(October 17th, 2013, I think is when I wrote this.)

There aren’t many things
that I’m good at.
I have bad grades.
I’m aware of this, but they
still insist on shouting as if
three letter F’s
determine my worth
as well as my ability.
I’m not athletic,
never been remotely decent
at sports,
picked last for soccer,
football, basketball,
and everything else,
tried to do parkour once-
however,
that hope quickly dissolved
when I discovered
that it was still nerve-wracking
for me to climb a fence.
(One of the many gifts
that comes with a severe
lack of coordination.)
I’m not a quiet person.
I don’t know
how to hold my tongue
most of the time.
So when my father’s paycheck
is cut shorter and shorter,
when he makes little enough as it is,
my stay-at-home mother
fighting her demons of
the severe depression and anxiety
that she passed down to me
as well as her (auditory) hallucinations,
her BPD,
her physical disabilities,
not making a paycheck at all,
and my school supplies
consist of 50-cent notebooks
that fall apart,
and 75-cent pens,
I get a little… “upset”.
I’ve played guitar for three years.
Sometimes, it’s what I’m best at,
playing strings of notes
and minor chords
that come together to form
beautiful harmonies-
but more often than not,
every note is sour…
Another thing I’m not good at.
But I am a writer.
People don’t pay attention
to teenagers, they say
We’re so full of ourselves,
We think we’re so important,
they say
We need to communicate,
but when we try
all they hear
is whining, and complaining.
Teenagers telling their friends
in passing conversation
that they’re suicidal,
that they hurt themselves,
just to see who will notice-
who will listen-
and of course, no one does.
Nobody notices that
teenagers are the voice
of our generation,
and our generation,
as such,
is royally ******
because nobody pays attention.
There aren’t many things
that I’m good at.
But I am a writer.
And I have
a voice,
a pen…
And paper torn
from a 50-cent notebook.

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.

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...

(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.

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.

I have a habit of dreaming, screaming, hurling myself into the arms of love-coated guilt and tying a bow around her with smoke, smoke that burns my throat and weakens my lungs; but I will not apologise. I will not apologise for loving what destroys me, and destroying what loves me, because there's no point if an "I'm sorry" falls onto a broken heart and deaf ears.

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.

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.

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 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.

Let me feel your heartbeat in time with your hips.

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.

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.

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.

Sit back and over-analyse
the lies that you were serving my mind.
Providing a way to relate
and trying not to overcompensate
for my lack of you,
I should have known you’d
***** and moan enough that
in time,
I could make your whines rhyme.
(Maybe that’s why your speaker points
were always the lowest.)
In this debate,
rate my way and rate of diction,
because truth is stranger than fiction
I sigh
cause I’m lying through my teeth
when I say “I’m okay”.
Sit back and wait for
what you think you have to say
We wager away our
bad experiences,
nearing another night of searing
dreaming
playing make-believe
with a ballpoint pen.
Remember the way all this started
with an oration and the weight
of what came to be a bad break up
make up
break up
wake up
to a world where you two don’t fit together.
Force your cracks into each others’
like broken heirlooms
Shake off the dust,
Can’t shake the thought that you’d be happier
without me.
I can’t see through this cloud of doubt without
an explanation,
an answer to the chance
that I can’t distinguish
the morning dew from her rose petals
that she tried to drown you in
from your tears.
“If this ain’t love
then how do we get out?”
Get out of this mess,
regress back into an obsession
with death,
and destruction,
let me provide some instruction
on obstructing these thoughts
that threaten to consume
what I assume is your last shred
of sanity.

