Mom is sweet,
only likes candles that
smell good enough
to cause cavities.
I make sure to get her one
every year.
Become supplier when
her warm vanilla sugar habit
burns down the last wick.
She says it makes the house
smell home.
Turns bitter taste of argument
into something she can swallow,
wants to be able to inhale love.
Says that when candle smoke
feels more like a lover's arms
than your actual lover's arms
there's something about her that
burns out too.

When warm vanilla sugar//mom
cries
she melts.
Divorce making the cavities
in her mouth rot
faster than she can burn out
this flame. Her bedroom
the wick and my father spitting lighter fluid
while swearing he loves her.
I'm sure he does
but this wildfire of a marriage
cannot be contained in this house.
Needs to branch out,
call in reinforcements.
My policeman of a father
was never a trained fireman,
can only call in a blaze when he sees it.
So I stood by and watched while
their marriage burned
but never kept the house warm.

Now I cannot light a candle
without feeling loss. The memory
of my parents slow dancing
at my aunt's wedding
sits shot gun in my car.
It's the four lighters I carry
around with me at once.
It smells like ash.
But my mom says she'll buy
me a candle for christmas,
one that smells like family dinners,
one that smells like coming home
to both parents.
She says I can burn it in my new bedroom,
says we don't have to live in
the memory of a house,
can live in the parts of us
that go home for the holidays.
The parts that smell like
warm vanilla sugar,
a lover's arms,
a wedding's slow dance.
And maybe one day
every day can smell like that
too.

I am not
    tall
not jack and the
giant growth spurt,
been small bean
tiny roots my
whole life.
I am
adult child
tippy toes to kiss
those who turn
their cheek every time.
I am not
sunny enough for
anyone to live off me.
I am
9:30 pm
blacked out drunk
photo in front of
my universities chapel
because i never remember
when i find god
or if i ever
really did.
i am
that last bit of
cough syrup you saved
for the day you
got better,
the autosave
on google drive
before your laptop ***** you
and crashes in the middle
of your midterm paper.
I try my hardest
to make you better,
keep you intact,
but i can’t change
why you needed me
in the first place.
I am not
made right,
cookie crumbles
instead of melt in your
mouth
i am hard
to swallow.
151 christening
the back of my throat
while you whimper
after one shot of
strawberry lemonade svedka.
That’s sangria to me, that’s
water
to me.
I promise you
I will teach you how
to chug,
how to make wince
look like wink
look like smooth
waterfall thunder
crashing into gut
as long as you
are willing to open throat.
I am not
batten-down-the-hatches
outdoor basement lock
i am
panic room
all the food and drink
you need in me
i am plentiful
i am enough
sometimes
i am too much
i am the
over drinker the
too ****** the
too much fight
too much love
not enough balance
i am
clumsy
not enough equilibrium
between my ears
maybe that’s why i am
queen of miscommunication
queen of misunderstandings
queen of “can you
say that again? i
didn’t quite hear you.
I am drowning
through waves of
something that looks a lot
like water but it
burns good enough to
quench”
I am
******* disguised as
train wreck
i needed an excuse
to be in the hospital
just to check out
of life for a few days,
lay in bed for a few days
feel too small
to go to work for a few days
because i am
tired of having to act big
seem tall
when i am
small bean
tiny roots
have been my whole life.
But i am
starting somewhere
i am growing
going somewhere
i am
just waiting for
the next rainfall
to wash away these
pesticides.
I am waiting
for the day i become
balanced and
i can stand up without
bumping into some
other clumsy part of me,
i can look at her
and ask her why she’s still
here because
i am
here now.
i am
plentiful
I am
enough.

I slid down a hill
on nothing but a tarp and hose water
in the middle hick town new york
with a family i didn’t even know
because my best friend thought we would have fun.
We did.
But the next day we got so high
we thought we could make dub step from our mouths.
When we tried it sober
it sounded nothing like dub step.
Just kind of like a beat up basement home
and not enough people for a party.
Kind of like the soft music you play after a panic attack,
everything sounds so
forced.
This one time,
I kissed a girl so ******* the mouth
that she took a step back and just said
”…thank you.”
I have no idea what she was thanking me for,
but i learned to thank her body
in more ways than just prayer.
She sounded like an orchestra,
Bach or back but god ******
if she didn’t leave scratches on everything instrument.
One time,
I got thrown into a mosh pit
and some big dude carried me out
and punched the person who pushed me in
so hard in the face that i swear
i saw his mothers veins give out.
It was like an amtrak railway collision,
fist and apology, metal and music,
the kind of rock you get stuck in-between
next to that hard place.

One time,
I slid into my best friend
because we thought we would have fun.
We did.
She had to take a step back
and said nothing but Thank You.
A broken body prayer healed
with blankets like tarp, claiming her my new york.
It was like being thrown into a mosh pit
but there wasn’t anyone there to carry me out
because it wasn’t an accident.
Just a mistake.
Now we don’t talk and last night
I got so high that I tried to make music from my mouth,
replay her symphony, echo it
in my beat up basement of a chest.
The hollow wind chime of organs or intestines,
ragged breathing from the smoke
she snake charmed down my throat.
She was so smooth. Soft.
Kind of like the music you play
after a panic attack,
everything feels so
forced.

Last week I got a call from
one of my friends. He sounded
scared, like he just got caught
5 yr old with hands in cookie jar.
He said, “I gotta tell you something,
gotta get rid of some weight off
this heavy burdened chest. Will
you listen?” So of course I told
him to hand me his hurt.
But when he told me that his
cookie jar
was a sorority girl with too much
liquor and not enough consent,
that his hands took dessert before
dinner, I had to tell him
to take his hurt back.
I couldn’t stop seeing the small boy
from a big town who’s hands
shook at the thought of talking
to strangers. How ironic it was
that no part of him trembled when
he spoke that night because she
couldn’t hear him.
I though of his midwife mother
and how devastated she’d be
to know her son is now building
graveyards in the bodies of
drunk women, how she may be
the one to have to remove this
tombstone.
I thought of the times
i’ve been decimals away from
unconscious in his dorm room.
How party
turned blackout
and I wonder if his hands
stopped trembling then too.
I wonder if he thought
of becoming the 3rd man
to make me his midnight snack.

He came to me to find solace
but instead he found me repeating
the word “no”
because he needed to hear it
because no one taught him that
blackout meant “no”
that if you can move their limbs like
jello, that is not ***
that is a puppet show and you are
just controlling the strings.

No —> Adverb; used to express
negation, denial, or refusal.
Example: No, I’m not going.
Example: No, don’t touch me,
Example: No, I don’t want this.
Example: No, she didn’t want this
but you gave it to her anyway.
How do I tell someone who has
lifted me up from my depths
to take this weight on his chest
and let it crush him.
Gyles Corey yelling “more weight”
as we press boulders on his sternum,
bone-crushing pressure.
Maybe then he will finally
understand “no”.

Two weeks ago, I got a call
from a friend. But last week
I got a call from a ****** who still
wanted to be called my friend.
Who has seen me shattered bottle
over my own cemetery of a body
and still wanted to be called
my friend.
But yesterday, I deleted a contact
from my phone book,
told my parents not to answer
if he knocks, but to be careful
because he may try to enter anyway.
Just so they know
that they have other hands to worry about
besides my own

Baby ever since you left,
i couldn’t be
happier.
i’ve felt compelled
to shout to strangers
how easily i fell out of love with you.
Baby i’ve been fine.
and i mean the
shower-singing,
curtain-opening,
chinese-food-because-it’s-*******-delicious
-not-because-i’m-dep­ressed fine.
Speaking of which,
ever since you left baby,
i started eating again.
Not because i’m trying to
fill up this space but because
you stopped demanding so much of it.
I wanted to be skin
and bones for you,
expose every inch of my
flesh-tight ribcage, laying out
the pieces of me like showing you
all of my cards.
But you taught me the meaning
of a good bluff. Always pokerface,
always blank stare and
hoping i translate that as “i love you”
instead of “i’ve got more cards than you think.”
Baby you left me elbow deep in my
red dye 40 spill of a dorm room shower,
grabbing a mop
instead of stitches.
You’ve never been one to get
blood on your own hands. Baby,
baby ever since you left
i’ve had wind chimes in my bed springs,
i’ve never heard music
begging me to get out of bed before.
Brass wind instruments
making symphony of my footsteps,
creating keyboard music sheets
with each imprint.
Baby, i feel good.
Feel like that first paycheck
after a month of drought,
drinking in all of my wealth.
Ever since you left
i’ve been rich, the
juicy bite of a fresh picked apple,
the sweet lick of warm brownie
that needs milk to keep the taste from
owning you.
The whiskey glasses that kiss
the red back into my cheeks,
now that you’re gone baby
that
no longer owns me.
I can doll myself up rosacea
without having to put
a decimal point at the bottom
of my cup. Getting sober
has never felt like holding my own hand.
But baby ever since you left,
getting sober feels like my own hand,
letting go of
lipstick stained bourbon glasses
and picking up the
fingertips to the rest of my life.
it feels like nail polish
dipped in tomorrow
i have no other choice than
to keep painting myself into the picture.
and i am not sorry,
baby,
but with each brush stroke of my future,
i keep blurring you out,
making you unrecognizable.
baby, the next time you see me
i will be singing good mornings
from the soles of my shoes,
standing spinal cord straight
with a full stomach
of proud. and i will eat,
and you will wonder
how such a masterpiece
could fit onto my finger beds.
and i will wear my sobriety
like a promise ring
instead of handcuffs.
baby ever since you left
i couldn’t be happier,
even the strangers know
i will be fine.

