Somebody I loved once gave me a box of darkness, wrapped in promises and lies. A box of immortal suffering that can never be beaten or killed, only held, soft and steady, through a world of blinding bleaching sun rays, this box of darkness holds so much of this baffling and mystifying reality. Somebody I loved once gavee a box of darkness, heavy with deceitful traumas of years past I hardly remember, and I carry these burdens, this box of sorrows inescapable. Somebody I loved once gave me a box of tired and twisting hope through cracked roads and that ******* sun, scorching and glaring and revealing in ways even the shadows of cardboard corners can't hide. Agonies of rage and terror, shattered years of fear and hiding from everything and everyone, but no matter where inside this box you look, there you are, and no matter where you go, where you turn, where you look, a weight strapped to your chest can't be outrun no matter how fast it starts to tick. Somebody I loved once gave me a box of their darkness, and I strapped in, threw my own **** inside, and resented that nobody helped me carry it. I still carry this box of darkness, mine and his and yours and theirs, darknesses that, even illuminated, still cast so many shadows on every part of who I am while I wonder where the ******* spotlight is, not realizing. Never realizing. If I can't bear to face my shame, why should anyone else?

i have so many idealized words for you
for your soul
for the way my heart sings louder
than any guitar, and softer
than the whispers
of early summer winds in the trees around you
as your fingers
pluck notes
that tell of times i can't put my finger on
but still sound like home,
and yet this skip in my breath
when i see you, even in my dreams
feels so indescribable,
as old as time and twice as unforgiving.
i can see years of feeling
in the way your body curls
around the guitar,
all of your memories
as plain for me
to see
as the burning soul in your eyes.
the sun bathes you in secrets
and i knew then,
it's always been you.

I close my eyes and I can feel the notes flow through my blood. My heart beats faster, my breath catches, every nerve in my body simultaneously more alive than ever and decelerating to match a sultry voice that sings of slowing down.  
I close my eyes and I see my grandfather, young. A fire, smoke billowing into the night, smooth tapping toes and closed eyes and a soul that knows more than it ever wanted to, a soul that sings secrets effortlessly to those receptive enough to hear them. Hands that move like water, burned into my eyelids, a voice decadent and rough that soaks into my skin and the sound tears me away into a reality I was never a part of, but always dreamed of. Smooth, soft, full of laughter, full of longing, full of feeling. Full of soul. Tapping toes, tapping hearts, tapping fingers on fret boards for listening ears and listening souls.

how i envy the sun on the days it hides away.
clouds dark enough to trick the streetlights into flickering on
layer themselves across the sky
and rain pours down,
giving everything it touches an opportunity
for a fresh breath and a new start.
drench my soul and let me emerge anew,
whole,
unbroken,
cleansed.
chill my skin and flood my heart
until it stops beating
and start it again with lightning,
i am your muse
your music
that you dance to in the pouring rain
and the lightning that starts your heart again.
trapped behind your eyelids in a distant memory
cars honking and speeding down a motorway far from here
is where you'll find me;
dancing in the rain.

All I know how to write are metaphors.
Metaphors about starry night skies
and infinities and galaxies
and delving deep into myself
to find something nobody's ever known,
**** that.
My metaphors are stupid
and confusing.
Just like me.
My metaphors never make any sense-
just like me.
My metaphors are the bane of my ******* existence
because they're the only way
I know how to express myself
and I can't help but wonder
if that's because I never want anybody
to know how I'm actually feeling,
full of crypticity
my metaphors tell your realities
to go straight to hell,
man, you mean you want people
to understand you?
What's that all about?
Don't you enjoy only being able
to write your poems about
being shrouded in smoke that hides your guilt
and about bathing in moonlight
and being infinite
and inhaling the stardust of my peers,
what the **** does that even mean?
I grew up learning to go after
what I want
and as far as I'm concerned, it's a problem
that I can't come out and say,
"I want tranquility."
Instead I shroud it in some **** about
inhaling twilight and finding peace in my inner galaxies
Pfft.
What a loser.
What a loser to believe that metaphors
are anything but a way of disguising
the truth.
What a loser to think that I am only a metaphor,
even if it's the truth.
What a loser to believe that I am something
so simple but so complex
and hard to understand
especially when I say it
because I never know how to say anything properly
it's all surrounded in mysteries and confusion,
My metaphors say,
"who the hell wants to understand me?"
The curse of poet, I suppose
a curse I'd do well to break free from.
I only know how to express myself in metaphors
the only problem is that nobody knows
what my they mean,
nobody knows what I really am
because I shroud myself in stupid,
enigmatic, asinine metaphors
that when you asked me to say what they mean
sometimes I'd be able to,
but most of the time...
even I don't know what the **** they mean,
but I say them in the hopes that someone will
be able to decipher them- and me-
anyway,
cause maybe then they would know who I am
without me having to tell them,
maybe then I wouldn't have
to figure it out myself.

Or: On How To Let Go

1. The first time your grandmother cries
and says you died along with your grandfather,
smile.
You never liked her much anyways,
so being dead to her- while not ideal-
isn't the worst way to go.
2. Remember that time you went shopping
for your first pair of cargo shorts
and the same grandmother was RIGHT QUICK to point out
to the cashier that you are very much a girl
all soft curves and short limbs
and regrets and quiet voices
and you gotta try not to smack her.
3. Remember when a Wal Mart worker said,
"Good morning, Sir"
and again, that same grandmother
was right quick to point out
that I was very much a lady,
that I was petite and passive
and everything she wanted me to be
4. Just... Hide it.
Because while they may say they're okay with it
you still see the sideways glances
and the glares, and the stares,
and the cries of, "How the hell do you expect to be a boy
if you're wearing that skirt!"
5. Try your best to explain it to every person
that you'll ever bring home
to meet this family.
Say... "Sometimes, I kind of feel
a little bit like a boy."
Underplay it.
Severely.
Don't tell them that some days
you wake up crying and clutching at your chest
wishing it was gone
that some days death sounds more preferable
than living in this body
Don't tell them that it's way deeper
than "sometimes" and "kind of"
that it's a constant nagging fear
6. Sit down at Christmas dinners in a dress.
Be aware that you're only making things
harder on yourself.
6. Sit down at Christmas dinners in a suit and tie.
Be aware that you're only making things
harder on yourself.
7. Their insistence that they can't even try
to call you their nephew,
or their grandson,
cause it would be too ******* them
8. My transition is too ******* them
5. I wake up some mornings
willing to do anything I can to switch bodies
with my best friend: a trans woman
who hates her body as much as I hate mine
that's something we have in common.
I'd give anything to have her body,
she'd give anything to have mine
9. Recognise that your family
isn't gonna understand.
10. Deal with it the only way you know how:
every self-destructive tendency
you've clung to all these years
quickly becoming your other best friends
6. Realise that feeling this way
is making things harder on you.
11. Realise that it's okay
to break up with your regrets
and though they'll cling to your shirt
and drop to their knees
and beg beg beg beg for you back
Do not take them back.
12. Realise that you are so much more.
That you... Are valid,
despite everyone who calls you
the name of a person
you don't even recognise anymore
realise that you are valid
despite everyone who says you're not
cause when you think you're not,
when you're pressing yourself into mattresses
and obsessively working out
and holding back tears looking at all the clothes
you wish you could look good in,
that's.... well, that's when you need it most.
0. Let go of the fact that your family
calls you the name of a person you don't recognise anymore
because one day, you're gonna show up for Christmas dinner
and they're not gonna recognise you.
And that's one of the most comforting feelings
in the world.

