you will be happy again.
you will have dry eyes for months on end,
walk the beach in the evening,
laugh until you ache.
it gets better. you know that. you hear that every day.
but you're sitting there losing your hair,
slicing your hips with a shard of glass
blaming yourself.
girl, you know lows but there are highs you don't know exist.

and one day, you will breathe in deep and fill yourself
full of good food and the company of people that are meaningful and real,
again. you're going to crawl out of that gaping hole, take a shower,
pay your bills, and realize you aren't as small as you feel right now, today,
this week, this month, this year.
and even though you'll also watch dear ones fall into ditches that cave in on themselves,
skinning knees and breaking your heart to pieces,
you'll also watch them live better than they ever had before and that,
that option, that light in their eyes and strength in their soul
makes it worth it. and you'll have it too.
and one day you'll look in the mirror and stop hating yourself,
stop caring if he calls or he doesn't
stop shattering to pieces the moment you step into a solitary space.

and even though maybe tomorrow you'll wake up and
have to stay in bed for another week
swaddling yourself in that familiar black carpet
you will be happy again because just like it is impossible to
stay happy forever,
just like it is impossible to ever fill that crack in your foundation,
just like you are sad now and have been sad before,
I swear, I promise,
it is just as impossible to stay miserable forever
and you will be happy again.

when you put your pajamas on
before getting into bed.

when i was little i
wrote poetry about
                                                  bugs.
i watched them
dance through the evening
                                                  sky
and­ at the time i
thought that they were
                                                  free.
free­, like i would grow up to be.

but i grew up and they
looked different to me
                                                  then.
the fireflies no longer would
dance for me, it was more
                                                  frantic.
l­ike they were trapped,
schitzophrenic, in cages of their own
                                                  making.
and­ i felt pity for them.

but now i see
that we all have
                                                  cages
and while everyone
around me is finding their
                                                  escape
i feel lost
between these narrow
                                                  bars.
i'­ve been here a long time

and i think i've
lost my
                                                  key.

We go together like
Digestives dipped in tea.
Your girlfriend and a hike.
A sting and a bee.

I love you like
Dogs love chasing postmen.
Halfords love a bike.
Teachers love red pen.

I need you like
Meerkats need you to go to a different website.
Aunt Josephine needed Ike.
Ghosts need to fright.

In summary, then,
We go together like
I love you like
I need you like

Really poor metaphors.
A reference to popular culture.
An ironic rhyme scheme and rhythm that vanishes towards the end.
Don’t you love a flirt, darling?

I feel very weird today. everything feels foreign to me, like military time and gun powder. animals staring at boys with scared eyes. the uneasy silence of blood stained sidewalks, the airplanes, the buses, the trash cans. the cameras. the police that flooded the scene as the hatred split the glass windows into a million flying swords. a million fighter jets. the city is a rat trap, I curl up on the floor of my room and listen to the police radio feed, heart knocking in tune to the white noise between more news. i said it over and over. the economy is sinking, your face is something I think of as a whole different place. I keep grasping at the tendons, and the threads. such a messy job. i wish I could be one of those people who did everything right the first time. if you don’t recognize yourself no one will recognize you. the hurt, and the ***, and the dark nights riddled with chinese paper lamps. and the feeling of something ugly growing tumors in the sewers. you say only two people died. but who will die tomorrow. who will shrink into history books. how many cities will burn, how many libraries will burn, who will burn. someone is going to burn, the air tastes like charred cities. the panic. you. I keep wishing to be strong but I don’t think it works like that. I don’t need love, but I really do.

There's some nights like these

When I can't resist the thought

Of your lips pressed against my cheeks

And your fingers dancing across the new ******* I bought

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.