i wish this was the last thing i would ever write for you. i just wanna move on, but i watched you walk across the dewy lawn and i felt empty inside. ghost town vibes. it hurts seeing you be the life of the party, the happy one, the “gets out of situations so easily cause she’s so pretty.” being friends with you was so amazing and i wish i didn’t take it for granite (granted apparently) back then.
cause now i’m the loser and ashamed that i didn’t say hi to you. now i ignore your every move as if i don’t even know who you are and nobody even knows that we knew each other or were, oh my gosh—friends. oh wait, forgot one word, or two. best friends forever. bffs. we drew in notebooks together, went to the book fair and found little friendship books and wrote in them. we were attached at the hip, so incredibly close. why did we lose that connection? you have so many **** friends and i have nothing against them, i just wish they would help bring back our friendship. and i am sick and tired (exhausted) of seeing you in the halls and looking the other way or up at the ceiling. i am embarrassed that it’s come to this. avoiding eye contact because i fear you hate me, cause God forbid, you send me a single message saying, “you know, i hate to admit it, but i miss you and i wanna start over.” but no. and perhaps i’m coming to full terms with that. i guess the contract is over and the summer sun has sunken into the fortress of the creepy night. i’m fine. it’s just- you had your car and i wished to ride in the front seat jamming out to music before school and having study halls together and making friends together and being friends forever. but it’s ok. i realized true friendship doesn’t exist. it’s all an in the moment thing. they’ll say they wanna be friends forever, but once you move from the ground to the sea, you’ll never wanna be dry again. and i get it. my lungs are drowning in the water, but i still don’t wanna climb out before it’s too late. i’m so sorry

sometimes the pain sits lightly atop my hair
never flowing past my shoulders
never dipping down below my collarbones
but sometimes the pain envelops me, knee deep
it buries itself in my shabby shoes
touching each toe and its nail, not leaving a part of me out

sometimes the pain leaks into my mouth and becomes a weapon wielded with regret
stains form on my clothes from ****** bullets ricocheting
sometimes the pain becomes my voice, hijacking my speech and blending it into violence

my flesh the proof that pain once owned me

but it doesn’t
it doesn’t own me
i let it think that it owns me as it terrorizes
each and every salty tear i let tumble bears witness,
but they know it’s just a way to get me to stray from the stability i deserve

the pain isn’t who i am
it doesn’t define me at all
it doesn’t make me any less strong or brave or fearless
it gives me reason to believe
that although pain does not own me
neither does happiness
a state of limbo, sometimes suffering
i own my pain, giving it power ever so often
giving it the chance to destroy me, yet it never does
it never comes with blades or doubt or anger

no matter how brutal the battle,
the pain will always crumble beneath my feet
and i will not let it crawl up my spine
and rest atop my hair from now on
i can be free from the pain that confines me
from the false happiness that life begs you to accept
i can be free in the choice to believe
to believe
to believe

my innocence floated away in fourth grade
when all my classmates grew up and it petrified me.
the world has ruined my bones, has ruined the soil where i planted my first milkweed for the monarch butterflies
we have all been destroyed
we just don't realize
or maybe we do, we just shower and bask in it.  
every soul is so uncouth and the world now stings more than the crack of the whip.
termites are crawling inside our mouths
moths are being inhaled through our nostrils.
when i was nine, everything had a clear answer and i was always happy
but now that my innocence has been scraped from the bark of a crabapple tree
i am so bewildered and i can’t find any sanctuary and life is so unendurable.
restore my patient calm and timid mind
i loathe this planet and this wicked institutionalized harbor where i now have to spend my days
all because i lost my innocence in fourth grade

there comes a slow, soft afternoon pace and a dinner bell
i sweat, jogging, to the table,
soaked with the cherry blood red fruit of my labor.
when my meal is served,
there’s grease in the pan
and my hands are black as coal,
so it lathers my throat and turns sore.
unfixable bellyaches and frequent *****.
my hairbrush combs knots of dead hair, clumps in my fists
and the mother is a cross old women,
apathetic and unforgiving
she touches with a stonewall embrace
she tells me i am worth something,
and then she tells me i am not
as i scrub the dirt from every single step she takes
and wash my entire mouth with soap after every word that i slip up and say.

yet there is a place inside the trees
where there are fawns and fairies and peacemakers
and the meadow sings almost humanly
with a beautiful flute and a distant harp
and that is where the light is the brightest.
there are no cold, empty corners
hidden by the dusty rust of time
there are only staircases leading to the sky
and bounding rabbits and seashells nowhere near the sea,

but in this house,
the cruel and unforgiving mother
owns me
and i cannot fathom escape  
in this fit of naivety.

hold me because it’s achingly difficult.
you jumped out a window
and landed face-first into the squishy grass
i would have caught you,
but it was too late.
somehow it always is.
i jumped into your arms,
but your body was so cold.
a starved mind, a clueless nomad
i sink into bathtubs
and i don’t have organs
i am an invisible skeleton.
i wear shoes
that are too
tight around my ankles
and my legs hate each other
and i hate them too—
what a disgraceful feud.
somehow when i touched you,
you melted into the background
of the stage i wasn’t aware that i consented to.
permission overlooked
forgiveness not a given.
this is the end.
perhaps not what i had envisioned—
not that it matters.
it doesn’t.
i’m picking blots in my bloodstream.
the popping forehead ventricles
the insanity so familiar
and so homely.
home-cooked meals, hearts drawn out onto my back.
it’s too late for me to me to say i’m sorry
or to pray for myself.
it’s too late to love.
i insist
but the road i walk down is dusty chemicals
and your hand is not placed precisely in mine.
it’s too late this time.
somehow it always is.

the skulls of what may
the ghastly figures
the ghosts of hesitant musings
the salvation that never needed me
the illuminations filling
the distant ring of dying bells
the lover asleep in wheat fields
the apparitions of the what-ifs
suddenly the world is all but what it is
a ghostlike vision enfolding as an illusion
believe so harshly it destroys to change
believe in me so harshly you cannot stand
amidst the glory.
the heavy locks are being changed,
we are the ghosts of what may.