do not call me tweaking off of some back alley coke asking me where i’ve been all night. i’ve been trying to mix the messages you’ve been sending me into some cheap low-tolerance whiskey and coke. Slurring you into existence. i’ve been struggling to tell the difference between “i’m so high, i love you” and “i’m so high i love you”. You begged me to come take care of you, so you could hand over your burdens, place that white powder in my finger tips telling me “it’s not so bad, just take a hit”
Dear boy,
when you crashed your car at 2 am because the ***** in your blood stream got so tired that it needed a place to rest, i drove four hours to pick up your ****** dress shirt only to wash it and you never asked for it back. It hangs in my closet like the last memory i have of us in that restaurant on carry street. we ate dinner and you were picking my bruises out of your teeth, asking me “hey, did i get it all out? i still feel like there’s something in there” i tell you, no, there's nothing left of me. Your broken jawed apologies barely have enough force to break skin. I guess i’ve always been the brave one in that way.
Dear boy,
when i have to beg you to look both ways before crossing the street, please just tell me that you’ll make it home safe.
Dear boy,
when we were talking about the different kinds of slang in our states, you told me mid sentence that you missed me and i had to look that up just in case that was some kind of slang i had never heard of. So I told you that i loved you, because i’m sure you had never heard that either.
Dear boy,
i love you.
Dear boy,
I’m so high i love you. I wore your shirt to bed last night. I think that’s why I woke up early morning afraid of the street lights.
Dear boy,
you are probably stumbling through someone else’s doorstep right now, begging for them to take care of you because that’s what you think love is. And i’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Love isn’t so bad, just, take the hit.

Bill Wilson sat down for his 10th
and 11th drinks tonight,
drowning out World War I
with shots of top shelf
bullets.
Pulling the trigger on his own body,
satiating the burning in his gut.
He almost forgot what a
sober night
tasted like.
This kind of alcoholism takes
patience, practice makes perfect.
Months of one drink as too many,
and one hundred as not enough.
Written off as a man destined to die,
Bill downed bottle after bottle,
leaving the shelves heaving for
company, wonder how he drank himself
solitude, empty?
Or was he full gut war,
bodies stacked to his brim,
leaking post-traumatic stress into
everything he touched.
Each ****** drink a reminder
of too many sober deaths he caused,
each granite countertop
the cold touch of tombstone, the silent
wish for his own, not sure when he started dying
but determined to make this pub
his own battle field. Metal of honor turned
Jack Daniel’s bottle top, wearing it noose
hoping it won’t slip off, needing to
cap his own demons.
This kind of alcoholism takes
steps, 12 to be exact.
Bill created AA for people just like him,
Each meeting pouring out
unquenchable thirst, trigger warning written
inside the door next to the exit sign.
Trigger warning: real life
Trigger warning: you’ll wish fire hydrants were taps.
Trigger warning: communion wine looks devils blood,
looks so good.
Trigger warning: the small girl who wrote this
is shaking from withdrawal right now.
The creases of her palms ache in absence,
in remembering what sobriety tastes like.
5 days sober and her mouth waters
at liquid death, her own southern comfort.
She is daydreaming of the three years
she spent intoxicated, sitting down for her
10th and 11th drinks of the night.
Her expertise in lower-spine life
has recovery seem dishonorable discharge
with no health benefits.
Seem loaded gun, cocked in mouth,
brain matter saying brain doesn’t matter,
saying swim in the trenches of this
World War between Russian *****
and German schnapps. Would take this
over the war in her own head.
This kind of alcoholism takes
patience, takes steps,
practice makes perfect.
Bill Wilson made AA for the nights
I would drive by the meetings on purpose,
trying to trick myself into entering.
Bill Wilson taught me that the need
for liquor is laying dormant in my bones,
a monster who i know is only sleeping,
waiting to make me eternal dirt nap.
And i am just
so god ****** exhausted.

Last night I was
experimenting empty body with twin bottle.
Spewing colors out of mouth,
like it's a ******* celebration.
Whispering "happy birthday"
for every friend I've had to put in the ground.
Whispering "happy birthday"
for every time I've wished I was one of them.
I was mumbling existence
until I became unconscious scientist,
collecting data,
hoping if i continue to announce births
that we'll all be born back to flesh
that feels like home, that sings
like porch light wind chimes
that stops the announcements of deaths.
Or at least, strings together
those who want to cut their ties.
Happy birthday.
Research shows my edges
were strung a little too tight,
holding needle in hand,
i plucked away the stitching
until I was all unraveled, stay spilling over
at the seam. Everything seems low.
6 feet under, making poppy flowers
out of freshly turned graves. Happy birthday.
My vice is bath tub overflowing with drunk bodies,
leaking love into the crevices of laughter.
Testing out the theory that arms
can be used as medicine.
Turning experimental phases
into investigations. You know,
people can be placebos too.
Happy birthday.
Happy birthday.
Happy birthday.

i. Metal cannot protect you. Car frames can distort just as much as bodies when heavier things get placed on them. Maybe the pole splitting your car in two is some kind of metaphor for the way you keep driving into your thoughts head on and they never seem to budge, only you do. You will twist and break open just to accommodate the sturdy burden of yourself.
ii. Locked doors sometimes keep out the ones who are trying to help you. I know they always tell you that it’s safer to be selective of who you let in, but when you can’t reach the door handle, not everyone will have a crowbar to pry your locked doors open. Sometimes, they have to wait for someone stronger, someone better equipped to deal with what you have to offer. Sometimes, they just keep driving.
iii. Seat belts are necessary. Some days, people stop without warning, break lights broken to test your reaction time. Only, I don’t think anyone has ever had that fast of feet. Maybe you should start taking walks.
iv. Checking 6 times for cars before you drive through an intersection can become a ritual. You would prefer the sound of impatient car horns behind you than be made a memory, made black tire tracks and pieces of glass right before the point of safety, made the definition of almost – the type of grave that you can’t keep visiting at after a while. Is that why you stopped coming over? Did my tombstone body pull the click of your trigger and turn you into lowered eyes and choked laughs?
v. Even if it’s not your fault, the other person will not hesitate to put the blame on you to save themselves the trouble. The cost of both your repairs is detrimental to their wallet, and they would rather watch you scramble to pick up all the pieces of their own apologies to make it seem like you’re forming your own. But don’t not be tempted to put them back together if you don’t have the money for it and they are undeserving. Never suffer more than you have to.

Chinaski licked his tongue over the opening of the whiskey bottle, knowing that it wouldn't stop me but he knew it would delay the use for someone else. He kept repeating his poem "she is dark. she is dark. she is reading about god. i am god." and the whiskey label suddenly turned into a lullaby, the only thing able to keep me under water and i heard it with blurry vision. she is dark. i am dark. i am reading about god. he is god. he is blood alcohol content whispering numbers too high for decimals, hoping i'd be my whole self tonight. waking up fractions of a second too close to consistent unconscious, wondering if i could even make it home with muscles meant for the sea floor. I have no legs when i am around him, and He as in Liquor, as in The Only Thing Keeping Me Up Right, The Only Thing Keeping Me Above Ground. I am sinking, slipping under waves crashing over my lungs like the wrong pipe. But he promises he's got the right one, Chinaski blowing O's over my bed frame. He is dark. I am dark. We are reading about God. He is God. Asking where is God? We are sullen prayer folding over the pew, removing shoes to show how raw we are, or are we removing soul? I've got no time to play in the second coming, Chinaski drowning himself in women promising their second coming, I've never admired him. Or Him, making hymn out of moans, telling everyone i am dark. i am dark. i should be reading about god, he is god. I never knew god. I don't know how to read a book considered fiction, running my tongue up the necks of the sacrilegious whimpering out Christ's name like he will know how to sacrifice the hands that tame the unholy. I pray he will learn to split time or bible, explaining truth from love. Chinaski never loved more than once, and that was with the glass in his hand and full gut of scotch. I am dark. I am Chinaski. I am reading about God. He is God.

I did not turn rapture
when hell made its home in my womb.
Hades swooned over the wreckage
placing a bow on top for good measure.
Legend says I was more myth, than anything,
searching for definition after
too familiar body made drunk bed
of my flesh, pinning down
my Velcro limbs. The only choice I had
was to rip them off. Or you would
play god, play surgeon, blade in hand,
ready to make a mess of my flesh
curl me ribbon, hands to fold me over;
turning pages of my fable
writing your own chapter of monsters.

You said all folklores have truth,
that werewolves are disguised as broken bodies.
Well five full moons have passed
and I still howl when I see you.
My muscles remember dehydration
when they cringe at the memory
of your frame perched on top of mine
wielding weaponry like promises,
like you’ve been training to build
cemeteries inside of people,
calculating the angles of hips,
leaving shrapnel you can’t dig out.
I thought if I made myself small,
the knife wouldn’t find my skin
and you wouldn’t find me either.
But I learned that begging purge of my innards
does not extract the emptiness,
but further entices it. So I drip sweat,
clenching my gut in order to make
a lean body rather than to brace myself
when I see male hands. Flexing muscle
metal armor to conceal my wish
to be Medusa; I am half way there,
she was ***** too, only I wasn't in a temple.

