I was writing in my notebook while it rained on the pages.
People laughed at me as they walked by,
but that is okay.
I am very tired of having to be strong.
But mostly
I am just tired.

And: I want to go home. Home is quiet,
and there is patience. And
real love. And open ears.
I would bake and cry and
watch old movies and
use fancy skincare products and
walk outside and
drive too fast.

Also: I can’t do this again.
I am strands away from
completely unraveling.
I am now a closed book.
I
will
not
subject myself to this again.

I don’t want to be here anymore.

Rag-doll memories tucked gently behind sunburned ears,
uncertainty flashing its knowing smirk around every corner,
with understanding growing in easy silence,
as steam rises from the midnight pavement.

I hate nightmares.
The eyelids set the perfect backdrop
for those heinously colorful, all-encompassing
scenes of dread,
of heartbreak, anger, pain.
Only released from their iron grip
by the sound of fear escaping
from sleep-parted lips.

To feel cold sweat
beading between tired chest bones
pooling in the valleys of your clavicle.

To bolt upright,
screaming helplessly at the nightshade phantoms still lingering
in the dusty corners of your vision.

To wake up alone,
craving anyone (or anything)
that can hush your trembling body and tell you
you’re alright,
you’re alright,
you’re alright.

I wish I could have done more.
I should have hopped a plane this summer to see you.
Helped you pour your husband water with olives
and tell him it was *****.

Crawl into the soft
dark arms of lo__.
She’ll still your heart with nostalgia,
and silence your thoughts
with her mournful wail
that roars like an avalanche.
You deserve to be here, holding her hand.
Her presence is a bottomless comfort
but it scares you to death.
Focus on her amber eyes
to remember who you are.

d__’s fingers move slowly down my spine
tracing over each vertebrae with malicious intent,
his bluish lips curling into an empty smile.
He smells of hurricanes
and something putrid I can’t describe.

A vicious cycle is tough to break, he whispers,
in a voice that scrapes behind my eyes.
The stars aren’t out tonight, and I am afraid.