There's a common misconception
when I tell people I have depression,
that I should be pitied or treated like glass,
like it makes me weak and unable.
Sometimes it ***** and my world caves in,
I don't know how to go on
and I can't seem to breathe.
There's something they don't realize,
I wouldn't change it for the world,
each day is a celebration of being alive,
of pain, and air, love and just even surviving.
Depression can make you weak
but it also makes me strong
and I love it, and me for that.

“I’m a horrible person”
She said with a smile
With a smile in her eyes
In her eyes he could see
He could see the truth
The truth of her soul
Her soul so darkly beautiful

“You’re a horrible person”
He said with a whisper
With a whisper that carried
That carried to the edge
The edge of the world
The world disintegrating
Disintegrating her soul

“You’re both horrible”
Said the world with a cry
With a cry from within
From within came a fire
A fire that burned
That burned with passion
With passion they died

every breath tastes
rancid on my tongue;
fun fact, if all you eat is
raspberry yogurt and
hypersaturated strawberries,
your ***** looks like
Jackson ******* plus
Picasso's Rose Period.
has anyone ever told you
that drunk texting you is like
standing in front of a Caravaggio;
it's dusky and dark and sensuous and I
******* adore getting lost in
translation. Cezanne draws solely in
molecular geometry, tetrahedral,
trigonal pyramidal, octahedrons
scrawled across the canvas and doused
in living color. Thursday night already
seems so intangible,
a bad dream that didn't dice up my liver
like a ******* sous chef. Thursdays
have come and gone, the weekends
ever-beckoning, and the scent of Smirnoff
stays in my sinuses.

Elaine dreamed of John;
she twisted and turned
in her sleep,
enfolded in the sheets
and blankets,
embracing her pillow.

But now
sitting on the school bus,
she knows
she won’t tell him,
won’t mention
any aspects
of the dream to him.

He's there
a few seats away
on her right;
sitting and talking
to the Goldfinch boy.

She watches him,
safe in her distant seat,
unseen by him;
his eyes on something
Goldfinch shows him.

In the dream
he had kissed her
and she had liked it,
and still senses it
on her lips,
brushing her lips
with the back
of her hand,
trying to relive
the dream.

Later as they get off
the bus
he turns to her
and looks at her.

I dreamed of you
last night.

She blushes,
looks beyond him,
sees her sister walk on,
chatting to another girl;
she looks back at him.

Did you?

He nods.

Colourful dream.

Was it?

Yes, we were alone together
and not at school;
some other place.

She tries to control
her blushing,
but finds it difficult;
her dream of him
seeming so real.

Where was it?

Never saw it before.

What happened?

He looks behind him,
then back at her.

I kissed you.

Did you?

Her words are so fragile
they barely make it
to the air.

Yes, and you liked it,
and didn't make
a fuss or walk off.

She looks at her
battered black shoes.

Was I expecting
to be kissed?

Hard to say
with dreams,
they are
kind of surreal.

Suppose they are.

She looks up at him,
takes in his
hazel eyes
and quiff
of brown hair.

Then what?  

Saw this unusual bird;
kind of like a swan,
but smaller,
less white.

She sighs
under her breath.

Bird?

Yes, odd bird.

And us?
What did we do
after the kiss?
She asks softly,
waiting for the answer,
but unsure
if she wants
to hear it.

We walked some place.

Where?

Don't know the place.

He looks at his watch.

Have to go soon,
but see you in recess?

I had a dream
about you, too.

He looks at her.
Did you?

She nods.

We kissed
in mine, too.

Was there
an odd bird
in your dream?

No, no bird;
just us and a kiss.

He looks
at his watch again.

Best be gone;
look at those clouds;
looks like rain.

starting all my sentences with
"im sorry but"
hesitant to speak my mind
terrified to speak at all

how wonderful our demons play 
how well they get along
our demons are savages
which is why together, we belong
these demons have humor
as they comically entertain
and taught to love only us
for everyone else is disdained
to block out the world
was the first lesson taught
and to battle for our love
is a fight worth being fought 
these demons are sick
something we cannot deny
but together they will be
for our love is their high

I remember:

you, in black lace ******* and
little else, crushed close
by gravity,
weak winter afternoon sunlight
streaming in and out of your car,
HD Netflix in your backseat.
my fingers drumming insistently
upon your collar bone,
my mouth pressed against your shoulder
as I sing so softly in your ear,
a concert for one.
((only you're invited))
your hair all over your bare
back and black
lace wedged up tight against your
muscle. your lips are
cold against my skin and our feet
are ******* freezing and the heater is
all the way up but not nearly enough.
I let my fingers parse through your
vertebrae, Dr. Lecter planning
a meal; slice here,
cleave there, remove viscera, season and
cook: magnifique.
time and history are
mercury in my clenched fist;
my nails are biting into my skin, and
liquid silver moments gone by are
flowing freely from my slackened grip.

I miss red
I miss dirt
Getting tired
Getting hurt
I miss children
I miss their songs
Plans changing
Going wrong
I miss the milky way
And the birds
The brand new voices
The brand new words
I miss the heat
I miss the taste
But I'll never miss it here
I'll never miss the waste