I wanted to write but poetry doesn't flow through me like it used to. It sits in stagnation. Just like the rest of me. We sit together with nowhere to go.

I am tired, but it’s a special kind of tired that seeps into the bones.

My addiction to online shopping stems from the very simple idea that I have something I’m waiting for so I can’t **** my self yet. So I rather be broke than dead, but throughout the wait I beat myself ******. Count the hairs on my head. Wishing for some kind of release. Receiving my package just to do it all over again.

I’m hugging you like I’m reaching out of this ocean I’m drowning in. I’m gasping for air with each tug of your body. Closer. I need you closer. Engulfed in you. I need to breathe you to survive. To **** it all in and then in the end let it all out.

It is time to let go the pain and fly. It’s time to surrender the hurt. Time to show the world what love looks like. Let words flow from you like the nimble dance of the tiniest ballerina. Words of kindness and compassion. It’s time.

I've come to terms that words can not heal me. Not alone. Actions must proceed these sweet nothings. Love must fill the empty spots of broken promises. For with out backing these words are nothing and will forever remain nothing.

For the first time in a long time I cried over spilt milk. I wept over the little things. But the thing is that these little things combine with others and that becomes your life. And it seems that the little things hurt the most and the pain that seems to be perpetually hovering ready to spring up is the cycle that I'm doomed in for eternity.

You ask me to touch you and I do. We trace every curve of each other's body, but when we are done you tell me that it shouldn't happen again. You say you love me and I love you, but every time you deny what we've done you break a little part of me.

Empty... maybe we all are meant to feel like a jar of jam. The good kind. The kind that everybody takes from until it's empty. Till there is no more to give.

And this brokenness looked so familiar. The same one that toyed with me all those years ago. It had grown, just as I've grown. It did not look like a puddle anymore, but a giant abyss. This brokenness must have evolved for it had a face and it smiled as to welcome me home. Is this my home?

And the immense sadness sits upon my chest like a pinned reminder of where I've been. It eats up my body like it's that's all there ever is. Maybe that's all that's ever been.

I think that maybe if I find that right words that I will be set free. Lost in a sea of emotions, just looking for the beauty that will let me be. In the end nothing. Everyday nothing.