An Open Letter To The New Boyfriend....

A few things you should know before dating me.
1. The first time I realised I was infinite,
I was staring down the mouth
of an alcohol bottle,
my head swimming, laughter bubbling
from my lips,
it was also the first time I realised
I am guilty of living for fleeting moments.
Something inside me is screaming
that we are a fleeting moment.
2. My life is a whirlwind of
passing daydreams, photographs,
ex boyfriends, and re-used poetry lines,
that's something you're gonna have to get used to
because sometimes, I just don't know
when to shut up
and it'll annoy the crap out of you.
3. I'll tell you about things
you don't want to hear about,
ties between my exes and my illnesses
and everything in between
and it'll depress the crap out of you.
4. Trust that I'll love you
more than my own self destruction,
which, let me tell you,
never ******* stops,
trust that I'll love you more
than the razors across my skin
spilling out my regrets
and the nights I spend heaving
over toilet bowls
the burn of whiskey down my throat
that numbs my thoughts,
trust that I'll love you
more than I hate myself,
trust that I'll love you more than I romanticise
my own death.
5. My memory is crap.
Please don't get angry
when I don't remember your favourite pasttimes
or the songs we dance to
when the dates you take me on fade
into the back of my brain,
peeling off the walls of my brain
like paper
and falling to the floor of my mind
memories that you'll never forget,
I like long walks on the beach,
romantic candlelit dinners,
dancing under the stars....
Now, wait for me to break down into tears
because "Dancing Under The Stars" was the name
of a song the man I **** near sent to jail
wrote for me.
6. I live in metaphors.
My realities consist of my own broken promises
and I pen my feelings in suicide notes
but I still insist that happiness
is just a trip to the stars away
I insist on inhaling the stardust
and exhaling the twilight
and tranquility
of my peers,
I still see their faces etched
into the corners of my night skies...
When I said I lived in metaphors,
I wasn't kidding.
3. I'll tell you about things
you don't want to hear about
and the idea of that terrifies me so much
that I hide away in my room
because if I don't say anything,
I can't say the wrong thing.
7. I bet you expected this poem to be happy,
or funny.
8. This poem is not happy, or funny,
this poem is my truth
and my truth is that I don't know how to live
without some semblance of destruction
inside of me
and it's ruined every relationship I've ever had.
8. This poem is not happy or funny,
this poem is me,
and while I am not happy or funny...
I do find happiness and laughter
in those fleeting moments.
Fleeting to me, of course,
because I never ******* remember them.
9. I never remember anything
10. but I'll always remember how I feel about you.
Even if we don't work out,
because I first met you 3 and a half years ago
we stopped talking for two and a half of those years
and I didn't even recognise you when I saw you
but as soon as I heard your name
I broke down in tears
because you were somebody that I never truly forgot.
10. I'll always remember you.
0. I remember everybody
and that's something I'll never shut up about
10. I'll always remember you
and the way you make me smile
and the way you make all of the things I've talked about
fade into the background.

It's been almost six years.
Six years,
and I can't get your face
etched out of the corners
of my night sky
It's been six years
and all I dream about is you
Six years
but all we are is nuclear,
all this is... is nuclear,
but maybe that's not such
a bad thing
because we always seem
to find eachother
in the aftermath,
because while your body is a roadmap
and my lips explore your highways
and my fingertips trace over your vacant lots
I still wonder if I can still fill them
with the most beautiful skyscrapers
you've ever seen.
I wouldn't be surprised
if the answer is no
because every time
they seem to come crashing down around us
all rubble and flames and radiation,
everything you'd expect
from a nuclear disaster,
but I'm willing to try again.
Six years,
and we've dated more times than Ross and Rachel
or maybe J.D. and Elliot is more accurate
maybe that's why my life feels like a TV show,
maybe the only difference
is that most TV shows
have a happy ending...
Us?
Forgive me for quoting Heathers,
but we're damaged, badly damaged,
but your love's too good to lose,
hold me tighter, even closer,
I'll stay if I'm what you choose...
I want you to choose me
I want you to want to hold me
everyone's told me love hurts,
but I never expected it to hurt like this,
beating hearts to the sound of drums
that aren't on the same rhythm anymore,
but I'm willing to try again.
I'll stay if I'm what you choose... because
You're the one I choose.
And I'm willing to try again.

This is my story.
It's my first poem in months
and suddenly
I'm stuck.
I've been lying in bed for so long
that I lost my voice,
I think I wrote so many words
for my ex-boyfriend
that I have none left for myself.
My life is a whirlwind
of passing daydreams and photographs
and empty cigarette packs
and cold cups of coffee
and pieces of other peoples' poems...
Pieces of my own poems that I barely remember writing.
I spend my time trying to ignore
the sighs of discontent
in the back of my mind,
echoing across the walls of my brain,
trying to provide a way to relate
to the people I know
but it's hard when
I can barely relate to myself.
I am a work in progress.
The scars that litter me
are fading fast,
but I'm standing still
while the world moves around me.
Inhaling the toxicity and
exhaling the stardust of my peers,
surrounded by memories
locking me in place,
peeling from the walls of my being
like paper,
this is my story.
It's a written and rewritten masterpiece
that I have no record of
because I gave up on journalling
a while ago,
because my life isn't necessarily one
I'd sit down with a glass of wine
and write about at the end of the day.
It's full of torn pages,
crossed out sentences
and smudged words.
I guess those things come of a story unfinished-
of a work in progress.

