But the boy told the girl,
“I will always protect you.”
And, for the first time,
She believed him.

The boy told the girl,
“You are special.”
And, for the first time,
She believed him.

The boy told the girl,
“Your soul is made of pure gold.”
And, for the first time,
She believed him.

The boy told the girl,
“I love you.”
And, for the first time,
She believed him.

at some point in time
i thought losing
the one i called mine

was the most painful loss
i could endure
until i was laying
on my bedroom floor

shivering and numb
head twirling, screaming
like a broken album

it's at four in the morning
when i still haven't slept
with god knows what in my system
completely unkempt

that i could see now
losing myself
was far worse somehow

s.s

Hello there, those I know and those I don't.

Newborns can't walk because they never fell.
They end up growing up, sooner or later, and walking, running, sprinting towards or away from whatever. Falling in the process, of course. In many ways, that is.

When we trip and fall we know it's gravity we're supposed to resist. Other falls in life, however, aren't as clear. And we simply don't know.

Like a baby who doesn't know their feet are meant for walking; only knowing they must move from point A to B, and finding a way.

I see you my friends; I see you falling and puzzled. Afraid sometimes.
I feel your pain, the echoes of your falls too familiar. Same as you, I also don't know.

But it's okay to fall. More, it's okay to fall apart. I've had to a couple times. I like to believe it made me better and better each time I recollected myself.

I am fine. You'll be too. I believe in you.

With Sincerity.

Artists are often
broken people
using the fragments of themselves
to create something new
and although
being healed
feels so complete
sometimes i want to be broken again
sometimes i want open wounds
so i can use the blood
to paint sunsets
so i can use the torn off pieces of skin as a canvas
so i can carve
masterpieces with the jagged bones left behind
but I can't bring myself to break my own heart in the name of Art

If someone had told me last New Year’s Eve,
That a year later I wouldn’t be shattered,
I’d call them a liar.
But they are not a liar.
Over the course of a year, I have taken my broken glass and turned my pain into a stained glass window. Beautiful and living in color.

If someone had told me last New Years Eve,
That a year later people would know about my trauma,
I’d call them a liar.
But they are not a liar.
Seven months in, I stopped holding the burden alone, and the 4 year old trapped in me started to learn that her body is something not meant to be abused.

If someone had told me last New Years Eve,
That a year later instead of crying over him, I’d be with him,
I’d call them a liar.
But they are not a liar.
I took a terrible and broken situation and built a friendship out of it, and now that friend will be with me at midnight.

If someone had told me last New Years Eve,
That a year later I wouldn’t hate myself
I’d call them a liar.
But they are not a liar.
I have grown so much, I can’t even pick out a thing I don’t like about myself  anymore.
Cheers to that.

i.

I intentionally failed to wish you
a happy birthday this year,
though I know significant dates,
hours, moments, people,
by heart.
I still search for you in boys
I mistake for bandages,
the ones with eyes almost
the same shade of your hazels,
lips resounding your laughter,
resembling a wisp of your smile,
But they aren't you.

ii.

Sometimes I pretend you're dead,
because it's less painful
to stop reaching out into voids.

iii.

My mom still blames you
for everything that preceded that year.
Though you probably had no idea what happened
when we stopped talking altogether.
Can you believe it's almost been three years?

iv.

My dad wonders who was my 'one that got away'
Though, I'm pretty sure he knows
it's you.

v.

Remember how I mentioned Sylvia Plath?
How most everything she wrote
brimmed with melancholy?
How I loved every single word?
Especially that piece
where she talked about expectations
and disappointments.
You'll never know that
up to this day I still think
people are selfish enough to
always, eventually turn into the latter.
Even you.

vi.

It's sad I never got the chance
to tell you about Ted.
How she loved him so much,
she just had to dive headfirst
into the flames-- burning herself,
what was left of her--
after she found out
he never really loved her
the same way
she loved him
in the first place.

vii.

truth is,
some of us
never learn to accept
the love we think we deserve.

viii.

I don't know if you still read my poems
or if you still think about me,
about us, sometimes.
Every time you fall asleep past eleven,
a part of me hopes you do.
because I always remember you--
in birthday candles, red ribbons,
off-tune voice records, golden arches,
concrete sidewalks, pedestrian lanes,
the last flickers of city lights
softly fading out of the blue.
I remember you
in everything, in everywhere,
in everyone.
It's useless, no matter how much I try to forget.
No matter how much I just want to forget.
I want to forget.

But, how could I?

When forgetting means forsaking
the very memory of you.