blood courses like crimson rivers
in my cells
i envision darkness through the corners of my eyes
****** into the core of this earth
we never get out, do we?
we never change, actually
i know us humans
lying is our defense mechanism
we can’t capture oxygen in our lungs
without running off our tongues
people don’t lose touch
they consciously “forget” something that isn’t convenient for them
a person
it’s that simple
it isn’t rocket science
they make it quite apparent
we never change
our bones grow
but our souls-
they don’t
they just age along with what we are taught
what knowledge our brains can wrap themselves around
so we create new memories
but we never truly move on from the past ones
they stick like honey
along the walls
breathe-
they won’t dissipate
they don’t dissolve
people don’t change
people are selfish
they want your body and they’ll do whatever they want to touch it
no matter your decision
unless you ruthlessly punish them
or let the storm do all the ***** work
we cry with the sixty percent of liquid sloshing inside of our skin suits
we pound on the outer edge
sometimes scream to let us-
the hostages-
out
but somehow
conveniently
they forget we ever meant anything more than a change in the air
a change in their environment
a little switch
people don’t change
no matter what they say
the amount of times they’ll say they are sorry
they’ll never actually mean it
with every fiber of their being
you 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 change
your petite self ain’t gonna change him
he’ll still go out with girls upon girls
and open up doors
and legs
he’ll still reprimand you for doing absolutely 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠
like being 𝐛𝐨𝐥𝐝
he wants you in 𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑐
he wants you 𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑟
people don’t change
ever since the fourth grade
he’s been beating himself up cause he was always so 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒
so 𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑦
so 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠
and you can’t fix that
with the fragments left of your kindhearted heart
people don’t change
we’ll never escape
school is just preparing you for more school
work waits patiently with you
for retirement
your back burns from trying to staple your spine back into what it was a few years ago
the crushing of skulls
is the only motivation you’re receiving
i sat in a 𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑦 desk
my gluts were aching
as i just had to sit there until the grim reaper lifted my feet up
he left me hanging there on the rope-
i don’t even believe in the grim reaper
he ain’t gonna collect my cold and desolate body and place it somewhere-
in a grave
where people who will never be better
will place me in the ground
they’ll be corpses soon
but they aren’t aware of that
cause we get no due date
for our own deaths
no warning
unless you’re slowing deteriorating on a hospital bed surrounded by white walls that
swallow you up like a man-eating whale
people don’t change
life slams into you with the force of a ten million ton freight train
it leaves faster than a scared and lonely teenager when they are asked if they are fine-
quick note: they are never ever ever ever fine
asking that question won’t do anyone any good
won’t cause their bodies to slow the process called life
that stings more than death will ever be capable of
people don’t change
they only like to think they do
so they can act like they are changing the world
when they are really just getting 𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑟 and
𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑟

those deep fangs
pressing upon pale purple skin
that poison,
damp on your tongue,
hitting the roof of my mouth
violently and persistently

you patronizing pain inflicter
with that wicked soul
pursing red velvet lips
drooling at the sight
of a fresh-blooded miss

the girl with a smile carved upon her cheeks
those golden-stalactite eyes
dripping rain residue on this coarse body

that cold-blooded smirk
impermanent generosity,
one side grinning,
the other frowning

you vile human  
with hair oddly blond like blinding light
those fluids dripping from your lips
irregular breathing patterns

you’ve made this fever festering inside me
feel like happiness
you’ve made this uninhabitable cavern
into something so familiar one can’t quite place
you’ve made me bleed from these eyelids

and feed it straight to you
like i am some chess piece
in some childish game for you
but i cannot stand this
and no i will not keep humoring you
i will use this body
for something other than for you

I’ve always dreamed of textbook conversations
Words that flow like a river or stream
Paper thin small talk
With little to no casualties
My tongue would welcome the soul
Not spit fire
Flames
That catch on pale skin
Ignite into a billion warships
The devil himself admires the disappointment
Because I can’t whisper a single word
That wouldn’t **** an innocent soul
He’s just always there
Ripping my throat open
Demanding war
Even though the peace deep in my heart
Wants to scream
He puts me on sale while my face turns
sea green
And oh, a blessed child
Wants to ask me about my day
Although my mind is profoundly shredded
My thoughts screeching
Insisting I reply
But he stops me halfway
Spits in my face
Oh, and I’m speaking like a half dead horse
Whinnying as its back is beaten
By the whip of the beholder
Still remaining submissive.

in moonlight mist beyond my fingertips
i trace the lunar patterns and come down
with a fulfilled thrill cast fishing pole hooks
inside the wild Milky Way galaxy
starlit strips against my lips reflected
by striped curtains folded on window panes
sweet Sirius on stilts along the brink of
reaching slight nightmarish ultimatums
hosted by my own unenthused gimmicks
that sink upon sheepish fragility
imposed by God, the sole pure deity  
though one must utter to the stars thinking
they are to suffer alone, forsaken
instead awakened by the knock of morn

the wilderness is violent, and chaotic and
vapid
fireworks crackle in the golden brown sky
i don’t want to kiss in a busted-up mustang
with a cracked windshield
don’t want to bathe in beer or get drunk in love
unless you want to carve your name on my chest
leave me hanging on the drywall in your bedroom
or leave me outstretched in the dessert
left to my own vices
the heated sun burning marks on my body

from the day we became mirages of our inner selves
and our demons fought in ****** battles that ended in calamity,
we have hid each other in line breaks and kingdoms

the rising sun the single witness of our togetherness
and of the
blisters on my chest
from the tattoos you engraved on the foreign body of mine that didn’t give you the consent

disappearing in the labyrinth
you are still sick
within
the passageways are getting more narrow
your head is spinning
in confusion
your lips turn purple from shivering
your hands turn cold
the greenery gets more
and more
similar
each time
through each corner
the unlucky loser never left the labyrinth
so you stress out
thinking that your escape
is just a foreign idea
an impossible task
that’ll never be put into full effect
and the maze gets tighter
minute
by minute
perhaps the once fever
dream
is molding into a forever nightmare
the lonely labyrinth
wanted you as company
misery loves it dearly
so you are trapped in this network
of dips and turns
only the embrace of narrow paths
can soothe you from
your painful fate

feel that one morning, i’ll forget your light,
wake up dead in a dying world
stop stomaching the night
that spins its ballerina feet
upside down on the ceiling
and with its mouth it mutters
words that i cannot speak
i’ll wake up without feeling
with tears staining the pillowcase,
lose the melody of hymns once given,
know to every ceremony i’ll be late
when the soft footsteps lull
dispersing into the dark,
i’ll forget the gentleness
that once lived inside my heart
a heart that became a wasteland
an exile for evils never committed
a world where once someone forgets you,
it cannot be remitted.
when that morning comes,
when the morning dove will mourn
something unborn that is already dying
i’ll bury my lungs in the grave you dug
i’ll destroy what we built
until i’m forever wounded in love.