I’ve been told to find god,
but do you think if I crane my face up
eager child toward Him, He will treat me
like you, like you did.
I pray my God
is a fearless woman, a fierce Atalanta
daughter of Iasus, who begged for son
out his wife’s hips. Daughter of proud ***,
proud ***** and fertile garden,
left to die on a mountaintop
claiming fragile She. Throwing dirt down
the mouth of God, Atalanta learned to hunt
and fight like a bear
like a woman, surviving the death wish of male.

This nightmare of She
my death wish from male. Remembering
the pin ***** of sharp knife against my throat,
I had no other choice than to become my own edge.
I made my body sharp, turned every bone
into a quick “no” and instinctual incision.
I want to be cutthroat woman, standing tall
and vicious, never allowing my memory
to become deja vu again and again. I am not
a story with sequels. I am the legend.

He is
vitamin.
He is corkscrew instead of broken bottle,
he is my mending.
He is the knock after the door bell
in fear that the person inside didn’t hear.
He is heard.
He is small talk but larger weapon,
he is floor mates with double-barreled liquor bottles,
pulling the trigger on his own body
making silence of this always murmuring home.
He is the walls holding his secrets,
they hear what he says in his sleep
and maybe that's where all the cracks come from.
But he turned southern drawl
into quiet croon.
He is speaking tongues
meant for sweet tea and small city,
able to walk its entirety in under an hour
but that's only because he stopped looking.
Mistaking familiar scene
and forgetting to pause at the
architecture tourists swoon over for days.
He is virtuous.
He is “i miss you” texts at 2 am before falling asleep.
He is
missing.
He is the inconspicuous biting of own lips
to make them smoother,
make them easier to kiss.
He is already easy to kiss.
He is permanent ink but feels temporary tattoo,
wants people to stop trying to scratch him off.
He is not going anywhere without a paid removal.
He is fingers running through hair,
the soft trail of fingernails over skin,
the goosebumps left behind.
He is the half-asleep roll-over into waiting arms,
he is the arms.
He is the first kiss on the nose,
he is brand new city and memorized street signs.
He is the statue in the street
separating two churches from advancing towards each other.
He is street art too beautiful to take a picture of
because the pixels couldn’t do the life justice.
He is the kind of thing you have to place your palm on.
He is small hand snaked between rib and arm
just to hold onto bicep,
just to let people know this hand is here for him.
He is gentle shake begging wake,
the tighter squeeze of comfort.
He is safety.
He is 276 miles of memory,
4 hours of nostalgia I am willing to drive.
He is There,
and I am Here.
And There does not know
how lucky it truly is.

August 28, 1922.** Clarence Samuels is holding his wife’s hand, she’s groaning out limbs by the minute, pushing hard enough for life to cry out of her. He can no longer feel his fingertips from the vice grip she has on his knuckles, but that is just one more piece of himself he would give for his family.
November 16, 1924. Clarence’s daughter is over two years old, and they are taking walks to the beach. She takes interest in a dark feathered bird with a snowy underbelly like the way God only sees things in black or white, its combination of threat and promise. She asks Clarence what it is, says she would like to have one, would like to be one. But he notices, those birds only come around when it’s raining and he hasn’t seen the storm clouds yet.
March 31st, 1925. The Samuels’ daughter hasn’t stopped vomiting in two days, her radiance turning achromatic. The doctors have been prescribing medication but nothing seems to work because she cannot keep down any form of help. So Clarence starts looking up that shadowy bird they saw in the fall. Maybe that could take her mind off her affliction, maybe it would help him too.
September 4, 1925. Clarence now whispers “I love you” like the flickering flames of prayer candles, but hasn’t seen the inside of a chapel since the funeral, since he stopped being able to look into his wife’s eyes. His days are filled with sacrilegious drunk, his kitchen floor littered with whiskey labels and scotch tops, wondering what he is if not slain by this everything holy. He’s scrawling out letters to his daughter on the napkins he took from under his drinks at the bar. He’s got enough to write a book or his suicide letter.
September 30, 1925. Clarence notices that instead of crawling out of bed, the bed is crawling away from him. He chokes on the muscle memory he still retains when he walks into his daughters empty room, now turned office because his wife seems to be the only one working, the only thing still working. On the desk is his research of the bird that haunts him since that November, the Parasitic Jaeger. Their name begs question of the godless nights spent bent wave sea sick over the toilet seat, innards cascading past the roof of his mouth, making friends with the holes in his teeth. He has managed to drink himself swiss bone garden.
October 1, 1925. Clarence walks to the beach, clutching a picture of his daughter. He planned on drowning himself in the tide to mimic her, choked up on bile and lungs. Before he stepped foot in the water, the Parasitic Jaeger flew past him chasing a gull.
October 1st, Clarence went home and slept.
October 2nd, Clarence returned to the beach all guilt and full body, BAC hitting a record .25 and he slipped into the sea only to watch the same Jaeger chasing another gull. Clarence watched as the gull emptied itself open casket into the water and flew away while the Jaeger feasted on the sick. Clarence took another small step into the shore line, now chest deep in more than regret. The bird turned his head slowly towards the human moving closer him. Clarence, open arms and locked eyes whispered, “I am sick too, do not forget me.”

Last week, I spoke to my ex-boyfriend
for the first time since he betrayed my body
and it turns out he’s doing well;
a new job
a new tattoo
new apologies for contacting me
after turning my body hollow grave
and empty echo.
He left me gasping for more than air,
flat tire with rocks lodging in my throat
and two days after i couldn’t wait
so i started drinking at work.
My mouth started tasting like Communion,
fake holy and in need of wine,
anything to help swallow these cardboard words.
I drank from you like my favorite sin.
I thought i would drive home drunk,
so I told all my friends i loved them,
didn’t want them guessing
if i didn’t make it home.
I kept wondering why God didn’t give me
a trigger warning,
at least my phone did.
Before I got his text,
my phone flashed an alert
“20% left, will die soon” like
“let your phone shut off, you’ll want to die soon”
but i plugged it in anyway,
which is to say i’ve always found comfort
in discord, i’ve always known how to be ****,
never stitches.
With my flesh torn open,
i wanted to lick the wound clean.
Pretend dog in a field of mice;
everyone tends to be more afraid
if they know who you hunt.
But with my matted coat and bared teeth,
the mice couldn’t see my tail
trembling earthquake between my legs,
couldn’t sense aftershock in my claws.
I’ve never preyed on anyone,
but i’ve been prayed for.
The doctors have seen me carted in
with drool dripping sloppy apology,
creating a mess for this body
committing treason against itself.
But how do you gain back your own trust?
How do you explain to your thighs
that you’re letting their thief back in for seconds
without them refusing to work anymore?
Today I turned fist,
turned clenched jaw,
turned dehydrated muscles,
my body writing with the pain of memory
the knowledge of being told i was too enticing
to listen to the word “no.”
But today when he told me he was sorry,
that he loved me this whole time,
i opened my heart abandoned safe,
wiped the dust off my trigger
and habitually pulled it when he whispered “baby”
in the crook of my neck
like melting wax dripping off a candle,
like the sound of dirt slowly filling my grave
but i don’t know how long i’ve been down there.
It must have been after he made me
grasp his shovel without gloves
and dig myself cemetery.
For days after, i was terrified he left splinters,
i couldn’t stop checking my hands
although i never found an exit wound,
i can guarantee there was forced entry.
So why am i opening up my door again?
Leaving the key under mat
with no protection,
just open arms and beach waves,
saying the word “no” periodically
just in case he forgets,
saying “stop” when i want to,
so i know what control feels like,
placing kisses on his neck
like a dog collar
so i can pull back when he comes in too close.
I will choke him if he gets out of line,
i will shock him if he speaks over my refusal,
I will be the owner of this relationship.
I will never have to lick my wounds clean
from his aftershock claws again.
I know this will probably be a mistake
but I’ve got to find out for myself
if i am strong enough to keep myself together this time.
I will keep myself together this time.

When i left you,
I got so drunk i tried to hug my mom
but i hit my head on the kitchen counter instead.
My first problem
was that i tried to snake myself between her arms
instead of just asking for a hug.
It was almost like it was too easy,
too vulnerable of a question
but what's more vulnerable
than a drunk heart
with only soft flesh protecting it?
You are a  dull knife.
I wish you were sharper,
**** me with one wound,
but you have to keep trying to break through me.
This hurts a lot more than it would
if i were dead.

i. Am i everything you thought i'd be? I know i'm not much but i just really hope you liked me.
ii. I'm sorry i didn't answer you after you purposefully ignored my texts for 3 days after i tried to **** myself.
iii. How do you feel on the *******? Are you okay? Do you need me to do anything for you?
iv. Just please call me to warn me before you actually shoot him
v. I know. Park a half mile away. He'll never hear you coming.
vi. I wish you didn't miss either. Did he know it was you? Good.
vii. I think i might love you
viii. I'm sorry, i shouldn't have said that. Did i mess this up?
ix. I dreamt about you
ix. I write all my poetry about you
ix. Did you leave me again? I stopped wanting to hurt myself. I promise. Please come back. I'm better now. For you.
x. I feel empty on these meds. Please come lay with me. I need to feel something again.
xi. I'm so drunk that all i can think about is you. Everything is you.
xii. I miss you. I hope you're taking care of yourself.
xiii. I know it's 4 am. And you probably won't answer. But i just wanted you to know that i really care about you. I would've given you the whole world if you asked. I would've let you put that bullet in me. At least i know now that you wouldn't have missed

Sixteen
and taking my first sip of alcohol
and ******* DOES THIS TASTE.....
like absolute ****,
how the **** do you guys even drink this stuff?
Shots?
like from the doctors? Yeah I got all mine.
Oh you mean like, (makes shot-taking motion)
.....yep I'll have a few more drinks.
You said I'd feel better in 15 minutes
but it's been an hour and a half
and I guess I'm still waiting.
But I really hate sitting on this couch by myself
because I think I could actually be stuck here forever.