This is my story.
My first poem in months
and suddenly, I'm stuck.
I've been lying in bed for so long
that I lost my voice,
I think I wrote so many words
for my ex-boyfriend
that I have none left for myself.
My life is a whirlwind of passing daydreams
and photographs
and empty cigarette packs
and cold cups of coffee
and pieces of other peoples' poems...
Pieces of my own poems
that I barely remember writing.
I spend my time trying to ignore
the sighs of discontent
ini the back of my mind,
trying to provide a way to relate
to the people I know
But it's hard when I can barely relate to myself.
I am a work in progress.
When it comes to food
less is no longer more,
and the scars that litter me are fading fast
but I'm standing still
While the world moves around me.
Inhaling the toxicity
and exhaling the stardust of my peers,
surrounded by memories
locking me in place,
This is my story.
It's a written and re-written masterpiece
that I have no record of
because I gave up on journalling a while ago,
because my life isn't necessarily one
I'd sit with a glass of Moscato
and write about at the end of the day.
It's full of torn pages,
crossed out sentences,
and smudged words;
but I guess these things come of a story unfinished,
of a work in progress.

he's 24 years old.
he's 24, he's 24, he's 24
and you were 27
and i'm 17
and what the **** is age anymore.
casual flirting and joking
back and forth
turned into his hand twisting in my hair
and him pinning my wrists above my head
and his breath in my ear
and suddenly I can't breathe
because he feels like you
he feels so **** much like you that I can't think
because I have a boyfriend who doesn't know
because he's 24
and his arm feels like yours as I grab at it
and I moan and I giggle
and I almost whisper your name
because he and i
never even kissed,
no clothes came off,
it's just his lips on my neck
and his hand in my hair,
he spanks me so hard i have dark bruises
but i consented-
teasing me, he calls it
but I still
can't
breathe
and i'm wishing that i'd gone out
with his fiance for the night
when she invited me.
when his roommate walks through the door
it takes everything not to heave out
a sigh of relief
and i never thought i could feel this way
but he's 24
and he almost reminds me of you
but he's not you and he's on top of me
and i'm moaning and giggling
but i still can't breathe
he's autistic, he doesn't pick up on cues
he doesn't get rules
he was involved with another 17 year old
a while back, he says
because he's different and that's what i liked about him
and then his lips are grazing my skin
and i giggle and i moan
but i still
can't
*******
breathe.

Looking up at the stars,
i remember how long ago
I tried to hide myself inside of you.
because darling,
you are a galaxy
full of blazing stars
and circling planets
and vastness,
you are infinite
and you always have been.
I remember how
we walked outside my house at night,
you tapped your feet against the pavement
and i gazed at the sky,
and at you,
longingly,
i watched you dance.
i've been wishing on the same star for years
but now, all i see
is the dullness of a cloudy sky
that you created
out of the dust of crushed pills.
You are beautiful.
your tired eyes and yellowed teeth
are not.
You are gorgeous,
but the scars and protruding bones
are not.
You searched for yourself
in glass bottles and burning desire
to wash yourself away.
you are a masterpiece,
your long flowing hair
your hips
your lips curled into a smile,
i was madly in love with you
but I have no idea who you are anymore.
you are worth everything,
but the alcohol is not.
the drugs are not.
Dying is not worth anything.

I miss her.
I miss how we used to be.
We sat on my bed
and wrote on my wall,
"We're 13.
People treat us like kids,
kids have fun.
When did we start making life
so ******* complicated?
We need to have fun again."
We need to have fun again.
We needed to have fun
so she took a bottle to her lips
and started crushing pills.
We needed to have fun,
but we took keys and razors to our wrists
under desks, in bathrooms, and under covers
to deal with the fights, the lies,
the whole world being against us.
(A tradition i recently continued
after 4 years
by taking a razor to my upper arm in
our school's art gallery.)
Those Nights that we spent together,
those nights kept me alive...
until they didn't.
Until I lost her.
Until she became nothing
but the smoke
of a burnt out candle
remnants of the blazing fire that she once was,
whispering,
"you're a liar...
you said you'd get better."
I sit back and see her wasting away
and i hate myself for not trying harder
to save her.
We needed to have fun
but as I watched her transform
from a girl to a ghost,
all gangly limbs and rotting teeth
and scars and nosebleeds
and missing conversations
and empty words,
I wonder what kind of fun
she could possibly be having.
I used to know her better than I knew myself
but as i watch her go from a sister
to a stranger,
I realise i barely know her name now.
i miss her.
I hope she knows this isn't what i meant
when i said,
"We need to have fun."

I promise I'm not crazy.
I promise I can make the empty mornings and nights
and tear-soaked sheets
up to you.
I promise I can figure out how to make you happy
when you're down-
I haven't quite figured it out yet,
but I will.
I still cry on the nightly
even when you don't see,
I see
that I bring you down
but you stay, and put up with my **** anyway...
It must be hard,
dating me.
It must be hard
on the days that I forget how to live
and I'm too weary to do anything
but stare at the drawings on my wall,
to do anything but breathe
and sleep and cry,
it must be ******* the days
that I beg you to ask what's wrong
but immediately say,
"I'm okay."
It must be ******* the days
that I can't keep any food down
that I'm clinging to your shirt,
stuttering out broken apologies,
it must be ******* the days
I'm scared to say "I love you,"
for fear that you won't say it back.
It must be hard
but it's hard for me, too,
and worse that I still don't know how to help you
when you feel that way,
when you feel like me,
so all I can say is,
"I'll make myself up to you.
I promise... I'm sorry.
I promise, I'm not crazy."

There are blotches of red marks on my skin, my face,
bags under my eyes, 
I get around 5 hours of sleep most nights 
but every morning I still feel like I haven't slept in a century. 
This is a different kind of pain.
This isn't a migraine, or a stomachache. 
This is more than a stomachache. 
This is waking up every morning to arms full of scars that are so ******* triggering,
A stomach screaming "feed me" but skipping breakfast and lunch 
because I swear to ******* god, I've gained weight. 
This is a different kind of pain. 
This is my first poem in months which is why 
it doesn't fit together perfectly 
but since I penned all of my thoughts about 
my eating disorder, my self harm, my mental illnesses and my boyfriend,
I didn't have anything to say, 
I'd given my voice away by that point 
and that caused a different kind of pain.