in the moonlight, i dream of being you
partially blue, but all there
unafraid and unbelievably able
if i were to be stable
perhaps i could be capable
of holding my arms outstretched
to reach a release that yearns for me
perhaps i could be capable
of moving the whole ocean around
in a tiny bottle
to lay in the riptide
consumed by the violent rise
and fall of the swells of
dwelling little white-caps
i could be more than you would ever know
i could be a you you’ve never known
never shown
never grown
up to be a “when push comes to shove” kind of
love-
r
i could be a you you’ve never heard of
never dreamt of
never conceived of
never believed of
but, of course,
the good ones never know
never show
never grow
up to be machines
always own up to be-
ing flee-
ing
i could be a me many have never heard of
i could be a me that is silent and swift like a dove
a silence warm, reached out in a hug
a soft streetlight that shines light not so bright as to blind
but as to awaken the right light in one’s eye
and in the moonlight,
i dream of being who i can fully be.

when you found me,
strung out,
vibrant, completely free,
dancing on the roadside,
did it appear to you
that i was chaotically caught up in a moment’s breath?
unsure of the next minute,
if i would trip over my own heels,
stumbling over my own inability to be still,
dancing for distraction, faking love to seem important?
when you found me,
were you stranded too?
unaware of who you were
when you took a part of me
that was never even mine
but was never supposed to be yours?
who am i after losing myself,
for a moment, an hour’s clock hand touching me,
carving the reminder into my skin?
should i be loving more wholly,
dancing all alone—how it always was,
sacrificing who i am just to satisfy who i think i am?
and maybe this does not define me—
a minute’s telling, the time in which i was most free,
a vagabond pacing back and forth
on a machine-less road,
perhaps it was solely a destination
that beckoned
and begged
and i landed straight into its arms. there is
no further cause for meaningless regret
no further reasons to turn back time to reveal
the exoskeleton of something that has always been.
for once, the freedom should not shackle me
to an idea that not even i truly believe.
when you found me,
i was someone else entirely;
and you,
you were just a moment in time,
a moving thing of matter,
clinging to anything that would hold you down.

you know,
when i was young
i saw the world as a canvas.
a blank sheet of material waiting for my curious little fingers to touch,
to sculpt, to model.
and oh, did i paint.
i moved mountains with my palms, i made rivers flow with the touch of my hands
and you know what?
i thought myself a pretty esteemed artist.
i imagined my future living in a huge penthouse in the biggest city in the world i could think of at that age and that was
pittsburgh.
i would tower over the laborers and the tax workers and the mailmen and the street performers because i was the new “it” girl.
glistening in pearls above the city people who always take life so seriously.
inside of my kindergarten classroom,
i believed everything to be possible.
we learned about Noah’s ark and what two plus two was and i was smart
and quick on my feet
meanwhile some other child was crying and i couldn’t understand why because everything i could have ever wanted was displayed on the chalkboard in that very moment.
the world was a thousand colors in that classroom.
there were always crayons at my disposal, in which i used them to sketch part of the planet that was still blank on the canvas.
i believed.
i believed that Santa still existed and that the tooth fairy would bring me money instead of a tooth under my pillow but guess what?
i didn’t lose my first tooth until second grade.
back when the only worry i had was that my teeth weren’t loose and wobbly
back when the world looked friendly and the only things that were hostile were my pugnacious teeth that wouldn’t budge.
i saw skies where there were vicious mirrors, blessings where there were flaws.
my classmates were foolish but i-
i knew what i wanted my canvas to be.
but
soon
i
started
getting
older
and cancer was a real thing. violence was a real issue not just something i saw in a batman comic. society turned her back on the very children she birthed.
my hands stopped painting with bright colors.
highlighters were stolen out of my hands, pencils placed in them.
gray graphite with no emotion except “do this math problem or you will fail at a future.”
what future am i exactly preparing myself for at this speed?
what happened to the coloring books
and the watercolors and the all about me posters i made?
where did they go?
did they disappear into the void of shame?
because once the authorities took away my liberties; my freedom, i started slacking.
the world became a barren wasteland like the one after simba left the teeming pride lands.
bulldozed over.
all that creativity pent up in me..it had to be slaughtered.
it had to be executed.
so i breathed smoke to **** the formation inside of me
it choked, and so did i
and i
felt bad for it.
creativity was the one driving force, the one constant in my world that was falling apart and making room for the erratic world that punched through the walls of my love for the old world.
what would i be without a classroom full of tools that i could use whenever i saw fit?
this is insane.
people started coming into my life and out and i could not hold their hands and beg for their stay; they would leave me kicked and scarred
and maybe they whispered “sorry” to me because some of their empathetic nature still existed.
some of their light still hadn’t been stomped out.
it was fully wrecked when their parents got divorced
and there were screaming battles
and that’s when they heard that vile swear word that comes up in every conversation now as a teenager
and that word makes them upset
yet
they can’t remember why
just like their parents never understood why their child got so depressed jumping from house to house.
whiplash to the extreme.
and i can’t breathe without the creativity that connected the dots in my childish brain
and now being childish is an insult and i cross out all my experimental portraits and replace them with whatever the teenager next to me is drawing
because being original is easy to pick on.
and i didn’t want to be 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 kid.
no one wants to be 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 kid.
the canvas i once held in my hands is ashy and blackened and
unsalvageable.
its poor soul destroyed by a tiny bonfire by the woods
because no one likes when you decide you want to create the world in your image
cause it’s corrupted in everyone else’s
and they want you to suffer just like they did, to discover that innocence and ignorance are apparently now synonymous with each other and you can’t think otherwise!
what was looking at another kid’s artwork as a child?
there was only seeing that john had the color purple drawn on his paper
and sofia had the new stamps that were put up near the bulletin board.
that was all.
none of this body dysmorphic garbage.
the world isn’t beautiful as it was before on poster board and i don’t remember the last time i was truly physically and emotionally happy.
i now found the art of wanting to rip the hair out of my skull and there are times that i contemplate if i should just end it all,
but then i think back to all those years when i was younger and how big the world felt in my tiny fingers,
though i know—some tiny fingers build rocket ships, some tiny fingers get involved in cancer research to save other people from the same thing their grandparents had to battle with and lose to, some tiny fingers become doctors and nurses and good people with good hearts with hope for the restless world.
some tiny fingers might have lost the canvas and the poster board,
but they never lost sight of what world they were gonna leave an impact in,
what world they were gonna make great one day—one child with a crayon at a time.