Every generation
has the leaders and the followers.
The popular kids and the geeks,
the kids who get high on the streets
and the kids who get high on cloud nine.
The artists and the poets,
the skaters, the stoners,
the musicians and the actors,
and we all have the kids
who are all of the above.
We all have the kids
who are none of the above.
Times change, yes
and trends come and go
but don’t tell me that I’m exceptional
not because of what I know
but because of the children
that surround me.
Don’t tell me to speak my dreams
and release my strife in the form of rhyme
because “few others you know do it”.
Passion is limitless,
passion is ageless
and while I’m being raised
in a generation of technology
and dramatic social media,
yolo and swag, pregnant teens
and 55-hour marriages-
I’m growing up
in a generation of artists,
a generation of dreamers,
a generation of doers,
and a generation
of freethinkers.
Freethinkers whose words
drip from their tongues like honey
and stain their pages in the world
like wine.
Students who get bored
with teachers wanting them to think
in 1’s and 0’s,
fit into standards,
speak in slanders
and begin to hyperventilate
because they can’t translate
what they think.
Kids who haven’t forgotten
that breathing in binary isn’t healthy.
Apparently, those that find
enough creative destruction in life to cheat the system
are going against the greater public’s
better judgement,
feeling free to sit and glare
at those who swear that they’re normal,
but I’m not growing up with those kids.
People who sit back and cry crocodile tears
for those who don’t know
what to think of themselves,
sitting back and laughing
at those who shudder and shake
at the thought of being caught in between
different sides of their minds
that they don’t know it’s okay to have…
but I’m not growing up with those people.
I’m growing up in a
group of rebels,
a group that will one day
run the nation-
a nation of tenacious activists,
wearing their minds
more professionally than
politicians wear their suits-
and with better ideas.
Because we have voices,
we have pens,
but most important
we have ideas,
ideas that can change the world,
change the world more
than poker-faced suits
and hate commercials
and picket signs
ever could.

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.

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.

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.

(I wrote this last winter, I think.)


My bedroom may not be
the most fantastic you’ve ever seen.
There are clothes strewn about,
the linen is crumpled;
Instruments laying around,
Christmas lights on the wall
and a clock that changes colours.
Bedside table
piled with books I’ve yet to read
and 3D glasses
from the 7:30 pm showing of
The 50th Anniversary Doctor Who special.
Griffyndor banner
Zombie Survival poster
pentacle drawing
guitar poster
All Time Low poster,
pictures
album covers
drawings
on the walls.
Simple… but this
is mine.
It’s where I’ve laughed with her,
cried with her,
Gotten annoyed as ****
with her.
Where we snuck out
at 2 in the morning,
to walk up and down the sidewalk
to dance in the street
and sing Nickelback as loud
as we could.
It’s where the nights
that kept me alive
went down, and stayed down,
in more ways
than one
that summer.
It’s where we had our first kiss
and where we had our last.
I feel like my waves
extinguished your flame
that once burned anyone
who tried to ***** it.
And for that, I’m sorry.

So burn bright,
honeybabe,
and show them
what you’re made of.
Burn brighter than me.
And remember.
If you ever need
a place to go…
This bedroom is simple,
but it’s ours.

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.

(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.

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.

Alright.
So you wanna know how to write
a poem.
Well, before we do anything else
I want you to take your pencil,
and break it against your desk.
You’re not gonna need it.
Go to your kitchen
grab a glass mixing bowl, and
pour as many prompts into that bowl
as you see fit.
Maybe crack open a rhyme or two,
cause trust me,
you’ve got time
to watch this poem come to life
inside your mind.
Next, add two cups
of melted controversy
cause hey, you gotta keep people talkin’
and talkin’ and talkin’
cause if you don’t, they’ll be walkin’ away
from that scoop of insane sifted
alliterations you were stocking up on.
Maybe to give it a little zest,
even if it doesn’t make sense
to anyone but you,
throw some “quotes” around
a song lyric or two,
cause you are in charge of this.
So, carry on my wayward son,
my angel with  shotgun,
mix it up
and let it bake on the tip of your tongue
and then
spit it out.

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.