(I saw a piece titled "5 Things I Will Tell My Daughter" and I decided to write one, too~)

1. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but what about the hearts that hurt stronger, or grow colder? Do not let your heart grow cold... Dream, darling. Dreams can melt the ice and soothe the pain, their dreams of you gently wrapping your arms around their neck, and, speaking softly, as though they are afraid they will wake and you won't be beside them, the words fall from their lips, “I love you.” You reply, “I love you, too.” But then, we must remember: although all dreams end, the fire that is their soul cannot be put out by any force other than their own lack of will. Your soul will not lose its flame unless you stop pouring gasoline into your heart, until you stop gathering firewood from your limbs. Remember that it takes time to become the person you want to be. Do not, under any circumstances, give up.


2. You needn't believe that love is limited, for hearts expand endlessly. Remember that some women will call you a sinner, and some men will call you a saint. Love them both. Love the way that although goodbye means going away, going away does not necessarily equal a forgotten promise to return. Love the notes that you keep in the bottom of your dresser in a shoebox from 7th grade, love your favourite shirt, love your first video game, love your first romantic partner and love your last. Love red flowing dresses and sweatpants and above all, do not be afraid to love deeply, messily, and even predictably, because sometimes, predictability is okay.


3. You are a raging hurricane, an endless forest fire, a light autumn drizzle, the flicker of a candle flame, a brilliant lightning bolt and the house-shaking clap of thunder that follows. Do not allow anyone to undermine your worth, your being, your sentience, your magnificence. You are the world, and the moment you believe otherwise (because you will) is the moment when, if not I, then somebody else you care for, will be by your side with a can of gasoline and a few extra logs.


4. Do not spend your life in search of a place to call your own; instead, mould your skeleton into a home and place your soul behind your eyes; house galaxies, constellations, and all the infinities that you can hold inside your being and never let them go. When your skin starts to crack, pour grace into your wounds and brush the kinks out of your wings; find faith in yourself, at least, if not another omniscient being as well. Just remember: If you have faith, have it when the miracles don't happen, just as much as when they do.


5. Live for the experience of breathing deeply and loving carelessly.

You are the farthest thing from perfection
which must be why I think about you
when doing the most mundane things,
making coffee or washing laundry,
playing guitar or scrolling through tumblr.
I look over at my computer screen,
the FaceTime call we have open 24/7 (literally),
you're biting your nails, intently watching a video
and then you look over and smile at me,
call me your sweetheart.
Taking in the way your lips tighten and curl around your teeth
(especially the one shark tooth you don't like)
when you grin,
the way your eyes crinkle and your hair falls into place
around your jawline,
You're the farthest thing from perfect,
but you're perfect for me.

When I came back to school after being ill
and I got an ungodly amount of compliments on my weight,
something inside me sparked
my heart was beating so hard I thought it would stop
and I got a taste of a kind of happiness that I hadn't felt in a while-
happiness with myself.
Eventually the feeling subsided
as my meds were rearranged
switched around
dosages altered, types differed
and I started eating more again
and gained the weight back.
Now at 141 pounds
my mind is preoccupied
with daily fat and calorie intakes,
I keep reminding myself that
my stomach isn't growling,
it's applauding my strength and willpower
only giving in to the desire to eat
when I start to fall over.
1 sandwich,
turkey, lettuce, whole grain bread,
180 calories.
First and last thing today...
I promise.

My life is a whirlwind of passing daydreams
and photographs,
those I've loved and lost
and what I've gained from screaming from the tops of buildings
after no one salutes to these ideas
that I've run up the flagpole outside.

All hipbones and collarbones,
Size 1 and 0, long flowing hair and gauges,
thigh gap and flat stomach,
you are beautiful.
All dry skin and yellow teeth,
Size 12 and 13, short, plain hair,
touching thighs and rounded stomach,
I am "beautiful" to everyone but myself.
I will be strong.
I will be stronger.
I will exercise more,
I will eat less,
I will be thinner.
Once I've lost 40 pounds,
then I might get the help everyone says
I so desperately need,
diet healthily
and work with somebody.
Until then, I will suffer through...
...because that shows strength,
and eating shows weakness,
weakness in myself.
Calories should be a foreign substance,
not an old friend,
chewing and swallowing sometimes hurts worse
than a **** lemon-juice papercut.
800 calories over my budget every **** day
when my budget is already too high?
That shows no strength.
500 calories under?
THAT shows strength.
Shows willpower.
Shows endurance.
That is what will make me thinner.
I'm setting my budget to 500 instead of 1000,
because hey,
less is more, right?

My sense of self
is defined
by what I eat
what happens afterwards
and by the scars on my skin
and on my heart
that I was told would heal,
but were meant to bleed,
and by the way you hold me
closely
like I am your answer,
and the fact that I wrote so many words
for my ex-boyfriend that I have none left for myself,
but I seem to have an abundance for you.
My sense of self is defined
by the whirlwind of passing daydreams
and photographs that surround me
and pieces of other peoples' poems...
pieces of my own poems that I barely remember writing.
When the sun sets behind the horizon
cuts through the sky and fades
into starlight and haze
I inhale twilight
and exhale tranquility.
Late night loaded plates
and bathroom trips
early morning cigarettes
and paper cups of caffeine
more sugar than coffee.
Afternoon poetry and photographs
smiles and laughs
followed by midnight bloodshed
and silence,
by my recovery.
My sense of self is defined by
what I love
and by who loves me
by the words and stomach acid
that roll off my tongue
and the heave of my chest
during laughter and after dinner,
by the tears shed by my eyes
and my skin,
the way that I bury my face in your chest,
the toxicity and twilight
that I inhale
the smoke, vapour, tranquility
that I exhale
the popping of my spine
and of alcohol bottles
the hiss of a pipe
and the way they say my dreams
go up in smoke,
I say the smoke spells in the air
the words of my future novels
and poems.

I can not even begin to explain
how badly I want to spend my days
with raindrops trailing my windows
blank notebooks, and cigarettes
and my nights
with moonlit dances
and dark rooms illuminated by computer screens.