if you shatter into a million fragments fallen like a disco ball,
i will lift them with both my hands and put you back again.
sweating brow and unhappiness
i’ll take this weight from off your chest.
to live with the regret of losing you
would be the worst kind of eternal punishment.
it’s a vulnerable hour
coarse tongues and sharpened claws.
i awake to the shameless sound of your howling
bouncing off the walls
torn apart.
nightfall is brutal but i have the pieces of your heart
to wrap around my cold malnourished frame,
swallowing me whole involuntarily.
it’s all gonna be ok for me.

in a floating metal box in the air,
i put things into perspective.
like our friendship.
a fading crisis murdered by a mistake.
sharp blades twisted against allies.
like words, exhausted and spoken with the threat of misinterpretation.
without your perfect band t-shirts and childlike bickering,
it was an empty place.
you only knew two AC/DC songs,
when i asked you to name three,
but that’s totally ok,
i wouldn’t have known or cared either.
friendly waves and funny conversations;
miss them most when there’s no one to talk to.
we starved the host and shattered slowly, but brutally.
against the ocean’s mighty waves, we were washed with white sea foam onto different beaches
on different coasts,
on different inhabited islands.
we lied hazily on tanned sand until the sun burnt holes in our dresses and melted us.
i search for you on the humid land mass,
calling your name into the neptune blue sky.
it’s always hope a new day, fire lit and burning, but nothing to come and rescue me.
scurrying in the hot sand praying for even just a mirage of you.
but we were swept away
to different islands,
unaware of the current,
unaware of the consequences of simple mistakes.
i’m sorry we had to burn out this way.
so slow and heavy.
so sorry, emery.

i was certain i wouldn’t become someone that i didn’t recognize.
but now a new year is dawning
and i still have nightmares about exiting my own body
leaving for a discovery
yearning for a change.
there is fog in the front yard,
persistently questioning my virtues
how i stay alive in cold decembers
frozen on the window panes
i have worn out the hearts of many a person
but it’s a new year
and this, i will choose to keep them clean
to follow the hearts that beat in the nighttime hour;
follow my own.

i’ll never be enough
though i wish i could be
for you—for gentleness is all
that is necessary.
and to love you means death
and it means loneliness
and being deserted,
condemned to the ground.  
the hunters are stalking,
the vultures are surrounding,
but they cannot recognize me.
left behind with the wreckage,
grasping onto the fleeting gentle
moments that pass by like bullets,
like gunfire.
i’ll never be enough for you,
never be loud or seen enough for you.
i’ll surrender to the gentleness,
forever she will understand me.

what does this mean?
****** palms, downtrodden expressions?
i don’t want you to **** me
with your ****** palms and deep dagger-like fangs
pulsing veins are black
i’ve lost my home
do you think of me when the silence is all you hear?
perhaps lying there do i seem worthwhile even for a second?

on the water
i feel so alone
no friends
no shoulders to lean on
why did i ever think i was special?


my heart aches to be loved
or just noticed.
loneliness is so alone.
the aching of my heart to be held and cherished.
on the water, the ripples beckon me
must be sweet to be with someone just like you
every bubble combined to make a better system.
i want to combine with you
and be who you’ve always wanted me to be.
i’ll never steal the show,
i’ll never be the girl who belongs
i want to dance; i really do,
but my feet will not pick up or stomp or walk or move.
i only wanted to be soft in your hands
so you could mold me in any way you desire.
and i would comply
because who wouldn’t when they realized that they are so difficult to love.
i wanted to be easy.
easy to understand,
easy to speak with,
easy to love:
that is all i’ve ever wanted to be.
not even a “yours”
just someone worthwhile enough.
the water is beautiful this time of evening
i’m wasting it.
i waste my life
and my youth
and the love i get.
i waste it all,
but i’m so terrified.
so terrified of being alone
it keeps me awake at night.
and then i dream of you
and it’s all better because you patch up my wounds
and you leave my bones just as they are.
i dream of you
and that’s so enormously stupid of me.
i’m ashamed for loving you the way that i do,
but it’s just so simple to.
i’m weak and i’ll never be good enough
but please don’t leave me like this:
completely alone
and wasting my own life
being so scared of everything.
i loved you and i never told you.
i’m so alone;
i couldn’t even convince myself to change that
by allowing you in.

and maybe i’m not the oceanic girl with satin draped upon soaked legs and arms
who washes up on the beach and interrupts your business, but you’re totally cool with it
i’m not the gentle sprinkler girl with sweet smelling perfume and kind eyes
who sings you a song and you forget all about your other problems just to hear her
i wish i was the sapphire moon-dusted angel beaming on a shooting star
above your home with sturdy walls
but i am not
i am not headlight savage, i find meaning in otherwise meaningless things
like a sudden crinkle in the corner of your eyes
like a butterfly landing close to my nose
i am absolutely nothing
not a mermaid girl, not an album cover saver, not a flapper girl stuck in the wrong time period
i am a deeply disturbed individual
so filled with nothingness that it courses through my veins
and i bleed absolutely nothing.
i do not bleed.
i do not bleed.
i do not bleed.
i do not bleed.
i do not bleed.
i do not bleed.
and if i do, it is in sparkling lake water at one a.m and i am lonely and so ill
and the world can’t fit my sorrow in its deepest sinkholes
and so i sit alone on the dock, in the woods with nothing but nothingness inside of me
and i weep with a mason jar clasped so viciously in my hand that the glass starts to feel sharp and it cuts me but i bleed
nothing
i feel nothing.
i feel nothing.
i feel nothing.
i feel nothing.
i feel nothing.
i feel nothing.
absolutely nothing.
there is sulfur in my lungs and what a lullaby this desperation is becoming to my sore ears
almost like a siren, but the only thing i lure is unsatisfactory algae washed up upon the creaky dock and i’m holding my head in my hands like it’s about to burst, but it all feels so surreal and suddenly i start to feel nothing.
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.
absolutely nothing
and suddenly, there are butterflies in my throat and they beg to be released out into the mist hovering over the water’s edge, but i can’t seem to gag or spit them out so i pound on my chest but nothing comes out.
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.
absolutely nothing
and the air wraps around my droopy eyes and i must have been crying till it starts to feel like i’m barely even on life support anymore and i don’t seem to find an issue with that and that scares someone like me who just wants to leap off skyscrapers and lose all inhibitions and just breathe
and
suddenly
the butterflies start flying out of my belly and the pressure is so intense that i try to scream, but i can’t because my ribs are squeezed together so tightly that i almost lose the remaining oxygen left in me yet it doesn’t bother me because i start to look unhealthy and squeamish but i look so little against the reflecting light but i still see nothing.
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.
oh, something.
something.
something.
something.
something.
something.­
something.
just something
but i just can’t and i accept defeat for i am the weak-minded damsel with daisies collected in her hair, but she isn’t weak she just wants to be loved just wants to be rescued from the sadness that leaks into her pores and descends onto the carpeted floor she just wants to feel something.
something.
something.
something.
something.
something.
something.
just something
but she searches in the places inhabited by sea monsters and abrasive deciders and it doesn’t seem to have an exit or a release from
the turmoil, but the wings of the butterflies get caught in her esophagus and coughs don’t suffice it and now she’s grasping at the last fiber of being that still exists inside of her
but there’s nothing
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.
nothing.

