was afraid of the endless battle of trying to fall asleep
Not wanting to wake up
But not wanting to dream.
I was afraid of the hope I would lose in that battle
Afraid of the chains
That made my hollow bones rattle,
Because in the light of a new day
I’d stay inside
“I’m tired” I’d say,
But the truth was much simpler
Than a cheap fix
I am afraid of myself
And I can’t change it.

His care for the world
Inspires me
His devotion
To the ocean
Makes me smile
And although I tease him
His environmental awareness
Is my favorite part about him

He understands music
On such a deep level
I love watching his eyes light up
When he talks about
His favorite musicians

When he cares about you
He makes you feel like
The most important person in the world
I miss feeling like that person.

The way he wraps his arms
Around your waist
And pulls you close
Like he never wants you
More than a centimeter apart from him
Is magical

He makes you feel safe
In the scariest moments
And secure
When your life is falling apart

But he's got his demons too,
No one is safe from that.
He's jealous,
vague,
closed-off,
angry.

But if you love him enough,
Support him right,
Take care of him,
Those demons won't even matter

His love can sometimes be mistaken
As lust
And if you're not careful,
It'll hurt you.

But I promise he loves you,
It's shown through small actions.
"There's a really good restaurant, I want to take you."
"When's your next game? I'm coming to watch."
"I want you to have dinner with my family."

His love is indirect, but I promise it's there.
His beating heart
Only sees you...

It used to only see me too.

kisses amid incense smoke
and a haze left over
from the pack we finished
in twenty two hours.
i choke on love
and spit up the burning push
to be more than just
an unpublished poet
among billions of
self proclaimed,
unpublished poets.
i’d write him a collection
of anything he would like to read
even if it’s just my blood
smeared from page to page.
oh god i am a poet,
and oh god i am scared.
i swear one day i’ll be
good for him, after my wrists
stop singing songs
i’m sure he’ll be thrilled
to never have to hear again.