A rainy day,
an acoustic guitar,
a notebook,
a studio apartment overlooking the city.
"I want to measure my mornings
in spoonfuls of coffee
and my nights in empty cigarette boxes."
I don't remember the name of the poet who wrote that
but it couldn't describe my life
any more accurately.
I want to measure my mornings
in spoonfuls of coffee
and my nights in empty cigarette boxes.
I want to measure my happiness
in rainy days and soft kisses,
poetry,
I want to measure my recovery
in full meals and trash bags full of razors,
in tears shed by my eyes
instead of my skin.
I want to measure my free time
in independent movies
and 4 different kinds of music-
indie,
hard rock,
classic rock,
and pop-punk.
I want to measure my infinities
in starry night skies,
galaxies, constellations,
physics books I got in middle school
and his eyes,
his smile.
I want to measure my victories
in minutes without smoking
and my losses
in blaring headphones
and labyrinths of white smoke.
I want to measure my work ethic
in sick days
and missed bills.
I want to measure my heart
in belly dancing
and ***** converse,
in beanies
and minutes spend holding him.
I want to measure my life
in written chapters
and highlighted smiles
in blue Christmas lights
and TV show references,
in my favourite movies and novels and songs
and my dependence on myself,
in cans of Peace Tea
and Pringles
and not regretting eating,
in pens that help the words flow
and laughs,
smiles,
hugs,
kisses,
and hope that in the future
things will be alright...
More alright than they are now.

I was asking around for poem ideas, and one of my friends told me to write about past relationships. I was looking through an old box of notes and cards and stuff that I still have, and this poem just kind of bubbled up inside of me. I'm not sure that I like it, I was just kind of writing to write and then FEELS.



When I was young
and my family told me boys (or girls) would be
"breaking down the door to date me"
I didn't realise quite how many people
would say they loved me
and how many people I'd say I loved
in a lifetime.
It's amazing how love can be given away
so freely,
so willingly
yet so painfully...
I have memories
of each one.
Lucas will always be my Percy Jackson.
Devon was a constant "babe" and "baby",
"you and me,"
and a Valentine's card/stuffed bear that I still have.
Evan was "1... 2... 3"
playing Doctor Who with my little brother,
I wonder if he still keeps that 4th grade picture
of me in his wallet?
Derick was "#dickerdoodles"
and a Valentine's card/stuffed Pikachu that I still have,
Netflix, a rainy day, a pack of cigarettes
a notebook
and a promise of New York City in a year.
Hannah was a bass
duct tape wallets
carmex,
a song lyric or three, and
"How do I love thee?"
Ellie was the Tumblr Accent Challenge
cigarettes, alcohol
a homecoming dance
and incredible music.
Magus was Zelda, movie nights, and
"I love you with all my heart,
with all that I am, with
everything I have."
Jayne was (and is) "kiddo," and now "baby girl"
JannaLee was "Stay strong, babe, and burn bright.
You're my fire; I'm your hurricane.
Those nights belong to us."
Jason L. was "Aw, butts..."
Scooty is "John SNOOOOWW",
"Groot..."
heart-to-hearts, and
Jekyll and Hyde,
#TeamApplesauce.
Travion was "Hey, let's face battle"
a note on yellow lined paper
and Hotel Transylvania.
Andrew was a lick of the lips,
my 9th Doctor,
"Hey, Nii-san."
Randi was "honeybabe" to me;
I still think that's a cute nickname.
Matt F. was "You're DIGAUGFN... I <B you."
(and I still don't quite know how to say
how much the jumble of letters "DIGAUGFN"
still makes my stomach flutter.)
I've made sure not to replicate
with current lovers things I've done
things I've said
special phrases, special actions
with past lovers
Memories are sacred, see.
I don't believe that any men or women
have hindered my ability to love
but at the same time I want to hold
the ones that I've loved
(or maybe don't want to admit to myself
that I still do love)
in the back of my brain,
in the bottom of my heart,
in my palms, rolling them into joints
and inhaling them until all that's left
is a labyrinth of white smoke and a smile,
lightheadedness and a moment of peace
I want to make this explicitly clear:
Just because I have loved many
and still hold many dear to me...
That does NOT hinder my ability to love
any given person at a time.
After breaking up with my boyfriend of 3 years
for a man whom I didn't know I could love
as much as I do
I realise that with all the people in my heart
I still have room
and as awful as it sounds,
I live in the past
as well as the present.
I can't let memories of people
things, places go
but please do remember that
I do know how to be faithful
in mind and in action.
I know how to hold only one,
how to kiss only one,
how to date only one,
how to marry only one,
how to live with only one,
when I say I'll never leave,
please believe that my words ring true
but I'm sorry...
I do not know how to love
only one.

Two chicken strips
and half an order of fries
and my stomach hurts like hell.
You tell me
that I need to be strong
more so now than ever
because falling apart will have
dire consequences.
I'm not sure which would be stronger:
Restricting my appetite further,
or giving in to the temptation of
more than one or two small bits of food
per day?
Whether it is braver
to suffer through the pain
of chewing and swallowing,
or to attempt to curl myself into nonexistence
behind a locked bathroom door?
Is it stronger to work for hipbones
thigh gaps
sipping wine from my collarbones
pointed curves and sharp edges,
or to "accept" my thighs
my stomach
the way my skin covers my hipbones
to the point of indistinguishableness,
barely being able to wear tight shirts
for fear of how my abdomen looks,
I promised a week.
I promised a week
but all I can think about is
the control that I'm lacking
wondering if it's not food that I'm starved for
but self-hatred
and self control.

I've written enough poems
about broken promises
shattered resolve, empty chances and
regrets beating at the back of my brain
with a baseball bat...
but not often have I written a poem
about my ability to speak
my ability to not shatter,
but sway resolve
with both a pen and a sword.
I am human,
and while my voice may not be heard
by the whole
I'm running it up the flagpole
to see who salutes
and if nobody does then I'll climb
to the top of this **** building
and scream.

When I was young
I learned how to dive into my emotions
I learned how to wrap myself
in my regret and fill myself
with relics of isolation,
I learned that my tears
were to be compared to the bottom of the ocean
for both the saltiness
and the amount of them.
I learned how to cheat my way
into straight A's
because suddenly I wasn't at the top of the class
I was diving to the bottom,
with the druggies and the criminals.
I learned how to move my fingers
along the fret board of another man's "love"
and how to make him sing louder than a microphone
would ever allow for
I learned to dive into what most would consider immorality.
I learned to inhale whatever I could,
tobacco, ***, and whatever lingered in the oxygen in between
and I learned to dive through the labyrinth of smoke
that it would produce.
I learned to steal for what I needed
because I didn't have the money to eat lunch
or for new clothes
I learned to dive into the world that I'd scoffed at
a year ago
the world of the beggars and the choosers
the stealers and the 'losers'
called out by self-proclaimed winners.
I learned to trace raindrops on a window
and recite my dreams in the form of broken hearts
and song lyrics
I learned to dive into myself.