The dream last night had seemed so real… But it was just a dream, right? Those shadows, the messages on the mirror, the walls, all the groaning and the shuffling of feet… That was all just a dream, right?
     This is all just a dream, right?
     Fairly ridiculous question to be asking yourself as you’re being chased through the halls by this… this, this thing. Whatever this is. Its neck is limp, head resting on its shoulder. Its grin is huge, its face coated in blood.
     Have you ever heard the children’s rhyme about the Crooked Man?
There was a crooked man,
Who walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence
Upon a crooked stile.
He bought a crooked cat,
Which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together,
In a little crooked house.
     This… thing, you’re being chased by, that you’re fighting off with a fruit knife, that you’re setting on fire and pushing into holes and still won’t die…
    This is the Crooked Man.
     I wonder if this is all the Crooked Man knew?
     His crooked house, his crooked relationships, his crooked… crooked body…
     His body’s only crooked because of the rope, though.
     Maybe he couldn’t handle being crooked anymore? All he knew was a crooked life, all he owned were crooked things.
     I wonder why he’s chasing you.
     It could be to drag you down, to slaughter you, to make you feel his pain… More than you already have… To make you end up like him.
     Your pasts are so similar…
     Or maybe it’s to warn you. To say, “Don’t end up like me.” To make sure that you don’t die the way he died. The way he staggers, his limp neck, head hanging loosely, his unrealistically large grin…
     Why did he make you put that gun to your head, then? Why is he trying to drag you down?
That’s a problem for you to figure out on your own. But you’d better hurry.
     By the way, I noticed earlier… Your neck is a little crooked.

(This one was based off the video game, The Crooked Man. Yaay, video games.)

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?

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"You don’t go to Denny’s.
You end up at Denny’s
when it’s 3 in the morning and
you’ve lost control of your life.”
Sigh.
*******.
Well, it is the middle of the night,
and I am sitting in a booth
over a cup of coffee that tastes like regret,
but why am I here?
I’m sorry.
I needed to get away.
I needed to get away
from the way your voice
ticks in the back of my mind,
I raise the mug to my lips and pretend
that the coffee trailing down my throat
is still your promise,
still warm, and tinted with sugar.
I needed to get away
from the words you sent on my phone screen
swimming back and forth across my eyes,
I’ve dreamed about you so often
that your smile is burned into
the inside of my eyelids.
I’ve made it a game to see
how long I can go without blinking.
because while I don’t want to see a world
where you and I don’t fit together,
waking up from a world where we do
is so much worse.

(Summer 2014.)

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.

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 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 wrote this almost a year ago, and I just found it.)

You tell me
that you love me.
I’m not sure
as to whether I should say,
"I love you too,"
or “I know.”
Because I spent my whole childhood
believing in second chances
but I’ve also spent my life
believing that I never deserved them.
That praise was something
to which I would never be entitled.
That other peoples’
time
effort
company
were things I would never
be truly worthy of,
and even calories
were a foreign substance
that I would never deserve.
I have mastered the art
of filling myself
with relics of isolation
and the hopes that nobody
will get too close,
for I will surely drown them.
Suffocate them.
I can not let myself think
that you might actually care about me,
I can not let myself believe
that I am worth what you say I am,
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry that you got
stuck with me,
and that you allowed yourself
to feel something more for me
than I ever could for myself,
I’m sorry that I dream of you now
and that your name is always
in my thoughts and on my lips,
it is addictive in its toxicity.
For I fear that if I go too long
without saying it,
that it will disappear.
But at the same time
I feel as thought I say it
too often,
but I guess the phrase
"too often"
needs perspective.
I can not let myself believe
that this does not come
with a punchline,
that you do not come with
an ulterior motive,
that the beat my heart skips
and the catch in my breath
are not the product of a joke.
Because my thoughts are screaming
inside of my mind louder than my voice
could ever tell you that I love you too,
and the shrieking and shuddering sobs
that escape my lips
as blood trails like springwater
down my arms
are so quiet, I am amazed the world
cannot hear.
I am amazed that my virtually nonexistent voice
does not ring in the ears
of anybody who stops to listen
but simultaneously,
I am glad.
Glad that nobody can take
the solidity of mental illness in love
away from me.

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."

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.

Dearest Addiction,
Why does this seem like fiction?
Why does nobody listen
to the words that I said?
Forever and always,
I’ll remain by your side,
As you have stood by mine,
When thoughts raced through my head.
Do me a favour,
continue to dream,
You gave me
A whole other world to believe.
You showed me the pain
of a life I could lead,
And all that I ask
is that other people could see
what you mean to me…
Signed,
Yesterday, tomorrow, and forever… They’ll see.

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."

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.

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.