When I look closely enough
The skin on my arm looks like brush strokes.

The pale material pulled over my outstretched inner elbow
Is a careful collage of colors on a warped canvas.

A blue line cuts through the center
Disrupting the creases of white.

One freckle, way to the right
Is the result of carelessly cleaned brushes.

I turn my arm so that my palm is facing the sun
And the strokes shift, straighter.
And the light reflects, brighter.
And the creases that are still creases attempt to smoothen themselves out.

I dropped my heart
Into boiling oil.
I wanted to see
If it would fry.

As it rolled off my fingers,
My hands were stained red.

Drops of oil splashed up
And burned my red-stained fingers.

As oil and ***** collided
Popping, sizzling, and zipping
Commenced.

He might not love you anymore
That's okay.
Or at least it will be, eventually.

Eventually, he won't be the one you think of just before sleep
and he won't be the one you wake up thinking of every morning.
Eventually, he won't be the one you want to tell everything to, to share everything with.
Eventually, he will be a memory.
A good one, and a painful one.
But just a memory.
And you will still be you.

Eventually, you won't love him so much that it hurts.
Eventually, losing him won't feel like losing everything, because it's not.
Hopefully, eventually comes soon.

I love you.
There. I said it.

I know, it’s crazy. You think I’m crazy.
But I’m not.
I know how I feel. I have for a long time now.
It’s just that now is the first time I’ve gathered up enough courage to tell you.

And now that I have, I wish I’d have told you every day that I knew it myself.

It's incredible how fast tears can dry.

One moment they are streaming down my face, choking me, blurring my vision.
The next, they are dried on my cheeks, salty lines on cracked skin, leaving my eyelashes stiff and crusted.

My red eyes itch from the sudden dryness.
My nose is stuffed and empty at the same time.

It's incredible how fast tears can dry when you've completely run out of them.

As we approach the bushes
On the outskirts of the woods,
Birds call to us
Playfully taunting us to join them.

Our fingers reach through branches
Carefully avoiding thorns.
Our eyes search
For the perfect raspberry.

The buzzing of bees
Trying to beat us to the juicy fruit,
Is interrupted by his voice.
His older cousin wisdom:

“The darker the red,
The tastier the berry.”

Red juice stains my fingers
As I bring the fruit to my lips.
Sweetness explodes
Inside my mouth.

I look up at him
And offer up my thanks
In a red-stained smile.

I used to be whole.
Solid rock,
Unyielding, unbreakable.

But years of salty ocean waves lapping against me,
Have chipped away bits until now I am but a stone.

I write because the paper is the only one who will listen to me.
My whispers and shouts alike fell upon deaf ears until I picked up my pencil.
Blind eyes looked through me before they read my words.
Fingers that could barely trace my outline can embrace me after flipping through my pages.
I write because my invisibility had become a security blanket that I no longer wanted to need.
I write, and now my visibility is a luxury I never knew I had so long desired.