I value my light.
I value the rain that I can dance in
and the words and actions that make me laugh
that make my broken wings take to the air.
I value the virtual worlds that distract me
from reality
in the best way possible.
I value simplicity.
I value the writing that shields me.
I value the ones who protect me.
I value the notes and chords
that soothe my aches, dry my tears
and numb my pain.
I value the eternity that passes me by
every time I look into your eyes,
every kiss carries the gentleness of a first
but the intent of a thousand to follow,
but a thousand could never be enough
to show you what you mean to me.
I value the way that you wreck
everything about me
in the best possible way.
I value the things that show me
there's still a little bit of beauty
and hope
left in this world.
The word freedom needs perspective
because you say you wouldn't feel free
were you not cuffed to me,
and I could say the same about you
a thousand times over.

Let me feel your heartbeat in time with your hips.

I'm fairly certain that my voice
just went into the trash
along with my last cigarette that you just threw away
because I suddenly can't talk
and my chest is tightening with fear
at the thought of not tasting another kiss from nicotine.

They say if you want to know
what someone is afraid of losing,
pay attention to what they photograph.
Maybe that's why I take so many pictures
of you and I together.

One full bowl of chilli,
at least two dozen saltines,
one hot dog, and
two handfuls of chips later,
I vow not to eat tomorrow.
I had two small chicken tenders
and a bottle of carbonated orange juice at lunch,
and half an hour later
I was hunched over in a bathroom stall
and my mouth tasted of stomach acid and regret.
I ate once yesterday
and the same thing happened.
I know it's unhealthy,
I know it can **** me,
but all the same the only thing on my mind
is how much I regret eating so much.
I know it's unhealthy,
I know it can **** me,
but all the same
I find a strange sort of comfort
in knowing that I'm at least strong enough to control my appetite.
I know it's unhealthy,
I know it can **** me,
but all the same I can't get enough
of this self-hatred
spilling out of my mouth,
tinted with the taste of last hour's meal.

It isn't until
I'm hunched over in a bathroom stall
and my mouth tastes like stomach acid
that I realise I'm not better
and I'm not sure I want to be.

The first time a blade danced across my skin,
blood dripping from my open wounds like stagnant springwater,
a pain that I can mark as real, as consistent, as constant,
a promise of friendship stained a deep red,
I fell in love with self-mutilation.
The first time I skipped a meal,
first time I saw the thin frame of a girl all skin and bones,
all pointed curves and sharp edges,
I fell in love with self-destruction.
The first time I tasted nicotine on my teeth,
ash dropping to the floor and crumbling,
my demons lit up with my lighter
I fell in love with the taste of what I knew would **** me.
The first time I skipped my stomach meds,
later that night, I threw up everything good I thought about myself,
and I fell in love with self-hatred.
When I was taken off of Prozac,
I sobbed because he was my best friend who made me
so much ******* worse and I loved every second of it.
The first (and only) time I attempted suicide,
saw the innermost layers of my own skin
dripping with adrenaline and fear,
I fell in love with the bleak hospital walls
as I lied in a bed, watching this ****** poking and prodding at my arm,
stitching my pain silent-
no, no, don't- just let me die here, ******!
let me slice myself into oblivion,
it's not like anybody would miss me, anyway.
The first time I slept with a man,
a 27 year old,
the man who felt like a better father than the man I called "dad",
who was there when nothing else was but my razor,
I was 11, and I didn't realise what it meant
to give yourself to somebody so completely.
All I knew was that I was in love with him,
and that an experienced, older man
meant that *** felt really ******* good.
I presume that was when I fell in love
with the physical aspect of relationships
and for a long time, those physical aspects were all I saw.
The first time I penned my frustrations and hate,
raw and naked and painful,
in the form of an apologetic suicide letter,
I fell in love with the way I could romanticise pain.
I must have a notebook full of those by now.
but the first time I saw you...
I fell in love with the way you could silence my hate
without lifting a finger,
your stormy grey eyes that recognised I was seen and heard by everyone but myself,
your arm that I could grab onto so easily
because I knew in some way that it could stop me from falling to my demise,
your voice that could drown out all of my demons that swim around
in my mind,
that for the longest time have been trying to **** me,
I fell in love with you.
I fell in love with the honesty I found in you,
with the cold fingers that interlaced with mine perfectly,
the way my head fits on your shoulder.
I fell in love with the way you stood by my side
and pulled out your own rusted sword,
said, "I'll fight with you."
The suffering was definitely worth the reward
when it comes to what us being together put people through.
You've seen almost every side of me,
you've seen me consumed by hatred,
anger, rage, laughter, fear, joy, love,
slit wristless and bare skinned,
and yet, you stay.
You've got a few parts of a soul,
I've got a few pieces of a heart...
Let's make eachother whole.

Ana,
I used to play with you when I was younger.
I remember you were so proud
the first time I weighed 125,
I guess those stomach problems came in handy
for keeping you by my side,
I'd go days without eating,
and you'd smile.
I never let you influence me too much, though...
Not until now.
I've always had you on my mind.
You are inherently deadly,
you are addictive in your toxicity.

I'm not hungry.

I can't help but wonder when Mia
will get me on my knees again.

I'm not hungry.

I'm one of those people who
******* about romanticising mental illness
and eating disorders, yet here I am,
giving a name to you.

I'm not hungry.

All the poems about how my razor
takes my blood and breath but gives me life,
but I've written none about you for a while.
Blood drips from my arms and thighs
and, pinching the soft, scarred skin,
I think of you.

I'm not hungry.

You are a decidedly perfect example
of deadly willpower.
You are one of my several methods
of self-destruction
and yet another thing for me to fall in love with,
I am an addict itching for a bit
of self-hatred, and you are an easy fix.

I'm not hungry.

Maybe if I was just a little bit thinner,
then maybe I'd get there.

*I'm not hungry...

They say a full moon can make a person do crazy things. I still don’t know if that’s true; the full moon was last week and, though I can still see it’s shine in your stormy grey eyes, I know it can’t be the reason I have this feeling stuck in my gut telling me to (kiss you) just live.