Eighteen
and it's the summer before my first year of college.
I'm sitting on my friend's back porch
killing a bottle of whiskey by myself
because I'm still waiting for those 15 minutes to go by
so I can feel better.
I now need more than one bottle
and my BAC has been at a consistent .15 for last three weeks
don't ask me how I got here.
Better yet,
don't ask me how I drove here.
I convinced myself that drowning my liver
was a lot better than drowning myself
but now I can't tell the difference
because I always feel like choking.
The same way the face made by my ex girlfriend did
when I said I had *** for the first time since her.
It was the same face I made
the first time I took a sip of whiskey without a mixer,
her face twisted together sour lemon
and I can only imagine the burning feeling she got in her throat.
But now I can drink whiskey just fine
and I'm sure she doesn't remember what I taste like either.

Three months into my first semester
I'm still waiting for those fifteen minutes
even though the clock says I've been awake for 34 hours straight.
At this point,
if I don't drink
my skin crawls with the bugs underneath of it
and I've started to wonder if I'll have to **** myself to make this stop.

Two days ago,
i found out how content i would be
if i died,
if my blood poured out broken faucet
and i turned soft clay
in a cocoon of metal,
glass littering the street
so God could see the reflection,
see where to pick me up at.
I imagine it like a taxi,
there's a price to pay
to get all the way to the gates,
it just depends on how much
you're willing to sacrifice.
I never knew salvation required negotiation.
But I guess it was the same way
I bargained my life with
emptying the canister of xanax
and lexapro;
counting them,
wondering how many it would take
to make people miss me.
I already missed me.
I haven't known what i feel like sober
in three years
even though i've stopped drinking.
I told myself i would rather be dead
than medicated,
but here i am,
three years intoxicated,
making love to whiskey bottles
with only the tips of my fingers.
They told me love is now
a fatal thing to put my tongue on,
but i think my lips would die for that.
My mouth waters at the thought.
Love used to be a half-drank box of wine,
the other 2.5 liters already crossed
the threshold of my stomach.
I know you said, "drink this
and you'll feel better in 15 minutes."
But I can't remember
how long it's been
since i've started feeling like this
and i'm not sure
if one more drink
or one more pill
will make this stop.
i'm not sure
if any of this was worth it.

Every week
I see two different psychologists.
They told me to define Recovery.
Doctors visits,
blue prescription pads,
handfuls of pills
putting medicine in me
hoping that i don't get sick.
Do i take them all at once?
My anxiety made me
rip the label off the bottle
because that's what i do when i get nervous
i tear things away and
maybe that's where you went
but Doc said
i had to take them to get better,
so why not say bottoms up?
face-up in a casket.
Wait.

They told me to define Addiction:
hands shaking from a clean blood stream,
need to feel *****,
match the fingerprints on the bottle
with the ones on my own throat;
trying to stop the substance
even though i made the choice
to swallow.
I am always swallowing,
a constant cycle of open throat
throwing liquor down the hatch
tossing a few pills back
just to hear the splash.
Is it six feet down?
Tell me how far my empty goes.
Wait.

They told me define Empty.
The hollow nothing disguised as a chest,
a bedroom after death,
my stomach on a good day,
your eyes after i told you i loved you
and my voicemail when you stopped calling.
I used to ignore your calls
so I could keep your voice tucked away
in the dark corners of my phone
but ever since you left
your voice has echoed off my walls,
turning plastic bag and i'm made infant
and i couldn't stop suffocating in your name
so now i sleep on the floor of my sisters room.
I would rather stay awake from her snores
than be haunted by a ghost
of someone who's still alive.
Wait.

Are you?
I haven't heard about you in a while,
I mean i know your friends said
you weren't doing too well.
I didn't think it was that serious.
You were never doing too well.

My psychologists told me define Regret.
Regret is never getting to apologize to the dead.
Regret is crying more last night
than I did at your funeral.
Regret is ***** after too much alcohol
and not enough prescription.
Regret is the burn marks that don't need cigarettes.
It is knowing I should have picked up
the last time you called.
Because you didn't leave a voicemail.
All you left was your voice.
Empty is the sound of your voice.
Addiction is the sound of your voice.
Recovery can never be the sound of your voice.
Regret is that it used to be.

Have you ever started hanging out with someone new only to begin wondering why you want to bathe in their shampoo and make poetry out of the way their eyebrows look?!
WELL NOT TO WORRY!
I have a few simple steps you can follow to destroy those feelings.

Step 1: Imagine your grandma's lips every time you feel compelled to kiss them! THIS is a surefire way to never want to look at them again. The embarrassment will hit you like a train. Unless you do like to kiss your grandma. In which case: (shrugs)

Step 2: Keep at least 3 feet of distance between you at all times. You will soon become obsessed with the inches between you instead of the warmth of their body on yours. If you get cold, buy a blanket.

Step 3: Leave yourself voicemails until your inbox gets full. That way, when you ignore their calls, you don't have to say "no" to their voice, only to their name on a screen. That's if you even want to respond them at all, because we all know the best way to get out of doing anything is to completely ignore the problem!

Step 4: When your friends start to ask where this person's been, tell them you don't know; even though you've been keeping tabs on their tweets to make sure they're still okay without you. Make up lies to tell your friends. Tell them they left you, so your friends will feel compelled to tell you how they were never good enough for you in the first place and that this will get easier with time. The truth is, that you don't want to talk about them again because their name adds to the clockwork ache of your stomach like you've been skipping meals since their absence.

Step 5: Stop making room for someone who's not coming, stop saving seats for imaginary bodies.

Step 6: Get rid of anything that reminds you of them; your favorite tshirt, the art piece they bought for you hanging above your head board. Matter of fact, get rid of the headboard too. Make your room even emptier without them. Don't let yourself remind you of them either because you'll have to get rid of that too. So start running, change the shape of your body so no one will fit next to you like they did. But just in case, maybe you should just keep running. Don't slow down for anyone.

Step 7: Give yourself a new name. It will get easier to hear from someone else in case they say your old name the way the person you're running from used to. Tell yourself that this is okay because you've been starting to feel like a stranger to yourself anyway.

Step 8: when the house in your chest starts burning down, leave your old self inside it, leave the memory of them inside it. You always talked about how romantic it would be to die together anyway. Wear your smoke drenched lungs like a medal of honor, let it hang from your neck like a noose that snapped from the weight even though you promise you stopped eating your meals without them.

Step 9: hold your own body close at night. Keep the pieces of youself pressed together tightly with your own palms. Don't let their broken ceramic promises crucify your hands, don't make a deity out of them if they're not the ones dying for your sins.

Step 10: Everything is in place. Stand in front of your mirror and try calling yourself by your old name. Recognize the foreign language leaking from your tongue, understand that you have turned yourself into an empty tomb, a massacre disguised as a new body. You never knew pain until this moment, placing your hand on the reflection in front of you knowing you can't even get through to yourself. Ask yourself, was this worth it?

I am working on filling the hollow ache of myself,
extracting the lonely with hands that do not belong to me.
You are my constant reminder of time,
my clockwork heartbeat ticking
with your helpful reassurance
that it is okay to have loose seams.
You pull me tight like boot strings,
placing my sole // soul by your bedside
and never at your back door.
I want to be where you place your feet in the morning,
carry you through your day,
never letting dirt get to your skin.
And if I someday fail to keep you safe from filth,
i will unclench my hands and wash you holy,
baptize you clean from my sins,
let me make a mess of only myself
and pray for your renewal.
Your sun kissed smile begs search of my happy,
reminds me to breathe,
tells me there is life in this oxygen.
You are water,
able to hold up my sinking ship
but still can slip through my fingers if I am not careful.
Your tide controlled by the moon,
is it a thrilled howl or a scream when you see it // me?
Either way my presence beckons quake from your throat
and I can only hope
that it will stay as sweet as the first time i met you.
The small tremble of vocal chords
as existence being born of your tongue;
you make words an easy thing,
can only threaten stutter
dare it to try and damage your speech.
You are smooth like tumbled sea glass,
turning thing handled by hands
into a pendant to wear around my neck;
wanting the world to see you,
never will I want to hide you in my back pocket.
They will ask where I found you,
such a beautiful treasure of body,
and I will tell them
that I did not have to go to the shore to find you,
that the shore found me,
and I was just lucky enough to witness the tide
unravel you into my hands
but it turns out
that I was the one enveloped
by you.

I told my therapist about you the last time i saw her.
She asked me about the time
when “no”
did not have definition,
only used as a syllable,
a filler word,
something to spice up things in the bedroom.