absolutel­y nothing.

i don’t wanna be that girl who uses her body
i don’t wanna be a little toy for one night and one night only
i am not that kinda girl

i will not be the kind of girl you can just push around
i will not be the laughed at puppet in some circus show for morons
i will not be her

i hope i am never the kind of girl who throws away her life
i hope i am never the person who loses her head and doesn’t go to church
i hope i am never her

and right now
i don’t wanna be the girl who cries cause she’s lost and lonely
but i am
and i am sorry that i let you down

jet blue were your lips
frostbitten and clueless
reckless nature, pure bliss
lining across my face

living creature so fortunate
sad soul, contortionist
lucky human, determinant
skeletons in your closet
close the doors, they might see it

how do you like yourself
when you’re hurting everyone else?
how do you live like this
jet black heart, pure bliss?

seeing stars in the rear view
so selfless, aren’t you?
painted goodness upon you too
how does it feel to only feel true?

wanna know my life?
the pages i have turned
the cages i have broken out of
aches i still feel to this day
wanna see my tears build up in my eyes?
so painful to love someone who’s destined to die
you must feel worthy in your sickened life
the paintbrush is your friend
the eraser, your companion
it must feel satisfying to change the story
to change the history of the truth

you’re jet black in nature
with a petty sideways grin
always out for blood,
the blood of your kin
no matter how hard you try
to live a lie
gifting yourself the decency
of at least pondering the idea of being right

you’re a crawling creature scanning for
something to attack
jet black compassion

bring them back.

i’ve watched the same show for over two weeks
and when my favorite character was falling apart,
it put a damper on my mood.
i am that attached..
to fiction.
it wasn’t even real and i still cried in my bed
with my hair concealing my eyes.
i never like to think of myself as the most empathetic person out there,
it was a sudden jolt in my nature.
perhaps i see myself in his wild eyes,
not the wicked side,
but something in him that reflects in my heart.
i’m repulsed by my poetry.
i wouldn’t even consider it poetic in any way.
i tell my close friends that i write poetry
and i like to think that they scoff at that idea.
i told my retiring teacher that i wrote poetry
and she gave me her email.
what makes her think i’m good enough to be read throughly by an english teacher of forty years?
kinda ironic since i’m posting on a poetry website.
i’m embarrassed of my efforts,
ashamed of my achievements.
see, i’ve never been good at anything
i played basketball in middle school
and my friend would always say that i bombed a shot or i needed to do something more involving.
my past crush even said i was too short to play or something.
i tried being nice for a day because my sister and mother were telling me i was too mean,
i swear i’m not.
but i tried to be nice
and bad things still happened
and i called people rude names.
i’m not good at staying prompt to journaling
like tumblr girls at their highest.
catch my drift, i have never been good at anything,
and poetry is the only thing that makes me feel like i’m alive
who cares if it’s actually well written?
it’s self expression.
i hope everyone at least tries to write one poem once in their lifetime,
it changed my life.
step one: find a muse, trust me, if you have a good one, you might not even experience writers block
(that’s an overestimate, but sure)
step two: write about anything and everything.
write about your drive to work, how the highway signs started to feel like heartbeats because they were so repetitive.
write about your dreadful day at school and about the teacher who freaked out.
step three: find a metaphor in everything.
trust me, if you look hard enough, there’s always a metaphor.
step four: see yourself in other people. capture the conversation the bus passengers had. write from different perspectives;
you’ll learn a lot about empathy.
step five: don’t listen to my advice because i’m not qualified.
don’t listen to the writer of bad poems.
there’s no use in fearing rejection,
i get rejected by myself on the daily.
you’ll never be something to someone if you don’t just say it.
tell them you like them.
tell them they make your world glimmer
and they make bad days a little more bearable.
and if they shrug, it’s ok, souls don’t have the same meaning to everyone
and that’s beautiful.
you’ll live.
rejection is inevitable.
when i’m invested in a show or a person, it becomes my obsession.
when i lie awake at night, i’m wondering what will happen next,
what character is going to get killed off next.
i want my poems to be lengthier and
luckily i can rant like nobody’s business.
i feel less anxious when i throw my feelings onto paper,
and i think things through.
no need to have to suffer through all your chaotic thoughts alone.
write.
that’s advice to me.
write when your favorite character is stressed,
write when you feel peeping eyes on your back.
write when the world churns you out of shape like butter.
write when the music doesn’t seem to calm your inner self.
the world can be wrong,
that’s a possibility.
you are allowed to critique it,
you are allowed to believe in miracles
and you are allowed to ask God if you can’t conjure up an answer all by yourself.
that’s why they say He’s always listening.
they lie about lots of other things,
but definitely not that.
writing is not for everyone,
it picks its candidates with reasoning.
i guess i was chosen
and i won’t let my muses down.
they live inside of my heart even when i wanna tear them out.
i won’t send my poetry to my old teacher,
and i won’t live another day without the benefits of writing.
i still have two more seasons to binge watch of this show
and more and more reasons to be alive.
the world is wrong,
but i never said i was right.
i have no vendettas
and writing has infiltrated my mind.
no tickets are accepted at admission.
come another time.