My doubt coincides with different sides of my minds and I’m not quite sure how to restore peace. I’m wasting away my days in the hopes that things will change but never actually trying to relate, I can’t restore happiness in this war in my head, all I want is my light back, but my eyes are gaunt and I lack the will to be anything more than this. i guess all I can do is pray for any salvation I could find in restoration.

I carry my doubt, worry, fears out to your truck but leave them in the passengers seat.
For this moment, I am alive.
I gaze out towards the orange and brown trees, tinted with a red as deep as the love I feel for you. Walk towards the wind, my hair rustles with the leaves and you laugh as my cheeks turn pink from the cold. Sit out on a dock and overlookinh a lake straight from a painting, I am alive. I can see the green horizon and the reflections of branches in the water, over hills and under grass, if you look just a little farther, you'll find you and me, because we're so alone in this moment and I can finally breathe because I feel so free. I lean into the wind, fall back against the dock and sigh, a smile on my face, the lake looks like a thousand diamonds strewn across a blue plane. I am alive. I am breathing, and for once I don't hate the fact that I am. This sno-berry tea carries the taste of longing that, if elsewhere, I can only get from your lips, and I love it. I am an addict itching for a fix of release from reality and instead of my normal methods, I found it in you.

You, my friend,
are a broken masterpiece.
You were carved out of shattered glass
and you continually forced your cracks
into mine
like broken heirlooms,
not that I ever had a problem with that,
I jammed my cracks into yours
just as forcefully,
I think my biggest mistake was thinking
that you could fix them.
Your eyes are worn with things
no boy should have seen,
the leather falling from your boots
and your skin is chipping,
with time,
nothing will be left of you but a memory.
What's sad is that
I'm not sure I have a problem with that either.
I gave a total of 2 years of my life
to you
and when I decide to give it to someone else,
you disappear,
not a trace left of you but the blood
that came from your razor while you were gone.
Memories of us peeling from the back of my brain,
conversations rusted over,
you came back and I was so relieved
that I said nothing about the thin red lines that littered your arms
at first.
Then I found out you'd only come back
to get that pack of cigarettes I owed you.
I still wonder what goes through your mind
when you think about me, now.
What's left of your heart is consumed
with the hatred you feel for my boyfriend,
and that shouldn't erode my thoughts
as much as it does
but in the end nothing is left but hurt,
raw and naked and painful.
That's the thing about pain, you see-
it demands to be felt,
but without you I feel strangely free,
like I could spread my snapped wings and fly
through a sky dotted with shining promises
and the haze of a moon that
makes my yellowed teeth and tattered clothing glow
and I don't know if that excites me
or scares the hell out of me,
or both.

Smoke dances out of my mouth
and through the cold November air.
A lit cigarette in the dark of night
sparks a flame bright enough for me
to see past my own doubt
for one more night...
Or maybe the smoke reassures it.
I can't breathe cause my lungs are failing me
but I think maybe I deserve it,
I am in love with the reduction in my lung capacity,
in my vision, enhanced by vertigo,
I'll never know what's beyond
the veil of smoke,
wrapping itself around me as if trying to
console me
because it figured out that I'm afraid of
what lives in the dark, afraid of
what lies in the nightmares that I still don't remember.
Walk an empty sidewalk, 2:00 a.m.
Walk back and forth, music blaring
into my ears, let me block out the world
for all it's worth.
I contemplate taking half an hour
and getting a drink with the 2 dollar bills
in my pocket,
but then I notice my fingers are burning.
I look down,
I'm at the filter.
Wrapping my jacket tighter around my torso,
I use the almost-gone cigarette to light another one
and I start walking.
I'm not sure if what I see in front of me
is smoke entirely, or if it's mixed with
whatever breath I have left.

I want to turn my self-hatred into something physical,
I want to keep feeling like death because
I'm so used to these feelings of guilt and regret-
in an ever-changing world, it's my constant.
You say you despise change-
then how on earth will you be able to stay by my side
as my eyes change with the seasons?
This nicotine tastes like (self) destruction
and I can't get enough of it,
because without it I could put the devil to shame
with the way my mind bends
and seems to snap away from reality,
leaving me shaking and seemingly broken.
The razor caressing my skin
takes my blood and breath but it gives me life.
This old journal I found reads about how
the voices in my head were trying to **** me,
the epitome of my anxiety
tears drip down my face,
I'm getting more light-headed with every passing moment
and I can't help but smile
despite the fact that I'd given up on life
a while back.
Up, down, my moods change with the hour
and these thoughts devoured my sanity
a long time ago.
You say you despise change-
how on earth will you be able to stay by my side
as I change with the seasons?

The solo road takes hold. I don't know where it goes, but where it goes I go.
A midnight’s drive under a sky full of clouds, blocking the moonlight.
Only the glimpse of a shimmering star guides my way, but to what I do not know.
A night of indifference, just going where this winding road takes me, but
I can barely see that shining star through clouds of hesitation.
The road is a one lane highway to a destination unknown
the fog is so dense it is like a layer of blankets used to hide the fears of a child in the dark.
At this point I wonder if it can hide my fears as well.
Do I even want to hide from these fears at all or should I stand up to the inevitable?
My engine’s sputtering, stalling, my car’s running out of gas and I feel like I just might crash.
I put my foot to the gas and hope that I wont fly through the glass and end up with my car smashed, because this car is my only way off this **** road in the first place.
I see no headlights coming my way even though I pray that one day I will see a light at the end of this godforsaken road but the day isn't today.
Some days I pray that I will lay on the road face down
with a trail of my essence turning the road red with release
but other days I carry on like it was my job to mindlessly keep both of my hands on the steering wheel and hope that at the end of this road, there’s an exit sign,
and that all I need’s a little more time.
Because night after night, my hands grip the wheel so hard my knuckles turn white as the fog that clouds my vision day after day.
My sighs echo down this ever growing street, every twist and turn feels like another reason
to unbuckle my seatbelt and open the door because
I’m going 85 in a 50 and I can’t even see my own headlights on the road
my vision is blurred and my mind is as foggy as the road I drive on.
Every now and again I wonder what the point is
I can barely remember the day I started driving, it was so long ago
and I pray for the day when I can wash this fog away in rain,
that I’ll find an exit and take it.

(Inspired by Ethan Smith's poem of the same title.)

