How do you lose something that you never had to begin with?
How do you unlove someone when you never got to love them?
How do you move past something you never got to be apart of?
I almost gazed into your chocolate eyes for too long.
I almost wrapped my arms around your body too tightly.
One more squeeze and my rib cage could’ve collapsed into yours
One more prolonged brush across my cheek, one more moment between our lips and we could’ve danced to the vibration of our pounding sternums
I almost made you laugh too loud. We almost filled a room with too much joy, I almost liked your smile too much.
I could trace those crevices for hours and you could tell me what put them there. We could lie under the covers and create more between kisses
I think you made me smile too much.
I think your goodnight whispers tucked me in too tight
I think that if I use enough blankets, I could still hear them
Maybe if I fall asleep just right, you’ll still be here in the morning
And maybe when we wake, there will be no almosts.
We could hold our bodies too close together, we could sink into one another and maybe we could fall in love.

People often ask me how I can love the one thing that broke me. They ask me how I can touch a burning stove, watch my hand swell up and  then touch it again. They ask me how I can return to my *****. As if someone else will clean it up.
When I was 4 years old, I ate an entire box of thin mints. It was fully intended and I definitely did not apologize when my dad found the remains of his favorite cookie all over my face but he forgave me anyway.
In sixth grade, I ran away from home. When my mom figured out my elaborate plan of going to my friends house, three blocks away, there was quite a bit of yelling. I spent the next two weeks confined by the walls of my bedroom and when I was finally allowed out, she gave me a hug.
People ask me how I can look into the devils eyes and tell him that he's forgiven but I can't mistake the tilt of their heads when they say this
They forget that they too, are sinners.
They forget that dark cannot drive out dark, that a buried hatchet does no good if there's a marker above it.
They forget about the knives caught in their spines twisted just enough to hold their pride up, they can't see that it would feel so much better to just take it out. Clean off the blade and then bury it too. There's no point in hoarding stones when you don't have the right to throw them so you might as well give him some too. Watch him rub them together and wait for the first flame while you get yours ready. But when you find that you're the only one with burnt palms, you're going to realize that just because the stove was hot last time you touched it, doesn't mean it's hot now.

She had a strange feeling that something was behind her. Dark street corners stayed clear and her mind was foggy for she had a little too much to drink. Turned down too many beds to sleep in that night, she always preferred her home. Weird how your mind can echo footsteps when its spinning, she almost thought they were her own.
He always loved the color red and her lips were a perfect shade of burgundy under the street lights. Crimson whispers covered her ears as he mentions shades of daisies. Tells her they'd look great spread across her bed. Smeared between her legs. Tells her he can show her gardens of consent, she forgets about her own.
Waits for sheets to swallow her whole but heavy hands are all that do. Neck stained with finger prints, wrists were cut stems, by the time he was done picking flowers, everything was just a little..Red.

I remember the summer of 10th grade so clearly. I snuck you into my room and we laid under the covers for the entire three months. We talked about our favorite songs and the way the sun feels on our skin, about how things used to feel. We planned out every detail of our future together and played it out on Sims. You were so beautiful. You took over every room, you were so full.
My sheets still smell like you. Sometimes I play caterpillar with my blankets and it's almost like I can touch you. Like a familiar hug, you never liked to let go. As if saying goodbye was too hard, as if too many people tried to forget you.
My mom hasn't forgotten you. I remember her telling me about how she skipped school for you and how she decided to stay in bed for her entire junior year. I remember her telling me about how you weren't allowed in her room so she made space in her medicine cabinet instead.
Cleared shelves for you when she got her own place, wrote you into every divorce paper, mistook her name for yours. Stuffed you into breathing tubes for her son, tore off a piece of her, a piece of you for him. kicked you out when she found your residue on tinfoil, told you that she didn't raise you this way, said the wrinkles around your lips are unrecognizable and your cheekbones aren't carved the same.
She asks me why I've been scratching at my ribcage, why my fingertips can lay comfortably between them. She tells me that it's like looking in a mirror 20 years earlier. That my complexion is as faded as her high school yearbook. Washed out like a bottle of wine, like the one I held to my lips the night before. She tells me to eat an apple, tells me to pick up the one that fell to the ground, tells me to wash it off, to wash out the mouth, to empty it of alcohol, asks me not to carve holes through it, asks me not to rot like the other ones. Act like my body isn't being taken over by seeds, like my stomach doesn't boil when I hear his voice, like the only butterflies I feel aren't when I kick at my comforter. She tells me that if you don't leave room for depression, eventually he'll get the hint but in this family, if you fall hard enough, there's bound to be bruises.