I told her I loved you.
That we had slept together
several times before it happened
and that for some reason
I still stayed with you after.
It happened in the early morning,
before my mind had any time
to wipe the sleep from its creases.
They say that’s best time to work out,
get up early and run
before the body knows what it’s getting itself into.
Maybe I should’ve started running
before my body made itself something
that you wanted to get into.

I haven’t stopped running since.
Dropping numbers on the scale
like my clumsy hands
turned pounds into soap bars
and my sweat made it harder hold on to.
Now my hip bones rub against my skin
in a competition with my ribs
to see who can break through first.

You used to say you liked the way
my edges didn’t feel like edges
but soft good mornings.
But I didn’t want to remind myself anymore
of your
good mornings
and my always mournings,
black sheets covering my face,
my body.
I am the widow at my own funeral
but nobody knew that I died that day.

I didn’t want an open casket,
I didn’t want open anything.
The space between my thighs
felt like valleys,
miles of emptiness
that you saw as potential,
and I only wanted them to be closed shut,
wired together, locked jaw,
I had nothing to say to you.

I didn’t cry when it was over,
when you rested your body on top of mine
laid your head in the crook of my neck
and whispered how much I meant to you.
I made pretend husband and wife,
made pretend love.

I told myself you loved me
that I should’ve been willing
to open myself armory,
a place to leave your weapons,
maybe that’s why I felt bombs in the pit of my stomach,
you felt my bones rattle under your hands
the aftershock of surprise explosions.
Every time you held me,
it was my anxiety
not love
that made me tremble for you,

You said
if you could wake up next to me every morning
you wouldn’t have to drink so much,
just swallow me.
But i promise
if i could
I would drown you,
drain you.
I wanted to leave you empty,
wanted to leave you
the way you left me,
digging my own grave
with hands crumbling
like broken heirlooms;
something that meant a lot to someone
a long time ago.
But it’s been 4 months
and i’m still picking shards of you
out of my skin,
you dug yourself
so deep into my flesh
that I thought you started to become part
of my DNA.
But like the wrong blood type,
my body rejected you
no matter how much I thought
I needed you to survive.

But here I am,
all splintered finger nails surviving,
turning demons into salt piles and burned bones,
forgetting what your name sounds like
when it rolls off my tongue,
forgetting why I ever thought
I needed you in the first place.

Today I woke up
and I was not myself.
I mean, I haven’t known
who I really am in almost two years
so it really shouldn’t have been a surprise.
The splitting of the mind
comes from unforgivable trauma
and weak bodies trying to form apologies.
It doesn’t feel like
different people inside of me
yet
but I have had
different people inside of me
and one of them was
unwelcome.
My fertile grounds
were turned over
maybe for better soil
maybe so I couldn’t see his face
maybe so he could be made Stranger.
My Way or You’re Dead Stranger
I Don’t Care If This Isn’t What You Want Stranger
Tell Anyone And I’ll Deny It Stranger.
I don’t know his name
but his hands ripped my mental
into two different pieces
the way a beggar
reluctantly breaks bread with a wealthy man
even though they both know
the beggar needs it more.
The numbness broke over me
like a cracked egg
and seeped over every inch of my body
until the other half of me
cleaned myself up
and said
“Don’t worry,
I’m here now.
I’ll take care of the pain.”
Last year
I lost three people
in three months
to drugs
and I watched one of them die
from my front porch,
each of their deaths
pulling another piece of my mind
away from the others,
further splitting me
into the million little pieces
I had already been reduced to.
Every drink burning its way down my throat,
every blade fed to my skin
has been a welcoming parade for the different parts of me
trying to drown myself back to normal
thinking that hopefully
the flood would wash myself back together
would wash myself holy
but God, am I so full of holes.
I am so terrified of waking up
because I don’t know who is going to be there when I do.
I don’t need names for them
because they are still me,
they just have the control.
I sometimes feel like the metal claw
being fought over by children
because they can’t choose which stuffed animal they want
and sometimes
no matter how precise they are
no matter how patient they are
sometimes I still miss what they’re looking for
sometimes I never know what they’re looking for.
I am just too broken to keep working.

Today, I am sick.
My mental illness is shaped like a prison
and I am in the waiting room
wanting to ask
"What are you in here for"
like
what kind of crime has your head committed
that you are trying to lock it up
with prescriptions
and weekly meetings filled
with uncomfortable confessions
and numb palms from sitting on your hands for too long.
They say it's like playing in traffic,
a red-light-green-light game
where we beg for help
but don't know how to move
when we're asked to explain how we got here.
Do you even remember
what you're running from anymore?
Tell us about the days
where you can't tell if waking up
is a trench or a hill.
What has your head told you to do
and have you done it?
How did it feel when it was over?
Did your head congratulate you
when you were done?
Did you get a prize
like new scars?
Or three more handles of liquor?
The last time you prayed
did you have trouble unlocking your fingers?
Did the weight of God
keep your hands closed tight
in hopes that you wouldn't forget him
like the last time you saw Him
in the bottom of the pill bottle
and you smiled back?
Everyone here says the word Friday
like it hurts
because we know that the weekend is here
but we just can't seem to feel it.

Today we are sick
and nobody notices because our noses aren't running
we aren't openly bleeding in front of the one's we love
we do it in secret
just in case they ever catch us.
Today, we wanted them to catch us.
Stick out their hands
like a safety net
but it doesn't matter what height we fall from
because bones hitting bones
like a head on car collision
will never feel like warm sheets
blanketing our bodies
but we can't help but wonder
if the sheet they will cover us with
after they find us
will be warm too.

Today we are tired of being sick
tired of waking up looking like police chalk lines
tired of walking into the therapy rooms
like they are our parish
but we're too afraid God might smite us on the way in.
We shouldn't have to flinch
when certain words are said
that pull us back loading gun
but are too weak to pull the trigger.

Today WE are the triggered,
the empty promise of tomorrow being filled
with another prescription
another drink
another list of second hand hope
coming from someone who is probably
still trying to remember what it says.
We would rather tiptoe between eggshells
and take our time
than let you know we are struggling.
We are STRUGGLING.
And it makes us so very tired.

So today I am tired
and I will tell you that
instead of reminding you
that every day I am sick.

In my house
Opposite Day meant
breakfast for dinner.
Food anarchy
in the form of
scrambled eggs bleeding ketchup
and melting the opposition in cheese
while the toast was a golden brown
and the win was spread easy over top of it.
My mother defended our tummies
with sizzling bacon lining our stomach
not allowing any gross vegetables to stake their claim.
I never tell my mom
but I secretly wait to eat until dinner on Opposite Day.
I know I should eat breakfast and lunch
but it’s just one day.
Plus sometimes
it doesn’t feel too bad.

The emptiness of my stomach
allows more room for comfort,
more room for the entrance of someone else.
I’ve always been so full of love
that I can barely eat
and I never really figured out
how to fill myself back up
once they’re gone.
I count those calories
like the table-for-two
that’s only seating one,
like half-empty beds
where I find myself
curled up darkness
to its waning moon,
only to roll over and uncover
its everything light
and I am trying my hardest
not to feel so heavy.

When your parents start to notice
you remind yourself that it’s Opposite Day
and you’re really telling the truth
when the lie comes out as
“I already ate before you got home”
and “no, I promise I’m not hungry”
because you can feel your stomach
devouring itself from the inside-out
and I guess that can count as a meal
when other people’s stares have made you feel
roasted-pig stuffed full with an apple in mouth.
But doesn’t that mean
that even food should eat too?
This is when you become vegetarian;
smaller menu to choose from
and more of an opportunity to say
you can’t eat what mom made for dinner.

When the weight starts slipping
so does your relationship
and he tells you that he blames himself
because at first
he didn’t notice you were shrinking
he just thought you needed some space.
Your skin, molding to your skeleton,
allows him to count each fragment of bone in your hand
as he takes his heart back from you
and all you’re left with
is the sinking feeling in your chest
that started the starving in the first place.

I know this constant, raging war
does not seem like it will ever end in happiness,
only in uncomfortable settling;
but you should remind yourself
that you should not feel guilty
for nourishing your working body,
that these sturdy pillars
cannot remain standing if you keep chipping at the cement
that one day
you will wish to be soft and warm,
not just for a lover
but for a beautiful crying child
who points at the dimensions of a Barbie Doll
and then at her own wonderful body
so you can envelope her in the love
you wish you had back then, too.
you will tell her
that skeletons are meant for the grave
and not for her hands to play with,
she should not find comfort
in the spaces between her ribs
only in the space between your arms.
you will tell her
the soft edges of your hips
are what love feels like,
so if there comes a night
where she has been empty for too long
and all of her battles seem lost,
you should turn on that frying pan
and melt her opposition in cheese,
and spread this first win
over her golden brown toast
and hopefully this will stop the emptiness
from staking its claim anymore.

Before I start,
I want to warn you that I'm not very good at dealing with this kind of thing.
It's been a while since I've thought about you this much.
I tried talking about you the other day,
it didn't really work out so well, I mean
I haven't talked to you in seven years
and even then I never really knew how to explain you.
With your middle name being Patrick,
I celebrated you like you were a Saint
and the entirety of my days were March 17th.
You were all wind chimes and four leaf clovers,
brand new horseshoes and rabbits feet.
I never told anyone what you meant to me
because I never had to.

I knew that things at home were getting bad for you
and you told me you didn't want to talk about it.
But you should have told me when you stopped sleeping,
because I could see the bags under your eyes
like they were carrying your burdens
instead of your shoulders
instead of me.

