actually, my mother never told me about boys like you. she never said anything about boys at all. all i knew is that i had to be careful around them. she never told me that their "i love yous" are just words and not metaphors they see in your eyes. she never told me that them kissing you is just to **** your soul out and leave you dry. empty. desolate. and she sure as hell never told me that their hugs are only so they could play checkers on your spine. you see, some of us have allowed others to come in through the front and out through the back and well, your heart is the front door and you're so distorted they backslide out the same way they came in. he should've said good morning and never good night. he should've never sat down, he broke the chairs. you see, you're just standing on ice and your problems weigh too ******* much. you should've told him that seat wasn't for him. you should've told him it's been used and used and used and now it's worn out. you should have warned him that you haven't been taking care of yourself lately and the books you've collected throughout the years are filled with pollen. you should have told him that the footprints on the floors aren't of those who have fallen in love with you but rather have come in and walked all over you. when you introduced him to your mother, you should have noticed that no he wasn't smiling, he was smirking. and also, you should have noticed that your mother wasn't trembling because she was happy for you but rather because she feared for you. when you walked off with him, you should have n,oticed when he started rubbing your back and he never ******* held your hand. you should've noticed when you were aching in bed, you were actually dreaming about yourself. you're aching now aren't you. AREN'T YOU. my mother never warned me about boys like those. she never told me that they come inside you and play hopscotch on the bed sheets. you should've noticed the first time he told you he loves like a playground. you should've noticed when he said he loves playing "Don't Step On The White Tiles." you should've noticed when he told you he spent his lifetime playing board games. oh what does your heart print look like now?

I remember overhearing at the tennis game
  "I always take painkillers, I can't seem to get
                 the doctor to prescribe anything else
            and I never sleep, and so with my morning
              coffee, I slip some liquor in it
                      and take some Anadin, as simple as that."
      I sat and listened. Just in earshot.
            "It just calms me down and sets me off for the day."
              I see her take out a flask.
               Opening the lid she breathes in.
             "And days like this," she giggles.
         "I bring extra."
     Both the women now giggle
             I smile
              maybe this will work for me.

                    That night I went home and straight
                       to the medicine cabinet
                they sold paracetamol in tubs of hundreds
                   I was only 14
                   I'd only take a handful at a time
         not enough to harm me
                    little enough to go unnoticed
                         I felt the rush even before I took them
                         I still have the journal from that time
                   an off-balance teenager who never fit in
                         a longing for freedom so deep
                      maybe this could give me the wings
                             to fly.

© Sia Jane

what if i told you that
that there are parts of my life 
that move slower 
because you're not in them?

what if i told you that I'm broken and my brain refuses to function,
since you changed?

being broken by you is like reading a story to a deaf child
expecting a smile
or a laugh
or a round of applause
but all that is returned
is a dead stare.

it's like looking for the sunlight in the middle of the night.

it's like playing the piano to a deaf man
in hopes that he'll finally hear,
playing- until your fingers are broken
because all he did was fall asleep.

being broken by you feels like calling your father, who had abandoned you,
for the last time on your 18th,
hoping he'll answer your last call,
but all you heard was: "sorry this number is no longer in service"

it's like repeating your favourite song over and over and over again
because for some reason you're always missing your favourite line.

and i look for you in missed calls and new text messages.
look for you through doorways,
hoping you'll walk through them
saying you're sorry,
and I'd say "It's okay",
as I always did.

being broken is a mother,
telling her son who has turned to drugs and gun to come home,
and he'll look through the window,
but he never opens the door.

he finally does, with a gunshot wound in his chest.
and words rolling of his tongue;
"mommy, I'm sorry"

being broken is me telling you to come home,
indicating to you that I, am home,
but you keep running past the door.

But i pray to God,
that you'll get tired
and stop running
and come home.