you know,
it’s not easy
to be a woman
with a gunshot wound
and torn wings
on her back.
it’s not easy to
love a woman
who spins
in circles
and acts
like a maniac.
it’s not simple
to exist
in the poetic
tenebrosity
of this
era of living.
there are
hearts
shrouded with
darkness
pierced with
the tongs of their
garden rakes.
there are heads
on stakes
that never got
to stand
away from the
shadows,
shadows that were
casted upon them
for no reason
but that they
were labeled
evil, and so
they thought
they were,
they believed
they were,
they knew
they were.
it’s not easy
to be a person
with an honest
heartbeat on
the drug, littered
and pest invested
streets.
it’s easy,
(apparently),
to go about your
day without
even processing
the torture
some souls
go through just
for their eyes
to never be opened
for
their hearts to never
be warmed
with the
same blaze
you set in your home
to make it feel
all cozy and aesthetic
around the
holiday season.
it’s easy
to turn a blind
eye, to deny
the vile nature
of the bones that
outline souls of all
kinds of barbaric
creatures.
it’s easy to
look upon
it with a grimace,
with a dishonest
appeal to
strengthen the
crevices of
your heart that you
have to fulfill
to prove to some
entity of yourself
that you are a
kind person.
that you aren’t
selfish and
unsparing.
but is it working?
cause although
i see the flames
in your brownish
quite convincing eyeballs
i do see help,
i do spot the parts
of your sweet heart
in your retinas
undamaged by the
bright sun,
i do see the
endearment
lay claim on
your lips.
i see it.
i see it all.
it’s not easy
being a human
in a world where
opportunity only
comes to those
who only see
because they are
told to,
that only see what
they are told
that they can see,
and they hear
what they are
bound to hear
and so on.
it’s not easy
to crawl on
your fractured knees
and twisted ankles
in a pit of
venomous vipers.
it’s so easy
to see the crime,
the shame,
the atrocities,
and try
nothing to stop it.
it’s not easy
being a man
with gunshot wounds
in a combative
ill-conducted
circus,
navigating his
way through
the scattered
yelps of his
brothers
who got lost
in the shadows
and never returned.
you only hear
what you want
to hear.
the truth
aches more
than shoving a
rocket ship
up your runny
nose and
for valid reasons.
don’t shut out the voices of your own children, Society.
don’t separate the stories
of those
who will end
their lives being
ignited in the same
fire, in the exact
same
flame
that touched
the skin of
the silent pleading
children
who were never understood
of the people who
wrote a trillion words
and still weren’t heard
of the vagabonds
that were
casted out of
their villages and
wandered so far
that they lost
sight of who they
were.
some songs
are never
sung,
some instruments
broken and never
played,
millions of killers
never
prosecuted,
victims that
never got their
justice,
some babies never
born,
tens upon thousands
of lifetimes
forgotten.
some darknesses
are too violent.
some corruption
too manic.
it’s not easy
being a human
with bullet wounds
and
gashes
on our backs.
the shadows
of the universe
make us maniacs.
you reap
what you sow,
and you’re gonna
have to battle
millions of
justifiably
angry revolutionists…
so do you want to do this
the easy way,
or the hard way?
pick your machine guns that will always run out of bullets,

we will always have our voices.

now my veins are coursing with blood
taste it on my tongue
i can’t slow my pulse

he took my spine
and broke it in half
skipping heart inside my skin 
pounding
pounding
pounding
loud drums

the water towers i see from my bedroom window
to the storms you awaken in me
like bathing in chemicals
burning my skin
from within
why are his eyes so disjointed?
why do i sweat from my hands to my feet?
shuddering with anxiety
i’m so sick of having to give that disclaimer

do you feel my worry protrude from my speech?
the stuttering, the contemplation
i’m terrified i might say the wrong thing
so i don’t say anything
and hope the end passes
softly and—
i may have acted too hastily
shaking hands and paranoid and scared to bend my knees
cause someone might see
me
struggle
and then i’m ******* forever

and this attention, i’m not used to its hold on me
it feels threatening, can’t see the opening
at the end
of the tunnel,
vision is blinding me
what is a good moment to just say “no” out of the blue?
paralyzed with fear
maybe then you’ll know, it’s not worth it to even try with me
i hate hurting feelings, but this is hurting more than that
emails you sent me, just ask for my number
i could’ve given it,
but then i never would have texted
so you’d be
alone with yourself
and you’d have to be witty
i can’t see the future,
possibly
i might not want it to happen
so i try to push away
good things,
like they are mosquitos in the desert winds

but what are you attentive to on me?
for others have more than i do,
i’m poison ivy, i’m sticky glue
although once you have me,
i don’t want you
it’s like a burden, yet not how i treat you
is this too redundant or straight forward?
i’m sorry if this feels like torture to you
it feels much worse to me

maybe this is why i hate physics
the weird attractions
that happen
when you don’t even invite them in

you know i’ve exhausted the idea of not being your friend.
remember when we were close and little girls
who thought they would cohabit when they were older
and weren’t we a mess with our sleepovers and jokes?

you know i’ve grown tired of being bitter and ashamed.
the blame game can only keep me untamed for so long.
remember when the growing pains struck, at least i did,
and our horizons were broadening on opposite sides of town?

you know i’ve gotten sick of the want to ignore.
remember how our mothers and fathers used to speak
and they didn’t stop out of anger or disdain,
so nor should we.

you know i’ve grown out of the resentment.
remember how it used to fall to the floor until i used it as a weapon
to inflict upon you the same hurt you caused me?

you know i’ve exhausted the idea of dying on this hill.
remember when we used to run down yours
or wish to sled instead,
and how the snow was streaked with brown sticks,
as we found little trinkets left behind and kept them as our own?

you know i’ve forgiven every minor error.
remember how we said we’d know each other until we were old,
forgetting kids and just spending our time together,
how we’d never be separated by the roughs of changes?

you know i’ve tired the idea of writing poems for you that you’ll never read,
knowing i’d dedicate myself to you again in a second
but being unsure if you would ever do the same.

i feel wasted by hands that graced my body
that have handled me how no one else has touched me.
i live in guilt, ever pressing guilt
that i was used
in ways i did not understand
in ways that only a man can.
to feel discarded, like a body,
just a body, just a vessel,
of skin tied to skin
and when you looked within,
the dive left you weak,
you hesitated to swim.
now i’ve been wasted,
thrown upon the bed
of the truck that you once drove
that drove me off the edge.
when i contemplate too long,
i dream that i didn’t jump,
didn’t wash my body in the foamy sea spray.
i bathe in the guilt that splashes over my head,
ache for a lover that doesn’t regret me
like only a man can.

