I have a tendency to change the pronouns
in the poems I write.
I love him.
It used to be her.
He makes me weak.
She makes my heart flutter
a staccato panic against my ribs.
It's time I told the truth in my writing.

She was my warm cup of tea
at midnight after a nightmare.
She was my fresh from the dryer blanket.
She was my favorite book,
a new glasses cleaning cloth.
She was sugar for my coffee.
She was beautiful,
But I could never say
I loved her.

"Can a heart still break once
it's stopped beating?"
Will your breath turn to butterflies
and fly far away from here?
When will things stop feeling so empty
without your presence to fill the silence?
I miss you
I don't know what to do.
They keep saying it's a pity that you died so young.
But that doesn't do the loss of you justice.

You say it is heaven
when I let you touch me,
So I ignore the way your
whispers sound like demons.
I'd let you drag me to hell,
If only to be called an angel.

Are you an empty soul,
or just empty inside?

My friends often say it was close enough
But close enough is just like almost
and close enough...
wasn't enough

When a boy tells you
he loves you,
Nothing tells you it's a lie.
No alarms go off,
No one warns you.
No one tells you
that all he will do
is hurt you and demand
you say
you love him too.
And it's too late to go back.