I started wondering why your boyfriend stopped hanging out with us
but I knew it was because your parents
were giving you black and blue islands as welcoming gifts
and to be frank, I never liked vacationing
so I didn't want to dive into their oceans.
But you cried so often that I could have.

You said
"If I'm gay, why can't I feel like the rainbows
instead of having to explain them?"
I tried to tell you that not everyone knows what to do with a *** of gold when they find it.
So when your parents kept having to take you to the hospital,
that was the only way they knew how to spend the fortune they found.
They spent those gold bricks
buying you therapists who validated your feelings
but pacified your parents by telling them you were "getting better."

But one morning before school,
the phone rang like church tolls.
And my stomach dropped through the floor
and went six feet past the dirt
like it was digging your grave for you
before we even had a service.

On the other end of the line
a woman's voice was broke in half
trembling out the words
"we found him this morning"
like they were her hands reaching for the rope all over again.

Leo, you know how you said you wouldn't break me?
Well my twelve year old heart,
it had broke.
It spilled on the floor like the metal pieces
in the game of jacks
and the ball kept bouncing
but my hands were too clumsy to know how to pick all of myself back up at once.
All of the nerves in my body were malfunctioning
and I swear to God I think I apologized for breathing
because I felt like I was stealing it from you.
The air was all fire and ice,
dancing in my lungs like Armageddon;
the final battle between my breath and yours
and it seems like you lost
but I never won.

It's been seven years since your death
and I still don't feel properly equipped to deal with it yet.
I still haven't finished the letter you addressed to me
and if i'm being honest I can't even get halfway through without crying
or wishing it was me.
But you started it off with
"I am so sorry for breaking you"
and I never made it to the funeral
because I never told my parents you were dead
I just thought it'd be easier to deal with this alone.
But it's been seven years
and I am alone
and I still don't know how to deal with it yet
because you were my *** of gold
and not everyone knows what to do with one when they find it.

It was 3 o'clock in the morning
and everything hurt.
There were ads for some movie I now vowed never to see
because I saw the freckles on your face in every dot above the "i",
I saw your arms spread eagle
the last time I saw you yelling
in every lower case "t",
I saw myself in every capital and lowercase "P"
because I can't remember
how many sentences I started or ended with "please"
and just in case
I wanted to cover all ground.
Not like spreading myself across the cement
because I don't quite want to jump,
but you were the only rooftop I've ever visited
that I haven't felt the urge to leap off of.

You, with the soft heart and heavy tongue,
you with the debatable blueprints but wonderful execution,
you with the kaleidoscope eyes and binoculars in hand.
I saw the potential of how much I could fall in love with you;
you didn't have to be the building with the most windows,
you didn't have to be that small flower shop
with the butterfly stickers next to the bank,
you didn't have to be the mistletoe
in the middle of a dimly lit street.  
You just had to be the rooftop to show me it was there.

But when the depression hit,
you locked the door
and I was stuck in the stairwell
staring through the windowpane,
trying to remember what the streetlights looked like in the dark
but you were so certain that everything shut off when you did
and you didn't want me to be sad too.
I tried to remind you
that when the sun comes up again,
everything will still be there,
everything will come alive in the morning
you just have to stay intact long enough to see it.
But I couldn't stay awake long enough to stop you from crumbling.

I woke up to rubble,
yellow police tape and detectives,
crowbars prying your locked door open.
I got invested
and now I'm being investigated
and interrogated
and "WERE YOU THE ONE WHO PUT THE BOMBS HERE".
No sir,
I only told him I couldn't stay awake for him.
I didn't mean to make him think
that I would rather be unconscious
than watch him self-destruct,
I just meant I felt comfortable enough
to wait until he opened the door for me again.
But he can't now.

And I can't lock my doors anymore.
"Aren't you afraid of what you'll let in?"
I'm more afraid of what's being let out.
Your ghost follows me around
and is far too large to fit through the dog door,
and I don't want to look at you when you leave.
So I stay right where I am,
sitting on top of my roof
but your cement blocks will never feel the same
as my slate shingles.
I would rather be made rubble by your ruin
than made shelter for someone else.
When I shut down,
the streetlights are still on,
that means the sun will rise
and I with the heavy heart and soft tongue,
I with flawless blueprints but too anxious to start,
I with the color-blind eyes and microscope in pocket,
will try again in the morning
to not look so much like the police lines you left.

I always had trouble with my keyboard.
Some of the letters were too tight and never moved,
you had to slam them in order to get the words you wanted
and even the most sincere love letter
could sound like a strongly worded email to the nearest Costco
because you found that same 3 pound box of popcorn at Walmart for like 50 cents cheaper.

But the other keys were loose and fell out,
I always put them back on
but I always seemed to lose U.
It was like no matter how much I put U back together
U always fell on the floor.
My friends all urged me to forget about it
and get myself a new keyboard,
they said "come on Alyssa,
you know you need something that stays longer than a few weeks"
but I was too scared that the price of finding something new
outweighed my frustration for picking U up
and just putting U back together again.

Sometimes I wish U could be tough,
that way I didn't have to be terrified of breaking U
if I didn't feel gentle that day,
in case I really was writing that strongly worded email to Costco.
Because there are days when I am not soft and warm,
when I feel more like the lawn mower than the soft grass underneath of it.
Some days I feel like ripping out the X on my keyboard
because it has not moved once since I got it
and replacing it with U
just so U could finally stay where I put it
even if it meant I didn't use U anymore.
At least I would always know
U wouldn't move without my permission.
But that would mean that X would be falling out of place,
and God knows that I need to keep my X's where they belong.

But this isn't about the X,
and this wasn't about U,
this was about my inability to change
and my constant fear of imminent loneliness.
You see I'm not so afraid of being alone,
but feeling lonely scares the living hell out of me
so I would rather find someone broken and patch them up,
make sure they need me a lot more than I need them
so I know they won't leave first,
than find someone who has all of their pieces
and is capable of staying intact without my help.
That is the one who knows that they are so much better without me,
that I am just dead weight
and I am more likely to cause their death by drowning them
than helping them swim to shore.

But for Christmas I asked for a gift card to Best Buy
so I could buy myself a new keyboard.
I just hope I'm strong enough
to throw U out
when it gets here.

"There's comfort at the bottom of a swimming pool,
I'm holding my breath for you."
....except i'm not.
You are the shallow end of my pool;
dangerous if i dive head-first.
You tried to warn me before I jumped
but you forgot to show me your signs
and I never asked.
I just assumed you had more depth.
It was like you were trying to get me to drown for you
so you could save me
but you can't be the ****** weapon
and the search party,
you can't be the car crash
and the paramedics,
you can't be the flatline
and the CPR.

You are the reason the lakes at my summer camp
have signs that say "Look Before You Jump"
because there could be creatures down there
that you don't want to touch you
but you are the deep sea monster
that National Geographic didn't want to discover.
They cower in the corner of their bedrooms
when they dream of what you're capable of.
You can swim among the krill
but still scare away the whales that eat them.
You had the ability to hold up my sinking ship
but you could still slip through my fingers like tap water.

I ******* want to kiss you sometimes
and others I really do want concrete
between you and my skin
like the small bridge next to my house
almost as if you are the babbling lake
and I am the jogger at 6 am.
The sun isn't quite up yet
but you haven't stopped creating noise in my head
since the moment I crossed your path.
I remember the reflection of the sunrise in your body
and the beautiful shade of pink you turned
when I tried to take a picture of it.
I was a little too out of breath to stay much longer
but you were quick to remind me that you'd be here again tomorrow morning
but I think I slept in and missed you.

I don't hold my breath for you anymore
because I'm no longer drowning.
I am not submerged in the Sea of You;
the tangled tendrils of your seaweed have let my ankles go
and I am free to swim back to land.
And although I know I haven't been to the ocean in weeks,
sometimes I still find sand in my hair,
sometimes I still feel the waves crashing over my head.

1) I am not quite heart broken, but I am something adjacent. I felt as if i stole you away from your body, stole you away from the things that you are comfortable with. I felt guilty and angry that I was the one that you chose to be your first. You were not ready for this and i could feel your body trembling underneath of me as if in agreement to what i was thinking but i let it happen anyway. If there was any way that i could go back and reverse what happened and never meet you in the first place, i would do it in a heartbeat. Because i broke your heart and i was your first.

2. I can still feel your eyes on me when we were driving to the funeral and the way it made me shift my weight in my seat. I wanted to explain that sometimes your love made me uncomfortable but I looked at you and all I saw was him. I choked on the letters rising out of my throat and you told me to pull over so you could drive. You said "you look like you've seen a ghost or something"

3. When you left, you changed your phone number. Now someone else has your ten digits. Digits as in numbers or fingers? Either way, no one else will ever be good enough to hold your hand.

4. Scar tissue can become your literal walls you put around yourself if you try hard enough. Those pink raised lines call for more fabric, less body movement, trying to remain a statue so people can't figure out what you're hiding. But your ceramic frame is far too willing to show your cracks.

5. I drink every night so I can forget you. After you die, your bones take up to 50 years to disintegrate. So for half a century after I stop feeling you on my skin, my bones will still contain you.

6. You twist and crack your back to replicate what it would feel like to snap it, and it scares you to know that it only always feels like relief rather than pain.