and when you touch someone
do you want to conquer them,
take them over, make them submit?
when you lay to sleep at night
knowing you are in your body,
do you ache to be someone else;
i wish you were someone else.
and when you choose your ego,
does it feel soft and sweet?
are you proud of yourself
when the darkness lingers slowly,
leaning over your bed frame?
when you lay still,
still as the city at night,
do you love who you’ve become?
i hate who you’ve become.

the grass starts burning beneath callused barefoot feet
with blistered skin, bumps and bruises
shadowy figures form beside the campfire
embers and ashes
fiery and angry
the forest floor is enveloped and murdered
slowed appetite eaten by the pressure
i’m a dog at your feet
so wise but unable to communicate it
fog forms in the still dead woods
bits of my arms chewed clean off
and you’re the wolf with skin dangling from its teeth
pleased with your discovery

you know,
they say
when one door closes,
another one opens.
well, when
my door closed,
someone’s hands
came to my neck.
her eyes were so gentle,
gentle in a way that
is innocence masked.
she strangled the visible life
out of me.
she pinned me to the floor.
and when i tried slipping the story
out
into the world,
they laughed in my face.
so i thought this wasn’t normal behavior.
i was supposed to appreciate something unwanted,
some invasive beast.
i was supposed to accept my fate,
leave my life in the hands of a black swan.

you see, she crawled into my soul,
stuffed her face into my ribcage.
she lapped up every inch of me that was
left
standing
in the sun.
her eyes were bullets
yet it was always the same response of
“you’re a target, you should love the sound of gunfire.”
no, i am a gaping wound,
bleeding guilt,
bleeding out the remains of my foolish heart.
i bleed alone.
i am seeping blood.

she slammed the door so fast
and i could not look back;
there was not a new door to unlock.
i stood there helpless, stunned, shocked.
the fire violently grew
but somehow they didn’t see.
somehow they didn’t try to help,
they didn’t come to rescue me
from these depths.
they came to gawk and make jokes
at the expense of my life.
i couldn’t cry
because
the weakness would seep from my pores if i did,
it would show on my trembling lips,
it would put an end to my pride.
yet
what is pride
but a selfish desperate emotive response?
i am weak.
she pushed through my dry wall
and she
taught me how to unlearn careful choices.
she stole the human from me,
i was left as a naked, erratic wild animal.
yet she was always the one with bright white fangs
that pierced through my satin skin
and an apology was never exchanged.
i never wanted to shut the door
to my safety,
i never wanted to wind up in a creepy alley
beyond where i recognized the area.

and,
what did you call me
but a weak
and pathetic little creature
who can’t defend his honor?
why have you stripped me of my dignity?
i reel below your throne
coughing up childhood innocence and
disgust.
and they didn’t believe me
even when i clawed at my walls
begging to be saved,
they turned away.
they shook their heads.
they made me a liar.
they made me think i did the wrong thing
by being there
by not using my fists for power.
in my ravaging pits of darkness,
she blamed me.

you know,
they say
when one door closes,
another one opens.
but where is the doorknob
to my destination of
believing?
where do i turn now that you pillaged
the trust from my bones
using blunt force?
after you left me with my heart in my ****** hands
and the self that i don’t recognize in the mirror.

who did you leave me as?

on the corner, there’s a woman.
and she’s a mother to the small things,
a soldier on the battlefield of life.
she loses herself in the flames that
engulf her and
she wishes she was a real poet
who knew how to summon words.
she wishes she was chosen,
just once, but the world
she loves does not love her back
and she cannot convince it to.
someone else’s bones seem stronger,
less brittle, unkempt but beautiful.
the curls on her head move like
the waves
but the words on the page
do not speak back to her
and the candle blows out
the evening closes in
with its unbridled attachment
and she’s alone with the darkness,
making a home in its skin.

he ido al lugar donde descansas.
encontré tu forma en la arena.
algún día, te encontraré otra vez
en las señales
o en una cueva
con rosarios en tus manos cerradas.
te miraré con confusión
sorprendida con tu cara familiar.
no cárcel puede guárdame para siempre.
las paredes son demasiada delgadas
y mi amor para ti es más fuerte.
te amo con cada hilo de mi ser.

yo estoy sola
en mi imaginación
en mi realidad
en una multitud de personas.

te encontraré otra vez
cerca de los puentes
buscando tu corazón.
he corriendo miles de millas toda mi vida
cada paso más débil que el previo
rayos en el cielo
apuntando a ti.
ven acá
en el jardín donde el verano es para siempre
y nadie habla conmigo
excepto a ti
y no me importa
de verdad,
me gusta el ruido que haces en mi mente.

mis sentimientos te darán la claridad
cuando mi voz no te dará la verdad.

he te amado desde que tocaste mi corazón frágil
con tus guantes de oro.
eras un caballero
ahora no puedo encontrarte.
donde está mi hombre?
el tipo que se corre
más rápido que el viento
pero no te extraño
en este momento,
solo te quiero encontrar
en la selva o en mis sueños
no me importa.

through tsunami waves
like fortresses
pounding with such force and restlessness
lay a hand upon this chasm
fissures along this human body.
blinked two times;
a signal for help.
you, an undercover perpetrator, spilt this ****** blood
there’s no rhyme or reason
for the capture of such purity.
the eagerness of the flesh
descending upon uneasiness.
one heart unmoored
one mourned
two hearts unbreakable
by a force of nature
so undeniable,
death is willing to submit to its feet.

i imagine falling in love is like watching the rain fall onto the porch, dampening the surface
i imagine it is sweet, like drinking soda and downing smarties in the embrace of a summer day
it must feel tingly, like your whole body is on fire
it must be stone cold yet hot as blazes
it must ache and churn and screech and beg you to quit, like a silly addiction

i imagine falling in love is like tumbling headfirst from the sky, diving into a world of the unknown, but you know that’s where freedom lies
i imagine it is fluffy, marshmallow, cotton candy type
it must be fabulous, must be scary
it must feel like the world is crashing down, but you are saved by your parachute
it must tear your insides open and make you scream for mercy

i imagine falling in love is like dancing alone in a rose garden, holding hands with the perfectly positioned statues
i imagine it is heavy, like a weight you almost cannot lift, but you manage
it must be fairytale like, almost as if you are captured in a screenplay, so you act in a Hollywood way
it must be light, like floating on top of clouds or touching silk that softens your skin and removes your scars
it must be troubling, having something so momentous happen to you without any sort of control