A good day is when youre singing in the car and your brother shouts every lyric. Its blasting NSINC and pretending that you're justin and he's...one of the other guys. It's reminding him of a time he stole a Hillary Duff CD from your sister because it was his guilty pleasure.

A good day is hearing him laugh again. Its looking into his eyes and not finding the devil. its seeing the ashes of a wildfire and knowing that there are trees still standing, that he is still standing and his legs are done shaking and he may have a few branches missing but he's willing to grow new ones.

A good day is being hit until you name five candy bars. Snickers, Twix, Hersheys, sour patch kids..wait. no. See, its so hard to think when your head is a pack of smarties. Does he remember when he taught you how to crush them and inhale the powder? Your first blunt was the sweetest but he was looking for a different high.

A good day is having him ask about your record player as if he's never seen one before. As if everything is new to him, as if he's missed a whole lifetime. He tells you that its like falling asleep and waking up to a different sky and wondering how long it's been that way. Its staring into a mirror to watch your eyes dilate, its watching them change colors and remembering how they used to be.

He tells you that he wants every day to be a good day. That this time will be different. He tells you that its been 5 days and he's still counting but all you can think of is the last.. day 5; Hearing your mothers phone ring and knowing who it is even though its a blocked number. You think of day 10 and all the sweat he laid shaking in. Day 15, when you saw him for the first time in 3 months and his smile for the first time in years. He tells you about the friends he's made and laughs about the brick wall he hangs out with outside. He says that even though there's a piece of glass between you, he's never felt so free.

You think of day 35 and the three phone calls you missed and you remember picking up the 4th one. When he told you that he was sorry. That he tried but couldn't reach you. He tells you that he went for plan B, he tells you that he found an old friend that always picks up and how he forgot why they stopped talking in the first place.

You tell him that youre sorry. You tell him that your head was stuck in smarties and you've been hoarding candy bars for months.

Day one; You put a lighter to wrappers and your eyes are a wildfire.

K: For me, Wrath is a warm bed to fall into at the end of a long day. I’d much rather be angry than sad, so I close my eyes.

S: For me, patience is a warm blanket for when the thermostat stops working. My circulation contracts and my hands turn blue, so I hold them.

K: I hate you
S: I love you

S: I still say no to coffee dates because your burns are still on the tip of my tongue.

K: I hope her kisses burn through every layer of skin that they come in contact with.

S: I hope the ring you promised me is just as beautiful on her finger.

K: I hope your ring finger is stained green from our promise ring, I beg you tear away at the skin.

S: I remember how your heartbeat felt with my head against your chest and now I have to focus on mine to forget it.

k: thump, thump
s: thump, thump

K: I’ve become so angry I can feel my heartbeat in my fists.

S: It’s been 4 months and I still keep skype open on my computer screen.

K: You seem so happy on social media, I nearly pray that you cry yourself to sleep.

S: I hope the girl you thought would make you happy appreciates the body I tried so hard to help you feel okay about because god knows, I'm still waiting to do it myself.

K: I hope the girl that makes you the happiest you’ve ever been ends up making you feel disgusted about your own body just because she acted like she found worth in it.

K: you made MY body feel WORTHLESS
S: you made MY body feel WORTH IT

S: When I saw that you posted pictures of her with the caption "she's so beautiful", I just hoped that she would believe it when you decided not to.

K: When I saw a picture of you and another girl the first thing I thought to do was bash your nose in on the concrete.

S: when I told you to be happy, I meant it. whether it's with me or with her. I don't care. make yourself happy. you deserve it.

K: when I told you to be happy, I didn't mean it. I don't want you to find someone who loves you as much as I did because you don't deserve it. you didn't deserve me. you deserve pain.

K: and I hope you do what's worst for you.
S: and I hope you do what’s best for you.

