crushes are like
bruises
they hurt
and then they don't
and then they fade

soulmates are like
scars
they hurt the most
but they stay
and they stay

i am happiest amongst
a select few individuals
i can feel myself shine
radiating with only
the purest
of joy
but you
it is you
you make my
chest clench
mind spin
and my heart
you make it
glow

Old rugged jeans
I couldn't throw away
Because in it's tiny little pockets
I am keeping, the pieces
of broken dreams
and broken us

if this is what emotions are
hot water pounding down on my skin
the taste of stale alcohol trying to create some essence
of numbness
the words of music so loud in an attempt to drown out
the ache that my heart brings with each beat
I don’t want it
I don’t want any part of it

My scars my relief
My alternative belief
Are not meant to
paint me as weak.
I struggle with words,
struggle to be heard
But talking about it
is never absurd.

My scars my relief
My alternative belief
Have made me consider
if life should be brief.
But I felt selfish
for making that wish,
So instead I continue
to try to exist.

My scars my relief
My alternative belief
Are reminders of a time
when I couldn't release.
I may have outgrown it
May never have shown it
But this is my lief
and I promise to own it.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because the last time I opened up to someone artistically they told me it was pretty dark and I should keep it to myself.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because I was raised in a culture that was anti love and pro meaningless ***. I saw endless commercials about movies that glamorize a lifestyle in which your body is fulfilled but your heart is ignored and at that impressionable age I learned my heart came second but my allure came first and the less I cared that happier I would be and I carried that belief around with me the way I used to carry around a Bible as a child.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because of the time that I opened my father’s phone to reveal a family secret I would hold to this day against my own moral instincts unraveling miles of insecurities wondering if I’m not a good enough daughter or if he stopped loving my mother or if true love was never real and although I had been taught marriage was my purpose, it was what I believed would make me happy, maybe rings aren’t enough to stay in love and maybe people’s feelings change and maybe no one actually has a “one true love” and that this purpose I had been taught was really an endless wild goose chase that only lead to broken families and lost souls.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because sometimes I still wonder why I fell into an abyss of toxicity at such a young age. And when I say wonder I don’t mean a trivial ponder, I mean I contemplate every possible reason why the person who I once believed held the universe in her eyes would lie to my face, why she never kissed me in public and our love was always a secret, why she valued girls with blue hair but my blonde hair was not good enough, why I had to hide bruises from my family when I was still in high school or more importantly, why at the time, I thought I deserved them. These thoughts, this lingering paranoia that I am undeserving of healthy love, they muddy my interpretations of real life and distort reality and effect my relationships. My doctor would call these intrusive thoughts, my best friend would tell me they’re symptoms of PTSD, but I have come to realize that I’ve been burned and I am damaged and I hope to god I can recover.

But you,
Oh god, you
You can write this poem. You can be my safety net while I’m free falling in love. You can be the one to listen to my mental tilt-a-whirls, you can be the one that introduces my body and my heart, you can be the one that calms the storms in my mind when I’m questioning the love I’m deserving of. You are the one who makes sure I fall asleep in my bed after drunk nights, you are the one that still sees my value after acknowledging my flaws.
You can write this poem.

There sandy seems the golden sky
And golden seems the sandy plain.
No habitation meets the eye
Unless in the horizon rim,
Some halfway up the limestone wall,
That spot of black is not a stain
Or shadow, but a cavern hole,
Where someone used to climb and crawl
To rest from his besetting fears.
I see the callus on his soul
The disappearing last of him
And of his race starvation slim,
Oh years ago—ten thousand years.