The aching turns to
   Throbbing
And it's breaking my ribs again.

The faux colours after the rain
    Fade
Dimming to black once more.

It's a hamster wheel I'm stuck in
     Rotating
Dragging me up and down,
    Rupturing semi-calloused skin.

Bashing my head against bars
     Locked
In this place, a metaphorical mental jail.

Stuttering words that shatter my teeth
   Nonsense
This sadness isn't real,
   Yet It's here.
And I can feel it. It's drowning me.
I can't breathe. But it isn't real.
So I find solace in it like binding myself to a religion that doesn't leave a bubbling sensation on my tongue.

This word is dark and everything is tasteless.
    I can't remember what sunshine tastes like
On the back of my eyes.

Besides, I've lost all feeling in my brain
And my nose bleeds again
    But I bashed my face against a wall
So maybe it's my numbness dripping on the floor.

I woke to a ghost whispering in my ear
Telling tales of the days
Reminding me of lips I'll never kiss again
As the rain splattered against a grey window pane
I rose with a startle trying to rub the thought from my eyes
As if someone else had placed it there out of spite
Through out the morning toxic tears swell
Burning my cheeks for I have failed
I wonder how long I'll sing this song
I'm still lost at sea and far from shore

It's pouring rain and my backpack is full of strawberry kefir.
I think when we decided to take a break,
you took half my brain with you.

Kefir is a delightful crossbreed of Yop and Perrier. Creamy sublingual fireworks. A single tablespoon is sufficient to send a conga line of 5 billion probiotic bacteria boogying through your innards. But like most things I enjoy, I cannot successfully covet in small, measured portions. Which is why I went for the litre in the first place.

I imagine your face as I rinse my strawberry saturated belongings and imagine the microscopic bacterium hoopla happening between my fingers (you would laugh at my conga line comparison, because you are one of the world's only people who knows how much I truly despise conga lines).

Oh God, the water is just diluting the yogurt. It has become the great Sea of Kefir.

You would have the solution to this. When it comes to logic, you manage to beat me every time without ever making me feel intellectually inferior.

But I need to figure these things out for myself.

Luckily my other groceries were sealed in plastic:
-chia seeds
-goji berries
-cacao nibs
-wheatgrass

These were spared.

As you can see, since we have decided to embark on our own paths for a while, I have tried to be "HEALTHY!". The bathroom is a small library of moth-bitten self-help books (Thanks, Mom) and my bedtime is close enough to twilight to high-five the sun on its way down.
I've started to work out again with a little more addiction than conviction or even common sense.
And because you aren't here to regulate me, I've busted my knees (aaaa-gaaaain.)

And all notwithstanding, as I wandered down 13th avenue with my organic Hippie super-loot, feeling very smug and self-possessed in my birkenstocks, I passed by my favourite breakfast joint, and my kale-fertilized stomach was very persuasive: No, I insist.

Proceeded to savour three enormous pancakes that I could have stitched together to form a roomy buckwheat overcoat. Drowned them with a 3pm coffee. I thought nothing of it, but after all we've been through when it comes to food, you would have been so proud of me, babe. When I admit that I've got a broken heart (-darling, I know I broke my own) people are far too kind to me. 110 minutes and three sacks of flour later I float in a sweet gluten haze from my free (and freeing) lunch back to my apartment.

Which is when I discover the Sea of Kefir.

I think I'm trying too hard.

I think, really, the Art of Becoming One Whole Person isn't so much about us becoming the Perfect People we've always wanted to be. That's not why we strapped a hundred helium balloons to our otherwise incredible relationship and tearfully waved as it disappeared over the horizon. I think it's really about just learning how to regulate ourselves.

Here's one Truth: We will never, ever be perfect. And we will never find our perfection in each other. We have to let that go. We have to stop fighting against the invisible standards we create in each other.

But we can get over ourselves enough to be Pretty Great.
Just make peace with the Pretty Great folks we are. Have the 3 pancake- sore knee- kefir backpack afternoons, and still feel Pretty Great.

And when we do, I think our relationship will feel Pretty Great, too.

Because I'd rather be able to remind myself that I'm Pretty Great,
than rely on you to convince me I'm Perfect.

Yikes, there it is.

So that's my homework. It's full of errors, and there are countless agitated holes worn through by pink erasers, self-doubt, and heartache.

But I know, darling- that by the end of this, you'll give me a sticker-

(and by then I wont need it)

I'll put it right next to the one I've given myself.

They say it gets better
but they never tell you when.

Isn't a breakup, after all, the surgical excision
of another whole person from your own?
Doc, gimme something to work with here
no post-op measures of comfort, no chemicals,
how long will these symptoms last?

Which day shall be the worst?
What can I eat?
How do I get to sleep?
Why is there so much vertigo?

I've lost my captain. I've lost my compass.

But forget North-

*what way is even up?

All my friends asked if I'd gotten busy
and I high-fived, yes indeed.

We met him on a party bus on the way home.
He talked to my friend the entire way, but she had a boyfriend.

The night before I had brought home a ******
who cried
about cheating on his girlfriend and that his **** wouldn't work.

They were bodies,
eyes to watch watch me
and I just wanted.

He ****** with his shirt on.
He cuddled me with one arm until he thought I was asleep
which is the exact physical embodiment of how it feels when your boyfriend stops looking at you.

"You don't really want my number"
"Wha-what?"
"You don't. It's okay. I don't want yours either."

So simple.
Reassuring.
Nuanced, intricate, sly,
perfect.

It would've been perfect.

Call me the Queen of Hypothesis
I thought it was a good idea

leaving this.

I want to take a razor to the hair I grew
(long enough to enchant you)
but I won't.
I want to spend all I've got
on nothing at all.
A painted, empty fool who is poverty stricken in riches-
filet mignon, a flight to Spain, fancy finery-
but I won't.

Instead I'll cry in the kitchen.
Cry in the bedroom.
Cry at flowers.
Cry at nothing.

But I won't cut off my hair.

I want to give up.
I want to run away.
Leave town, leave society, leave myself.
But I won't.

Instead I'll hurt.
Hurt in the day.
Hurt in the night.

But I won't give up.

This mouth, it does me wrong.
This mouth says goodbye,
when it only wants to be
on your fingertips
on your neck
on your back
anywhere

just not saying goodbye.

These eyes, they do me wrong.
These eyes have seen the truth of things,
when they only want to
watch you laugh
watch you dress in the morning
watch your body moving on mine-
Just watch you.
And blind themselves against the path we have chosen.

I want to take it back.

But...

I won't.

Instead I'll love you.
And love you.
And love you,
love you,

                           I love you

until I can love me
just as much.

So call us the King and Queen of Hypothesis, darling.
Look at our glass crowns,
how clearly you can see my heart inside,

saving for something more precious

than all the kingdom's gold.

Oh my captain,
you are a secret compass
in my breast pocket.

A tiny urgency within my doublet
that insists me to your side
so that all the maps of my life
are your destination.