i imagine falling in love is like staring into someone’s eyes and finding their soul and reaching inside of their eye sockets to pull it out
i imagine it is fruitful, one nudge and it is a cherry blossom tree, evergreen and forever spring
it must be quick witted, it must happen so fast you don’t even notice the difference
it must be rapid, like heart beating in the middle of the night when life creeps up on you
it must be filling, like eating mounds of bread and filling up before the main course arrives
it must be everlasting, the feeling, the rush of a glance shooting straight to the gut, to the heart, to the veins
it must be enveloping, dragging every part of you into its embrace

i imagine falling in love is like smiling in pure silence, feeling your reflexes calm because this is what your body is supposed to do
i imagine it is perfect, perfect in a way that isn’t entirely godlike, but it feels like perfection to such joyful eyes
it must be like leaping and bounding in fresh magnolia fields, erasing the anxiety and the pressure of society, just so you can be free and flap your hummingbird wings
it must be like finding home and never feeling lost ever again
no matter the circumstance

it’s as if
isn’t it poetic
that i keep reminding myself
of nights with you
as if they keep the pulse
jumping and skipping?
minutes go by,
regretting the way i’ve handled such careful things
with such careless hands,
bruised and uncertain.
i’ve always been friendless,
straying into homes where the welcome is hesitant and worried
the connection we had
is hanging on the clotheslines outside
letting the air feast on it
and if you offer me a world
where the status doesn’t define my existence
or linger in the ether,
i will be satisfied.
the things we give in to define us
unless we prove otherwise.
and isn’t it poetic
how i write like you’re dead
or washed upon some shoreline,
sinking into the sand, feeling the pulse of your hands
for one last time?
isn’t it pathetic
that i think you can hear this,
this desperate plea,
begging to reach you,
but getting caught up in the
much more fashionable moment?
i’d never dreamed i’d have a husband
knitting in boredom, loving in spite of the
curses and the lack of courage.
isn’t it pathetic that i think about marrying
even at a time like this,
where you are staring at a moon
i can’t seem to fathom?
and sometimes,
i lose myself in my own weaknesses
and let them define me,
would you deny me,
if i offered you my earn?
isn’t it poetic that even in the depths of despair,
i still remember who you were
and i was confused
why such lovely things
could happen to the feeble?
i might never define what it felt like,
just that it was alright,
and i feel invincible:
guess love does that after all.

i met Good
oh, she was a beauty
she was so perfect, everything almost felt rehearsed
she sat down beside me, and handed me a cup of tea
and complimented the shirt i was cautious about wearing in fear of seeming unprofessional
her voice was smooth like silk
and her laugh was sweet like cotton candy and jolly like Santa Claus
she only told me fabulous news
news about how much she loved the world and how many people provided her joy
how a kindhearted gentleman saved a baby deer from a rabid bear
and she spoke with such eloquence that i couldn’t help but listen attentively
and i smiled
and smiled
the whole time we held the engaging conversation
when she and i bid our goodbyes, she kissed me on both cheeks and said i had beautiful decadently smelling hair
i smiled again for good measure
then i left

i met Evil
he grimaced as soon as he saw me
he seemed alarmed that someone wanted to have a word with him
i sat down without speaking and i let him start things off
he glared at me with discontent and didn’t crack a smile once
his judgy eyes shone on me and i felt insecure and confused
his voice was raspy and it sounded like he smoked frequently
his lips would curl up in disgust if i looked at him strangely, so i just watched the water bubble and churn in my cup
his body language showed malicious intent
but his eyes had some kind of spark in them
a light, a blue/violet light that overshadowed the deep dark brown eyes he bore
underneath it all, i am pretty sure Evil is just misunderstood
he isn’t all bad sometimes
he isn’t loving the bloodbath twenty four seven
so once i got up and whispered in his ear
“you aren’t all what you are cracked out to be, so just put the beating and stabbing devices away please.”
and i left without looking back

i met Indifference
now he was a doozy
he was nervous and shaky
it was painfully obvious, but i overlooked it
he half smiled sometimes
fake smiled to make me feel validated after i told a few icebreaking jokes
but sometimes he would watch me with a scornful face
so i fixed my posture and stopped conversing for a while, then began again
he never gave me an opinion or a complete response
it would always be “maybe,” “only time can tell,” and “i don’t really know.”
the vagueness of his disdainful answers fascinated me
how can someone remain neutral about everything?
he wasn’t at all like anyone i had ever met
his face was always neutral
his reactions never negative nor positive
and he showed confusion when i said things that were too passionate or too far sided
so i asked him a quick question
“what do you think is the right way? Evil or Good?”
his eyelids quivered and he shrugged with little effort or desire
“i don’t know.
i think we are all evil and good in our own ways.
you may think a rabbit is good by eating grass, but you are bad for eating animals, another living organism.
evil cannot be defined by bad where as good cannot be defined as the only way.
we are all mixtures of both.
therefore, that is why i am Indifferent.
i choose to be everything
and after all, good comes from wanting to be loved and valued in society, whilst evil mostly comes from being misunderstood and i am none of the sort.”

i murdered you twice but you didn’t know
i need cities and flat screens and muses and crowds
i need death on my lips,
crime worth committing
people worth talking to
love meant confessing
i hated everyone that i thought i knew
loved those who promised things but didn’t follow through
there’s women who struck my cheek with their words
and men that made me feel unworthy of the world
and i’ve lost who i was
and found who i am
no one can tell me what i stand
for. i carve my initials in every bathroom stall,
and i ache and the pain sometimes goes away
i knock on doors, hoping for miracles
you ever hoped so much
and it came true?
well, maybe with you,
i’ll continue to do
so
i’ll light the candles, turn off the lights,
dream of the person i’ll love tonight
and if it’s you, don’t fret, don’t worry
i’ll love you like i know how to which is right.

maybe it’s true, maybe it’s true,
maybe it’s something to do with you
maybe it’s true, maybe it’s true,
that i’ll spend this year loving you
maybe i’ll laugh, maybe i’ll cry,
maybe i’ll spend a lifetime asking why
why, why, why, why?
why, why, why, why?
why not, why not?
why not i?

and there is an ache
and there is a name
never confessed,
never admitted
the world was a bit softer when held with your gaze
there is a name
it sounds awfully like yours
like a poem, like a song,
like a new earth unfolding
from hearing it spoken.
and there is a time,
there is a warning,
love me one day,
choose the yearning.  
no space or time
could make me thinner
smaller or lighter
when your love is dawning.

why is love hard when it’s all i lived off of?
the backs of the weary men,
the hands of the mothers
that don’t know the time, neither the weather
so if you wanna stay,
the longer, the better.