My home used to have a heartbeat;
it pulled me tightly to its chest.
My home smelled like smoke,
smoke and vanilla and earth.
I roll over in my bed, reaching.
I'm always reaching for something.
Only a balled up comforter and sheets,
they should've been washed yesterday.
I keep thinking I'll reach and feel home,
there will be warmth on the bed again--
gentle breathing to sing me to sleep.

Sleep became futile,
my arms made of lead.
Pinning me to the cold,
this residence is not my home.
I plead for my arms to rest,
but my fingertips keep stretching;
as if they could stretch into the past
and pull my home from the rubble.
The remnants of a lost foundation;
if my fingertips could mend.
My home was left behind in the wake.

I have never
Known anyone
Who hated
And loved me
Like you do
The fire keeps me warm
And burns me alive.

I would relive the end everyday
If I could relive the day I met you—
Just once.

Feel the finality crash around in my chest,
Leaving nothing unbroken
To meet you one more time.

I would learn how to walk again,
How to speak without a shaking voice
Breathe fire in my lungs.

Swallow my pride like shards of glass
And cough out a ****** forever,
To see you open the door for the first time.

Scream on the floor to relieve the pressure
Scream so my ribs would have room
If brown eyes could still be my favorite.

Anything to see you smile at me,
If only for a day—
I'd relive the end of me to find you again.

I have pure intentions.
Spinning straw into gold,
my fingertips bleed
with pure intentions.

Cold hands, shaking hands,
hurt when they touch.
Smudging charcoal fingerprints;
evidence of failed attempts.

I had bright eyes,
hope in my lungs;
I had a clean slate,
promise of prosperity.

I smear my slate,
a ravaged canvas,
a painter without soul.
Brush strokes of dissonance.

If one were to look
just long enough,
they might see the hope,
the salvation I couldn't reach.

The invisible girl painting myself
brighter shades that you might like
hoping you'll stop looking through me.

Coloring vibrancy across my skin
shades of lipstick you said you liked
I started wearing lipstick
I hated lipstick and always have

I smeared it off of my lips
wiping clean the slate I had left
just a color palette

all of the shades of people
Blended across my glass face
People I couldn't convince
to stop looking through me.

Meeting you was realizing a story.
The kind of story you tell your children;
The story of why you left your home town.
It's a story of multiple endings,
not a single one making sense.
And when I'm alone,
I will walk to the porch you used to meet me on
and I will relive that story.

I'll tell them I left when I realized this town,
the town I adore,
had nothing left to offer me.
That I outgrew the childhood it gave me.
And I'll know the very reason I left.
It was you. Seeing you. Knowing you were near.
I'll never tell them that.
I'll always know why I had to leave.

The lake that crashes like the ocean,
it's only Sunday evenings with you.
Long drives down the same highway
like I used to drive with you.
The same faces that I see in bonfire light,
one will always be missing.
I had to leave my home town,
one face simultaneously missing and appearing.

I will want to come home.
Stop to see my grandpa's grave on Sundays,
lounge on the deck at my grandma's house.
I'll want to be in the garage with my father,
but I tainted everything with your brevity
thinking it would be permanence.
I will miss my home town,
and all I'll tell my kids is that I outgrew it.

I already miss my home town,
I have not left.

If
They loved you
you would not ache
When they raised their voice
Or tremble
When their mood shifted
you would not fear
A specific tone
or shrink
when they entered the room
if they loved you
it wouldn’t hurt
You wouldn’t beg
for Kindness

I guess
The difference
Between you and i is that
You saw fault lines
Where I saw a mosaic.

I used to think
It was good
To be a little of everything
Until you said
I wasn’t enough
Of anything.

Time holds me hostage
Thoughts of you slipping
Through concrete fingertips
Please
Just stay.

In the end I only have a few excerpts—
beer soaked wisdom,
harsh, morning-light realities:

I don't love effortlessly.
I don't reach for anything out of my grasp.
My hands are always searching
trying to touch soil beneath sidewalks.
Aspirations of affection like dandelions—
vibrancy in a concrete wasteland.
My knuckles will bleed,
my palms will bear callouses of futility.

You were the first effortless thing.
If I had a moment I could relive,
I couldn't.
I strive to recall a moment untainted.

Fall victim to my words.
Feel concrete turn to sand;
lay in the remains with me.

I still feel you like waves of nostalgia;
the undertow of memories tugging at my shins,
beckoning me to wade into the familiar.
I revel in the numbing coldness of the water,
it inches up my legs--
I know when to step out.

Long nights with the wrong one,
almost phone calls to your voice;
The cold holds me steadfast.
I'm wary of a deep breath.

My lips quiver on sharpened words,
irony berates me, pulls me, tries to drown me.
I am the cold water, the unforgiving;
I beg them not to wade in searching.

I collapse into myself--
We are lost at sea.

I can feel you like waves.

All we have is a gauntlet.
Some are having roses thrown
And others are dodging axes,
Arrows that pierce
Daggers that embed themselves
Into our skin we try to keep thick.

Stumble down your gauntlet,
Head held high,
Breathing tight and quick.
In the end, as long as you stand
On your feet and still have breath
You've made it.

You don’t trust
Pierce me with words
Silver tongue sharpened
Clean entrance
Catastrophic exit
I don’t let go
Perforating my edges
If my word will give way
But it won’t.

The air in my lungs isn't breathable.
He knows I'm always looking for you.
Blood won't reach my hands.
He said my hands are always too cold.
I haven't felt warm in ten months.

"You're happiest in the summer."
"Yeah, I know." He stares at me,
always watching,
like he'll linger long enough,
see the crack in my disposition
and he'll be able to patch me smooth
and serene again.
If it wouldn't give me away,
I'd laugh.

The people we love, or rather,
The best or worst versions of ourselves,
forever condemning us—
either rise to the unattainable occasion
or fall weary against our worst selves.

"I love you," he says. I smile,
looking at him convincingly.
I don't feel anything.
Be it on the tip of my tongue
or the edge of a lie,
it's cynicism
all
the
same.

Fingertips tracing ink lines across your skin
Once nimble now fumbling
Tingling anticipation sharp like papercuts
I keep tracing
Papercuts becoming gashes
Peeling my skin back to the bone
Still tracing
Hands worn down to remnants and bones
You’re already gone
My skin worn out in patches
Pulled taught to my frame
Bones like white stone
Holding my limbs together
Making beauty out of betrayal
Stretching a minute into a lifetime
Bony fingers rapping against a marble chest
Checking for signs of life inside
Crocodile tears on rose-less cheeks
Dark eyes rimmed in bitterness
A wanting mind left alone
How many layers must peel away
Before you see one you want.

I have laugh lines.
Small fine lines
beginning to form.
Cornering my lips.

Not displeased;
not aggravated
at the simple sign of age.
I was startled.

On a face that did not think
it would grow to see age,
how nice it is to age
with the traces of happiness.