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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

"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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.