How to date a mormon when you're not mormon.
Step one; Refrain from using the phrase "oh my God" when around his parents because I swear to God, they will mention it at every family dinner.
Step two; Hold the polygamy jokes, he will not think it's funny.
Step three; Do not google what happens in the Temple...and when you do google what happens in the temple, don't try to do the sacred handshake with him...
Step four; Try not to compare his religion to a cult because.. ******* it, be respectful.
Step five; When he says that he respects you and your religious views, know that he's already planning your next trip to the temple.
Step six; when he takes you to the temple, remind him that you will never get to see the inside and when he tells you that the curb appeal is enough, know that he'll always be wanting more.
Step seven; When he decides to attend a mormon based school, realize that cost is not the only thing he's running from. And when you find out that the school requires him to spend time with a group of girls once a week, as "family home evening", trust that its only once a week.
Step eight; When he's forced into
The singles ward, remind him that it doesn't mean anything. And then convince yourself that it doesn't mean anything.
Step nine; When a girl answers his phone for the first time, tell yourself that curb appeal means nothing..Tell HIM that curb appeal means nothing. That walls are just walls, no matter how they're put together; that doors are just doors, no matter how they open and windows are just windows, no matter how blue. Tell him that curb appeal does not matter and he will listen to you...he will enter and he will explore every floor. Take notes on every room, leave fingerprints on every doorknob. He will make himself at home and wave to you from the inside and you will finally understand when he invites you in to show you a ring on the temples left hand..and you will tell him that he was right. A curb view is more than enough.

Poetry is eating a bowl of tear soaked ice cream in an empty parking lot at 2 in the morning. Its escaping well needed sleep to google synonyms for heartbreak. Poetry is heartbreak. It is grief, misery, sorrow, it is making a playlist on spotify made up mostly of ed sheeran and Bon Iver. Poetry is pulling over to write because you finally found a line that accurately expresses the way your heart gives itself an indian burn at the thought of his name. Poetry is a whole stanza dedicated to cliche metaphors about your heart. It is losing his and putting yours back together. It is taking duct tape and staples and gorilla glue and seeing which works the best. It's finding out what's most durable, it is making you more durable. Poetry is looking up at the stars just to remind yourself that you're insignificant. But it is also learning that you are significant. It is holding your breath just so you can gasp for air. It is speeding up at a yellow light. Poetry is the yellow light. It is deciding whether you should stop or keep going. It is running with asthma but forgetting your inhaler. It is making it to point B. Poetry is finding a point B. It finding a reason to set an alarm, a reason to go grocery shopping or to do the laundry. A reason to pay the phone bill or put gas in your car. Poetry is opening a window after its rained. It is playing an instrument for the first time in years, it is catching up on a tv show that you forgot about. Poetry is making sure that nothing is forgotten. It is the minds magnifying glass. It is finding every crack and speck of dirt and learning to love them anyway.

Sometimes amputees can still feel a body part that is no longer there. They call this phantom pain. They can feel an itch where theres nothing to scratch, pain where there's nothing to hurt, they can feel the tickle of sheets, stretching across what used to be a limb. I can still feel your body next to mine while I sleep but I pinch my arm to distract myself. Phantom pain: noun. A sensation of pain coming from a body part in which the nerves have been destroyed. The first time you left, you gave me your flannel. The sleeves flooded my arms and though I could not see them, I could still wiggle my fingertips. For the next five months, I would wrap it around my body as tight as I could in hopes that I would feel something. But my hands formed fists and for a moment, I forgot that they were there. The second time you left, you gave me your body. Told me that it was all mine, that you were sculpted just for me, that we were apart of God's masterpiece and NOTHING would wreck this beauty. You told me that we were going to glue this puzzle together and frame it. Hang it above our bed. Now I lay in bed and I can feel your body next to mine. The third time you left, you gave me a kiss....after kiss, after kiss, you kissed me from head to toe, from finger tip, to fingertip, you kissed me so much, I forgot the entire english language, so much that my lips turned blue, so much, they went numb, so much that when you were kissing her, I could still feel it. I could still taste your tongue, I could still feel the outline of your ribcage, I could still feel the warmth of your hand curled around mine, you cannot feel mine. You did not want this body, you did not want this hand, this ribcage, this tongue, this piece of the puzzle. Instead, you wanted a body that believed in what she could not see, one that you could lay next to, one that you could be sealed with. One that would fit in a **** box with you, one you could send off to heaven with free shipping, you wanted a body with scriptures tattooed across her ***, because mailing costs one questionable ***** stamp. One that would pray with you while making love, a body that you don't have to repent for, a body that god would be proud of. I woke up this morning and next to me was an imprint of what I once believed in.

As his mother tucked him in and gave him a kiss on the cheek, he reminded her to leave the door open. Hands stained with cotton sheets and nursery rhymes still stuck in her teeth, she smiled and said "the door is always open." He continuously assured her that it wasn't the dark he was afraid of but the hall light stayed on until he was 9. As he blew out pink candles on his 10th birthday cake, the echoes of mocking classmates burned threw his lips. He thought maybe thats what it felt like to sin. The same feeling he gets when he grasps the doorknob of a church building, the same feeling as when he kissed his first kiss within bare walls, the one that broke skin when he fell for live ash in the back row of biology class. The black lungs on display resembled his, only cigarettes werent the cause this time. The air between the two of them was so tainted with moral, it became toxic.
A melody of slammed doors played on repeat, screaming for repentance but no one seems to recognize this hymn. The chorus won't harmonize. Jesus loves me this I know, for my mother told me so...WAIT. Thats not how its supposed to go. Paper cut tongues slurring same *** through biased mouths is not a religion. Protesting through scriptures against thy neighbor, he locks the door. And the church is silent.

