I’m drowning in this night.
Please give me a jot of joy
turn on the light
to spurn this blight
I’ve gone overboard
send me a buoy.

I’m trying to keep my feelings close
But now you send me the link of the song and it goes
On and on about a girl that you met -
It’s too much of a coincidence to not be about me

If it was a year ago, i would’ve been ecstatic
But now here i am, fighting the urge to run
From a man that could hold my heart too tight
And reopen all the scars
That are far too recently healed

“You have to move, get up.”
“I don’t want to.”
“This is sad you need to get over yourself.”
“I’m broken, and I don’t think I can be fixed.”
“Then fake it. Get up and put on a smile.”
“It hurts too much; I just want to cry.”
“No crying! It’s not worth it.”
“But I just can’t let go…”
“You have to move on. It’s the only way.”
“Please, all I want is five minutes to let it all out.”
“You’re pathetic. Fine. Five minutes.”
“Thank you,” said the heart.
“You’re welcome,” said the mind.
And the heart and mind cried together.
Just for five minutes.

My heart screams
I love you
My head interjects
F**k him

i never used to smoke
but since you left,
it’s the only time i can seem to breathe

this is why I'm so careful not to catch feelings,
not to meet someone like you.

I knew I wasn't ready (I'm still not)

but now you're gone and I'm wondering
     where you are
     what you're doing
     if you've met someone better than me yet

m a y b e
may be
may (i) be
i (may) be
may i (be) May
(May): spr(i)ng and flowers and bees
(be)es
be (sweet)
be (here)

may i just be
may there always be room for me
between may and be.

i have paid the fines
of dozens of overdue library
books i never finished reading.
i love reading.
i love curling up
in a big leather armchair
while the sun reaches out
to me through the window
as time slows
and my coffee grows cold.
but tolstoy and fitzgerald
sit on my shelves
or in my purse
carried everywhere
and collecting dust.
i can see the silhouette
of who i would like to be.
the curve of her hips
the stillness of her limbs.
she grows her own herbs
and tries out new recipes
while her husband is at work.
she doesn’t mind driving
for hours alone
and enjoys singing
along to the radio
going five under the speed limit.
she is not in a hurry.
she is proud
and sure
and poised.
she reads books and returns
them on time.
she gave up on dreaming
and hoping
and longing
and finally began
living.

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't