just a leaf left
on the pillow next to me
now, a whisper of smoke
vapor tracing your path

out the door
going back to the
limb I stole you from,
the place you must return

I rake my bed for more,
try to make
a place
for you to fall

again, next time.

the point of my last pen bleeds onto another scrap of paper and i wonder how many hours will pass until i don't hurt anymore. until i'll stop bleeding out like this pen. i've got printed photos of you showing a different face from a different time that seem to watch the formation of every word i'm breathing. and honestly i'm wondering how i got here... sewing thoughts together and then ripping them apart.

production and appearance are my worst enemies. exposing the soul is a delicate thing. because my mirrors (and yours) whisper lies just like everybody else. HA. many doe-eyed, naive girls before you have fallen into those untruths and drowned in their weight. and most boys are more insecure than their female counterparts... but no one speaks.

the day that i realized these facts is the day that i began to trust only the words i wrote on paper. the boredom made me write, but now i write to breathe.

i sit here clutching
pen and paper to my chest
with nothing to say

What is this life,
That I am living?
So much goes on,
It goes by so fast.
I'm stressed and depressed,
So I drink.
I drink and I am numb.
I drink and the problems that once were there disappear.