I should've known you were a bad idea when I asked you what you wanted to be when you grow up and you replied with "surgeon." You failed to inform me that
your interest was in cardiology. You said that you'd like to travel someday. Though your idea of exploration wasn't a foreign continent but a trip through my four chambers. And when you hit the edge of my pulmonary canyons, you wouldn't spare me the anesthetics. I asked you what your favorite color was and you told me it was red. Little did I know, thats because it reminds you of open chests. I should've known you were a bad idea when you took me on a date and only kissed my neck. Said you liked to feel my pulse on your lips. Said it made you feel alive, knowing I'm not dead. I thought that your obsession over my veins was cute. I never thought that your tracing and analysis of my wrist was in any way abnormal. Or that when you squeezed them too tight, it wasn't just cause you like the color purple. I don't really remember our second date, maybe because I was high off of your intoxicating breath. But I do recall your finger tips dancing across my sternum. They must've missed a step because It didn't feel too graceful. Your nails acted as scalpels, each misplacing a rib like an unsolved jigsaw puzzle. tearing apart every piece of certainty, you've always liked surprises. Thats something we have in common. But when you began splitting each artery from the center of my beating image, I couldn't help the shock. The art sketched into my cardiac muscle didn't appeal to you. A corner was missing and the edges were faded and you weren't interested in piecing me together. I think you were hoping for a better picture.

I wasn't even a day old when I was first injected. Into my arm spilled the life I was bound to have. My mother watched my eyes fill with hope as my body filled with youth through this tube I grew to know all too well. I had come to love the sting through my veins and the taste of not tasting. The punctures in my skin felt like a fleece blanket but no one second guessed why they didn't scab over when it was no longer raining. And no one thought twice about the times I stomped on pins and needles hoping to feel the comfort of that old fleece blanket. All those fake coughs and stomach aches just to be wrapped up in something softer than tums and motrin. Do you know how it feels to be cold in the middle of June? To walk around with thick fabric draped over your shoulders like an invisible cloak, nobody saw the bruises. Well sometimes I get warm and I toss it off like I invented the throw blanket. But as soon as I reveal my purple skin, the surface begins to boil and I can feel myself evaporate. I can feel the division of my cells as each particle tries to escape. Piece by piece, my body is trying to break away, I need to get away. But my only safe haven is stuck in the syringe thats triggered my decay. Nirvana bullets shot through my veins and as I melted into a blank state, it told me I'd be okay. When I began to shake, it told me I'd be okay. When my body ached, it told me I'd be okay. When my skin started to wash away, it told me I would be okay.

Growing up, I always knew something was off. We didnt pray or have "family home evenings" and we certainly weren't included in block parties. Our family was different, sure. I was scolded by neighbors for displaying my shoulders and was constantly interrogated about my bruises. Excuse me if I resemble a peach. Despite the crude remarks and concerning looks, I never considered myself to be anything other than normal. Kids would ask me why my family is an assortment of colors. Similar to a fruit basket. Yes, my sister is blonde and yes she has blue eyes. No, neither of my parents do. My brother is not Hispanic, and no, neither am I. Not that its any of your business. They call it a broken home but it never seemed broken. My brothers got two Christmases and my sister got yearly vacations so how do you call that damaged? It wasn't until later that I learned where that phrase came from. My brothers dad was always a kind man and he was nice enough to teach me the effects drugs have on a marriage. And he showed me that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. My sister, on the other hand never knew her father and her mother was just a story. Though all her life, she saw the man that provided her shelter as the man that provided her life but that was false interpretation. Her fair skin wasnt a recessive gene. The figure I call dad turned out to be great with fiction and I wish he still was. Because the girl that shared the same room as me doesnt share the same blood and you didn't care enough to share that with us. I still love her, of course. I'm just saying, it would've been nice to know. I may not know her last name but it seems to me, the only stranger is you. It wasn't right of your wife to take a bite off the forbidden fruit but don't you know that lying is sinning too? Who are you to tell me how to live righteously when my entire life wasn't right? You always told me to see you as I see god but I never told you that I don't like religion. I'm not too bad with fiction either. I guess I got that from you.