7. I am the empty seat in the front of the classroom, everyone notices when I'm vacant but nobody wants to fill me up.

8. When you started taking out the screws that held me together, i grasped onto my structure for dear life as my walls and windows swayed. I turned into the Leaning Tower of Pisa as my frame settled lopsided, too eager to fall with one more blow. I became a tourist attraction with people who come to find out why i don't stand up straight anymore, why i tilt my paper to the side so i can write in a straight line, why i never seem to see things the right way. People take pictures of them feigning to be the reason why I'm so crooked with their arms extended as if they were the ones who pushed me. But they will never know why i look the way i do until they see your hands, dirtied with the rust of bolts.

9. I may be in pieces but please do not take me in moderation.

10. I am the kind of tired that sleep can't fix. My sadness is so heavy that it's hard to keep my eyelids open. I think that even if i slept forever I could still never be satisfied. I am never whole.

You are the spectacle of love that I am trying to forget.
But somehow i can't get your image to be removed from my brain
like it was branded on the inside of my eyelids.
All I ever saw was you.
You made flowers grow in my lungs
and although they are beautiful
it's getting a little too hard to breathe.
I am asthmatic
so when I started to wheeze,
you lit a cigarette so I could become addicted to that too.
I never knew I could need nicotine
until it came from under your tongue,
a numberless cigarette lit twixt your fingers,
burning like the bridges
between your heart and mine.
You started to need the tobacco
a lot more than you needed me
and your body frame started to dwindle
because i was not enough to keep you stable.
I blame myself
because at first I didn't notice that you were shrinking
I just thought you needed some space.
Your skin became tighter,
your knuckles turning so white
I couldn't tell if it was your bones
but I could still count each fragment with clear definition.
That night i buried my heart in your backyard,
like a dog trying to save a treat for next spring,
but I never came back for it.
It's been three months
and i'm still picking shards of you out of my skin.
You dug yourself so deep into my flesh
that you almost became a part of my DNA.
But just like the wrong blood type
my body rejected you
no matter how much i thought i needed you to survive.
But my mother did not raise me
with a wolf in my chest
so i can howl every time i lost you.
You are not the moon,
you are not the sun.
And i am not a flower.
I need more than warmth to get me out of bed in the morning.
This world is not a garden
and you are not the rain.
You do not decide when i get to be loved.

Don't tell me about Long Distance.
I have known Long Distance
since the day I saw you waving out of the back window of that silver Prius.
The snow banks insulating my car
because i spent the last 47 hours with you
and held you while you cried
because you weren't ready to leave for the marines yet.
But your body said other wise,
your muscles sharp and deadly.
It's been a while since you've written,
and it's been 8 months since my blankets have stopped smelling like you.
I couldn't help but notice
the way my body drowns in these sheets
because you were my life vest
but you were not there when i jumped in.
I looked back at the dock before my head went under
and i saw you just sitting there,
watching me struggle.
I tore you apart in my head
every single strand of thread and love was separated
until every bit of silence that was woven in has been exposed.
But these strands don't hold any value when you're drowning,
what I have done is destroyed the only thing that could give me buoyancy.
Now I am left with extra weight on these shackles
i bear and water filling up my lungs
like a measuring cup to a recipe from Hell's kitchen.
In your last letter you asked
"Are we okay?"
but you don't just tell someone you love them then let them drown.
I have known Long Distance since you came back home today.
You are so close to me
but I still feel like you are not present.
There is something to be said
about missing someone who is right next to you.
Usually it is the person at home
who gives up on the one in the military,
but you found your home inside of those bunks and those guns.
You have only taught me to never make homes out of human beings.
I have to keep reminding myself
that you are a woman to never be slowed down
because you will leave everyone else behind
and I never wanted to come last to you
but i never wanted to beat you either.
I have known Long Distance
when I reach my hand out
and you've always been just slightly out of my grasp.
You were a goal to work towards,
a beautiful woman sitting on a pedestal waiting to be won
and I've always been too inadequate to be the one to have you.
You are the Epitome of Long Distance,
and I have known you for much longer than I would have liked.

God doesn't hear you unless you say things out loud.
So if you talk about how great the weather's been lately
and the next day it rains,
it's not called a jinx
its a joke.
Our God is known to punish
more than forgive
so it's no coincidence
that after I told you I loved you
that you left.

I never knew that God could be so ruthless
until I watched the days pile up without you here.
You are the clothes carelessly thrown on my floor,
the empty bottles on my night desk,
my wrinkled sheets that are never smoothed out.
You are a burden
but something i cannot bare to part with
in fear that i'll need you once you're gone.

If i iron my sheets
i'll miss the indents they made on my body
but i'll miss your body more.
Your absence has created a void
that can never be filled,
an empty crate that's too small for books
but too big for my words,
a hollow sorry with enough tears to fill up a baby pool
but not enough to drown me in.

It's been 42 days since we've last spoken
and I can still hear your sigh in the back of my head.
But God only hears you when you speak
so when I whispered Hello,
He arranged for a Goodbye.
I've never been good at them,
I always stutter when the words start leaving my throat
like the letters are ripping their way out of my chest.
No wonder why it keeps throbbing
because it seems that I have a gaping hole inside of me.

I've tried to right myself with the wrong people,
the wrong ***,
the wrong drinks,
and usually i'm left feeling emptier than i started
which is hard to do
seeing as though i'm always vacant.
I've started to become concave,
allowing more room for others
and I can't help but continue to apologize for the space I occupy.
Someone once told me
that i make a better door than window
and I wonder if it's because when you look at me
you can see it's always raining on the other side.

God can only hear you if you speak
so that's why I breathe my words
in fear that if i say them too loudly
He might make them shatter.
The broken shards of syllables
and chipped letters of your name
falling gracefully around me;
raining down like a slow motion hurricane.
I thought about grabbing on to your vowels
but you vowed to never make me bleed
so i stuffed my hands back in my pockets
only find your broken ceramic promises
digging deep into my palms.
I felt crucified and wondered
if one day Jesus would tell everyone
that I died for their sins.

Give me your poor,
your weak,
your sick
and your ******
and i will find a way to make them live forever.
Scream their names into the sky,
fracture the clouds with their stories.
Make the lightning bolts crumble
before ever leaving their homes
to give God an accurate representation
of what it feels like to want to die every morning.
Because I have crumbled long before the lightning,
long before the fractures in the clouds,
long before the names being thrown into the sky.
I have known the days
before silence became almost as excruciating as the screams
because God only hears you when you speak.

I felt time slow down, but it was a gradual shift. Like the ceiling fan that was previously on high suddenly being turned off but the blades continue to spin from sheer momentum. From the moment the alcohol hit my system, I thought about you. I lose sleep waiting for you to talk to me, but I've found a graveyard in this home. The only beings still awake with me are the ones you could see the through, people or ghosts. I would sleep better on your floor than I ever could in my bed. Treat me like your dog and I will gladly beg for your crumbs. This is hungry work and I should have worshiped you sooner. You've got molds of your hand prints on the sidewalk out front of your house and I think that's why you are so similar to the concrete. You preserve precious memories in the form of tangible keepsakes while staying completely solid. But I know that if I were to be concrete, I would crack myself apart just to let the smallest flowers grow because I have kept too many things buried when they needed to be said. I am the Queen of the Bitten Tongue, I have permanent divots on my taste buds, the words crowd around my teeth like plaque and I think that's why I started carrying floss with me every where I go so I could pick out the words that threaten to stain them. I'm glad my braces fixed the gap or else you would know a lot more than you should because the letters would drip out like a leaky faucet; word by word until they filled up the sink and have no choice but to over flow because these words will never go down smooth. They have thorns covering their every edge so when you hear them, they rip your eardrums to pieces. Leaving no part of you unaltered. I never wanted to hurt you so that's why I'm so quiet. Sometimes after speaking, I find it hard to stop my mouth from bleeding but it usually gets swallowed just like my pride. I would kiss your scars for the rest of time even if they were still open but you're so good at being closed off from me. I'm tired of taking your detours, having to turn around because the bridge to your heart is down due to construction but I never ordered any materials for this project. So who is the one working on your heart? My concrete queen, I would kiss your feet like the pavement you provide, take endless road trips down your winding roads but I'm afraid of the *** holes that I get stuck in constantly. You have no idea how unproductive it is to fall in and out of you as often as I do. I'm addicted to the pain of falling into you, but I wouldn't mind crashing into your sheets as long as I can have the throne next to you.

I was a part of my own Secret Ops, seeking out shelter from affection. I do not need to be held but you are compromising my position. Every time you kiss my neck my heart goes off to the point where I can be detected on a sonar transmission and the last thing I need is for others to find me. I notice the small details of love when I'm around you, the way you rub circles into my thumb when you hold my hand as if you were winding up my heart beats like a child's toy so it can keep beating even after you're gone, how you run your fingers through my hair like it was sand on a beautiful beach and you just want to watch it slip between them, or how you smile after you kiss me like the whole world melted around you and the only thing left standing was me. But I did not ask for this, I was undercover when you tried to capture me. You rescued me once but I thanked you for that, I didn't know that you were still expecting gratitude. Do not be mistaken, I do not mind being the choice of lust because I will dive into those endeavors with you if give me the map, but I do not want this to be confused with the roads of love. I fear that this may end with twisted perspectives, and I never want to break your heart. I've found comfort in your presence for nearly a decade now and for that comfort to turn into discord would be a tragedy. I don't want to fall into anything with you other than your sheets, if you take my hand and plant kisses on me like flower seeds, maybe I'll start to grow on you but for now I enjoy my gardens in the ground so I can walk away without tearing out the roots.

