You eat breakfast alone
At a place you've never been
Fighting the lonely
With a scone
And a coffee

Making meaning from nothing
On the pages of your sketchbook
There are faces of no ones
or the someones you imagine

But the feel of your features
feeds the fear in his heart
Makes you think homes are
made of skin not steel parts

You could only imagine
that kissing felt good
You could only imagine
You were hoping it would
But nothing could prepare you
for the feeling of him
Nothing could prepare you
when you saw the lights were no longer dim

The limbs of the trees
snap
break
die
covered in ice,
when water
is really everything to them.

I wonder if that's what love is.
Knowing that
the very thing that let's you live
can **** you.

It can turn to ice so quickly.

She cried tears of black,
Weeping with lips scarlet
The pale foundations of her face,
Fading,
Into nothing
While the teardrops of ink
Created a new facade.

It's impossible to know a person
Really, truly know them
Until you have a conversation at 2AM
Right before you fall asleep
The most human you can be,
There's no wrong or right
Just words filling the silence
Let me see your insecurities,
Your dreams,
Tell me things about you
That I wouldn't know
Remind me I'm not the only person
With problems and that
No one's exempt from suffering
I want to hear it all
Your heart and mind
There's no better time
For a lobotomy
No better time
To not be alone
I'm glad we got to philosophize
Because you don't really, truly
Know someone
Until you converse at 2AM
And it was a pleasure to meet
2AM you

in his kitchen he asks me
so why are you personally affected?
a friend
a friend was *****
in Charlottetown?
yes

I don't know if I'll ever let him now it was me. I don't know if I want him to know. I'm not completely sure he'd care.

But I want you to know. I don't know why I share these bits of myself with people I barely know. I guess it's the same with performing. If rather sing in a room full of strangers than with friends.

But ****, that's different. That's not something you bring up at grandma's dinner table, let alone the fact that you know what *** is. There's a stigma, and no one can know how scared you felt on that August night.

But he doesn't know. We walked by the spot where it happened just last week. He wanted to sit there, it looked nice. I never want to be near that place again; Charlie's greedy hands entering my motionless body. His hands are so different, I don't want to associate the two. I feel like crying.

Fathers are important. I don't want to be the girl with daddy issues; I'm not. But not having a father growing up is something you can't describe. I think he knows, partially. Divorce is hard, but my dad was never there. And I don't mean physically, because sometimes he was there physically. He just wasn't there. We didn't talk. We didn't do things together. He was idle and I was a child. I had no idea who he was.

And when I went to Mexico, I missed him. And it was one of the first times I truly did. I felt immensely hurt, the kind of hurt that goes past the physical. I felt genuinely unloved and deprived. I yearned so badly for a father's love. I wanted so badly for him to say he was proud of me. For turning out half decent without someone to show me who I was.

See, when he went to Mexico, he brought me back a ceramic, heart shaped box. I admired his efforts, for even thinking of me. Now, when I'm there, my best friend also gets a box for our friend. But it's chosen with specifically her is mind, then lovingly filled with beautiful shells found on the beach. It's so ******* stupid. So ******* stupid. But I don't think my dad would do anything like that for me. And it makes me angry, and it makes me cry. Hell, I'm crying right now. It's so ******* stupid.

Do you think it's stupid? I think it is. I'm crying over a ******* box. But it's not the box, you know? It's not the box.

I don't know what to tell you, James. I'm crying over a box and a boy who touched me almost two years ago. I don't know what to tell you.

Love poems
about a face just glimpsed
echoing in memory.
Singular dark eyes,
pooling the shadows
quick words, one handshake
and another for goodbye.

Impersonal
competitors
living hundreds of miles apart
unconnected
yet he draws me outside of myself.
I love not him,
this one I do not know,
but the metaphor -
what he is -

The sere winter wind
rasps my sleepless eyes.
Roads and roads away from home
across a snow-blinded parking lot
we are
missing one another
silently.