You’ve taken so many different pieces
of others’ personalities
and put them together to form me
that I don’t even know who the real me is anymore…
Let alone knowing that I am still partially you,
as much as I hate it,
I have to recognise it…
and what’s more
As much as I hate it,
I don’t hate you
don’t hate the way you still bore a hole
into my heart,
Remember that.
Sarah…
I haven’t said your name in so long
because I’ve spent years trying to convince everyone-
myself included-
that you were gone,
that you are nothing but a distant, fallacious,
distorted memory,
that the thought of you drowns out my reality
and leaves me shaking and broken
and that at the same time,
I haven’t changed a ******* thing about myself,
but we both know that
that’s complete *******.
We are two completely different people,
you made me feel like a prisoner within myself,
but I suppose you were only doing
what you thought needed to do
to survive.
It’s a shame it didn’t work,
I’m sorry, that we ran out of time.
When grandma said her baby girl had died,
that the light had gone from her eyes
she was wrong,
I told her so
but she’d be incorrect to assume that you
are still living inside of me,
instead you are ticking inside of me,
ticking like a bomb waiting to explode,
Sarah.
The name sounds foreign
your eyes are terrifying me
your old friends are boring the hell out of me;
your voice is one I don’t recognise.
Hell, I barely recognise myself anymore
and I guess I have you to thank for that
But remember
as much as I hate the fact
that you still exist inside of me…
I have to recognise that
I can’t hate someone who was me for so long.

I would fly,
but I don't have wings...
Not anymore.
You tell me to soar,
but I don't know how
and what's more
is that I swear,
my soul is sinking,
everything about me is drowning
except for my doubt,
my fears,
they know how to swim
and I don't know if I have
another
way
out.

I breathe and taste
the colours of heaven and earth
on your skin.
I kiss away
the traces of liquor and regret
on your lips.
I fall in love
with the way you allow me
to wrap myself
around your heart.
I spread my wings
around your body
as it curls against mine.
You call my broken wings
majestic.
I fall in love
with the way you move
against me.
I breathe and taste
the colours of heaven and earth
on your soul.

“I want my ears to be your journal.”
“I’d rather you cut my wrist than yours.”
“Your wrists are beautiful; don’t add another scar to them.”
I sat on the edge of your couch
playing “Chasing Cars”
and I look over to see you tearing up.
I don’t know how to explain
the connection that I feel to you.
I’ve known you for a few months
but it feels like a lifetime,
and yet so much of you remains undiscovered.
I want to discover you
discover your body
discover your heart
discover your soul
piece by piece,
your personality is an enigma,
a mystery,
one that I’d love to unravel-
but never all the way
because hey,
what’s the fun in that, right?
“Any time you want this, I’m game.”
“Sit back, relax. This is about you.”
“Your body is a temple;
I’m focusing on making my way towards the treasure.”
I’m so used to jumping in
doing everything at once
figuring out where we go from there
but the moment I mentioned that you said,
“**** that.”
Slow,
sweet,
sensational,
kind, loving, caring, gentle-
not rough, not hard, not *****,
just us.
Just looking and seeing a person
you love so **** much
that you trust so completely,
“I felt comfortable.
Comfortable being with you,
comfortable being me.”
“I love everything about you.
Even the hard spots on your fingers,
the calluses from playing guitar
because it’s another thing that connects us.”
I explain to you that in my mind,
*** means love,
and that’s why I’m coming on so strong
but later on
Hands trailing over scarred skin
and a smile that says, “I’m here for you,”
a pair of lips that whispers,
“I’ll never leave you”,
the push and pull of your calloused fingertips
on my hips,
your breath in my ear,
my hands running along the curves of your back
I am in love with you.
I would say I have loved you to the point of madness
but that would be an understatement.
I have lost myself in your gaze,
gasped at your soft touch and
I have loved you beyond madness-
in a good way.
Let’s lay here in eachothers’ arms
outside at midnight
and listen to Shinedown
as the moon shines down
accentuating the labyrinth of smoke
around us,
let's chase cars around our heads,
let’s forget the world for one night.

They say that human eyes
can hold galaxies,
constellations.
Maybe that explains why
every time I look into yours,
I feel infinite.
Like there’s no star
I couldn’t reach.

I wonder how long it’ll be
before my rhyme and metre
fit together again,
like the beating of my heartbeat.
How long will it be
before the machine that is me
will begin to animate
and breathe,
breathe normally again,
breathe out a sequence
of 1’s and 0’s
because maybe
then I won’t be able to translate
your name,
and I won’t start to hyperventilate.
How long will it be
before all the wrongdoing
catches up to me?
Will you smell the cigarette smoke
on my clothes
or will you catch a whiff
of me regretting
ever letting myself
get addicted
to the hope of dying?
In 5th grade,
when my demons
first poured my own blood
like stagnant spring water
down my skin and
my heartbeat slowed,
I realised that
though my sword had rusted over
and I could no longer fight those demons…
I could still fight myself.
I could still fight for my right
to not be okay,
but as my demons got stronger…
I gave in.
We’re on the same side now,
we focus on a common goal-
destroying
me.

I always thought I knew what love was.
Then I met you.
You could reach places of my soul
that even I didn’t know existed,
each smile was another reason to live,
Every time you laughed
I fell more in love.
every time I looked into your coke-and-whiskey eyes
each pant after a kiss carried a thousand poems
about those eyes in it.
You gazed at me like an artist
would admire Van Gogh,
you held me like I was the answer
and for a while, I thought I was, with
Your fingers pressing into my hips
in a way that I later found out
was to intercept the thought of your hands
on her hips.
You played me
like I was the last cello on earth-
but not in a good way.
And I know it’s pathetic,
but you’re the heaven
and the earth to me,
because you were the only person
that could make me smile the way you did.
It was supposed to be just ***,
but I’m in love with you-
present tense.
I want to lay in bed with you
under sparkling blue Christmas lights
strewn out across my walls like everything
I never thought I could say
but found the opportunity to,
I want to kiss your scars,
I want to fix your broken hearts with
duct tape and a song,
and I want to admire every inch of your body
because it’s perfect,
even if you don’t think so.
I want to do things to you
that I’ll never have the opportunity to do again,
because while everything about you
wrecks everything about me
in what I thought was
the best possible way,
I turned out to be a rebound.
A substitute
for a girl who gave you a murky puddle
just big enough to catch the reflection
of you two hand in hand,
while you drowned me in the clearest ocean
I could have given you.

If I shot myself
in the heart,
maybe the poison
that is your voice,
your lips,
your smile,
your touch
will stop flowing
through my veins.