Your feigned approval of me for the last few years has always been the root of my destruction. When you started taking out the screws that held me together, i held onto my structure for dear life as my walls and windows swayed. I turned into the Leaning Tower of Pisa as my frame settled lopsided, too eager to fall with one more blow. I became a tourist attraction with people who come to find out why i don't stand up straight anymore, why i tilt my paper to the side so i can write in a straight line, why i never seem to see things the right way. People take pictures of them feigning to be the reason as to why I'm so crooked with their arms extended as if they were the ones who pushed me. But Dad, they will never know why i look the way i do until they see your hands, dirtied with the rust of bolts and gun powder from placing these last bombs around me. I thought construction was over but i see it was just on remission, just a residual case of building. Of course you must return to finish the job. Welcome, dad, i know you've got the blue print on just how exactly to destroy me. You've set one bomb off tonight, how long until you release the others?

I love you
but you are not medicine.

You are not 21, college did not grant you 3 more years of life. Please be careful, this is my body too.
2. If you have come across beautiful minds to explore, don't be so quick to build a home yet. Start with a tent. And if they help you pitch it, things will be less likely to unravel.
3. On the first day, pack up your tent just in case. Because you are never the only being in a forest.
4. Don't bring a map, build one. Ask to explore the mountains and valleys and hills of them. Tell them it's for your geography project.
5. Don't really have a geography project.
6. When you come across a river, there will be no bridge. Others who have traveled here have probably turned back. Shock them, and swim.
7. People may try to stop you, but remember they may be the ones who don't know how to continue. Not everyone you meet is a blessing.
8. Not everyone you lose is a loss.
9. Listen to your mom, she's been through this before. Even though you are characteristically different, college is always the same.
10. If you find yourself missing someone who doesn't miss you, remind yourself that that is not love, that's co-dependence.
11. The difference between love and co-dependence is that one of them will burn you.
12. Love will never start the fire.
13. You don't need to be an architect to build your walls around you. Some people will tell you that you need blue prints but my father never once looked at directions and he created your home.
14. Don't bring the problems of your home with you. Nobody wants to see those shackles. Find the key, unlatch yourself, and run.
15. I know you are tired, but this is the way.
16. Keep your room clean. The clothes on your floor hold on to stress. If you keep everything in order, life will stay intact.
17. Know when to speak. Sometimes words are not as necessary as actions.
18. Step in love with yourself because if you fall, that means you have to find strength to get back up. Always keep yourself upright.
19. You are a universe in yourself, a crowded nebula of light. It's okay to get lost in yourself, because you will be immersed in the stars.

I have this theory that when you're born, you have a blank heart and God writes something on it like Happy or Sad or Angry and that's who you are. But I was born three weeks early because I think God wanted to write something on me so badly that He just couldn't wait. He thought he was so **** clever so He called me out early and wrote Unknown on my heart. I imagine Him laughing, drunk off wine telling everyone at the gates to look down and watch me fumble around trying to figure out what the **** He meant by it. Was I meant to be the laughing stock of the Gods? Or were they so unaware of my path that they didn't try to give me a predetermined one? Was God slurring "**** it, she'll figure it out"? I'm like a puppet with the strings cut, I don't know how to properly function without some guidance. But when God happens, no one really knows what to do, and that's why we have to pray. Because if God doesn't listen to us, then who will?

I apologize in advance for the ash swirling in the wind, but this morning i woke up and clutched your name with such reckless devotion that it turned to dust. Every syllable fell to the floor. I tried to reconcile my wounds but the infections are swelling like the tide. I wish this melancholy would come like the waves so my body could stop feeling so dehydrated. I never wanted that girl to break your heart, only to hand it back to me. She stood on ground previously reserved for my feet. I don't hate her, but i can't be her friend. I loved your hands that were so thin but trained to destroy life. Particularly mine every time they brushed by my body without stopping to linger. You thought of every stop sign as a yield so that explains why you were always in a rush but never why you were constantly late. I've always waited for you. You know I hate being late but i don't mind walking in and being the cause of turned heads with you. You've smoothed out my complexion because i don't experience anxiety with you so my worry lines have disappeared. The only breaking out I've done is coming out of my shell because you taught me to live life with the sunshine in my face rather than fluorescent light bulbs. The artificial suns never seem to be turned on in my room because i only wanted you with the lights off. Not because I'm afraid of my body but because I don't need light to memorize your every shape and contour. Like a blind man learning Braille, i wanted to spend hours memorizing you so i could read you properly. When you came back your body was a different shape, rougher, more defined. And when i asked to sharpen up my memory of you, you turned away and i think thats why i had trouble reading your letters because your Braille required something new to continue. But i dont come with upgrades or new technology every time you come back, i am the same as before. Like Windows 4 i am starting to run slower than the last time you saw me and a few things have become unrecognizable even to myself so when you asked me what's new my brain started yelling ERROR 404 and i broke down.  No doctor, no repairman, not even you knew how to put me back together again and i felt like Humpty Dumpty and you were the king who sent all of the horses and all of the men. But what i would give to be your queen. Sit beside you in a throne and have portraits painted of you and i until there were halls and ballrooms filled of us. I wanted to carve pictures into all of the vertebrae in my back but i realized you took my spine with you when you left. You unfortunately left my heart untouched which made it ache more because you have never hurt me. Although I wanted you to **** me so i had a reason to hate you but i cant help but resent you every time you say my name with no love at all. You've always protected me, but safety is your only concern especially because i am not beautiful enough to cause a rupture in your make up, not even a quicker pace of your heart beats were produced when you saw me. I wanted to anatomically break you down and rewire your nerves so the next time i held your hand your only response would be to hold on so tight that only the jaws of life could tear us apart. But the jaws of life dont seem as terrifying as your hands leaving on their own. But now they're thousands of miles away and my heart was left in tact but it's slowly tearing itself to pieces without you here.

I drank from you like wine
Engorging myself with the sins of another
But the thing about alcohol is the more you drink the thirstier you feel
I became so dehydrated i was bedridden with sadness
I wished this melancholy would come in waves
So i could find the water my body needed
But i only felt satisfied empty
Which was okay because you took more of me than i anticipated
So I'm left feeling antiquated
And i think i make a better ghost than human being
But today i woke up and decided that your face and name would no longer make me sad
But i never said it'd make me feel whole either

It's been 3 months since you've had a cigarette and you're doing just fine. The Marines whipped you into shape and you've lost ten pounds since i last saw you. Your muscles have been trained to be lethal and i think i would let you **** me if you had the chance. But you've kicked the habit and now your body no longer craves the daily dose of nicotine it so desired for a year. I never wanted to be your cigarette, you only used me when you were bored and stomped on me to finish me off when your lips couldn't. I only wanted to be your drugs, let you die for me. But it seems you've kicked that habit too. Now I'm not sure where i belong because your lungs seem so much stronger without me.

I want to put you back together again
Piece by piece.
I want the struggle of not knowing where things go
And i want the victory of finally making you whole.
But you are more than just a game
You are the shattered fragments of a glass vase
That i vowed to return back to its original state before mother gets home.
You are the superglue sticking to my fingers making this messier than it should be.
You are that small shard of glass i stepped on after i thought i picked up everything.
You are my constant reminder to breathe.
You are my constant reminder of battle.
You we my constant reminder of time.

I know you're tired
But come, Love, this is the way.
You've endured too much.

If you disappear
I will never ask where you went.
Your absence will not cause me pain,
Only pleasure.
I promised that this would be the last time,
And i never break promises.

Never have I wanted to use your body like a piano until now,
play it vigorously until it breaks.
I don't know many chords
but the effort could be beautiful.
I could become devoted to your keys,
your sounds,
the difference between your sharps and flats.
I've learned to take pride in simplicity,
like three notes coming together to sing your moan.
Was it the right keys or an accident?
I've heard symphonies made out of you,
but i am still unaware of how to make you play for me.
My hands aren't big enough to play you properly,
there is always one key missing.
No matter how carefully i play,
I find it difficult to produce the same melody twice.
You were never meant to be replayed.
Instead, you are captured in one vast fleeting moment
praying to be heard by the ears of the restless
in hopes of making them complete once more.
But how can you yearn for the wholeness of others
if you will not fill me up first.
I long to fill this room with your music,
I want to hear you just one last time.

After you die, your bones take up to 50 years to disintegrate.
So for half a century after I stop feeling you on my skin,
my bones will still contain you.

Today it rained inside of me

It's been a while since you've written,
and it's been 3 weeks since my blankets have stopped smelling like you.
I couldn't help but notice the way my body drowns in these sheets
because you were my life vest but you were not there when i jumped in.
I looked back at the dock before my head went under
and i saw you just sitting there, watching me struggle.
I tore you apart in my head
every single strand of thread and love was separated
until every bit of silence that was woven in has been exposed.
But these strands don't hold any value when you're drowning,
what I have done is destroyed the only thing that could give me buoyancy.
Now I am left with extra weight on these shackles i bear
and water filling up my lungs like a measuring cup
to a recipe from Hell's kitchen.
In your last letter you asked "Are we okay?"
but you don't just tell someone you love them then let them drown.