I think in fragments.

Half-sentences, rushed together.
Incomplete.
Human.

You think in beautiful rhymes and phrases.
Sewn together with careless precision.
Perfect, godlike.

How could I have ever hoped for us to last?

we were just small children so we didn’t quite understand what father meant when he said

“mother is sad”

we continued our games and make believe stories and waited for mother to be happy

and when we were young, sad just meant someone stepped on your picture

or they ruined your sand castle


and in 2 seconds it was over

the deeper I fall into my depression I find my mother
I find her ghouls and her ghosts
her corpses

I find her dark eyes in my dark eyes every time I look in the mirror
and I find her hatred for everything, including me

I find new ways to torture myself
my mother

“you have your mothers eyes”


we also have the same disease

the only difference is, her demons won
mine don’t stand a chance

Some value money,
Some value time,
Some value success,
Some just want to feel fine.

Some give their all,
Some give only half,
Some give none,
Some give more than they have.

Always on the run, we aim and strive,
Running on empty, yet we never arrive.

But what is our goal?
What leads to fulfillment?
Giving the world
One hundred percent?

We lose ourselves trying to gain,
And then we're lost, but who's to blame?
Giving our all in search of bliss,
Is success found in emptiness?

You deserve balance,
It's your life to live.
So oh, please remember,
Emptiness cannot give.

Once, when I was young and true,
  Someone left me sad--
Broke my brittle heart in two;
  And that is very bad.

Love is for unlucky folk,
  Love is but a curse.
Once there was a heart I broke;
  And that, I think, is worse.

She used to write poems about slitting her wrists

About monsters that did but did not exist

About band aids and stained paper towels

About grubby toilet seats and empty bowels

And well, now

She regret the scars

Fishing line trails out of them

Transparent until noticed

Then tangled and messy

Catching on hot sweaters in the summer

On the eyes of friends

Of her grandparents

She found them to no longer be the uneven lines of art she loved

She'd stick to colored pens