don't offer him alcohol unless you're okay with a broken bottle, because he's faced with the rememberance of all the times his father came home wreaking of disaster and ***** and anger. when you're in the car, steer far from the country music station. he's never liked it, quite frankly he's never liked the radio in general. when you tell him you love him for the first time, and  ****** you will, do it in the safety of his rusty old apartment, preferably in the morning. he's never been a night person. he likes kissing your neck, but don't kiss his back. i never really understood why, i guess i never will. his favorite movie is dead poets society, and everytime he watches it he discovers something new. his favorite color has always been black, and if you ask him for his favorite song you will get a different response every week. if i recall correctly, which i do, he smokes four and a half cigarettes a day. i don't know why he won't let me say five, i guess i never will. he moved to manhattan when he was fifteen years old and pulled from the only mother and father he's ever known. i don't know why i'm writing this. don't tell him i did, and please, oh god please take care of him.

I visited your grave the other day, and it occurred to me that I couldn't tell you how I was doing.
I assumed you're doing fine, or at least I'd like to think so.
I couldn't bare to tell you that I've stopped believing in Heaven,
I couldn't bare to tell you that I've become the soil surrounding your casket.
I sat there in silence while my fingers went numb and I swear for a second
I could feel my soul sinking into the ground trying to shake you awake,
To tell you I need you. To tell you I haven't made progress. I'm killing everyone around me.
I wanted you to wake up for just ten minutes. I wanted to tell you everything I haven't been able to write nor say out loud.
I wanted to tell you that I'm okay and I wanted you to tuck my hair behind my ear
and melt these frozen tears off my cheeks and look me straight in the eyes to tell me that I'm not.
I wanted to sit there in your arms and scream,
Because every time I try screaming, I  fear that I'll awaken parts of me that are meant to stay unconscious.
But I've been meaning to think about myself for a second and-
I'VE BEEN SPENDING RESTLESS NIGHTS CLENCHING MY FISTS AROUND MY BEDSHEETS,
AND DIGGING MY FINGERNAILS INTO MY HANDS BECAUSE I'VE FOUND AN ADDICTION THAT I CANNOT TAME,
THE SIGHT OF BLOOD DOESN'T BOTHER ME THE WAY IT USED TO.
I'VE STARTED DOING THINGS TO FORGET.
I'VE STARTED LIGHTING PLANTS ON FIRE TO GET SOME SORT OF HIGH OUT OF LIVING.
I'VE STARTED BECOMING THE TYPE OF PERSON YOU TOLD ME NEVER TO BE.
MY PALMS ARE THE EYES OF HURRICANES AND DESTROY EVERYTHING THEY TOUCH,
WHY IS EVERYONE ACTING LIKE THEY NEVER SAW THE TREMBLING IN THE FIRST PLACE?
I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT SANITY IS AND I DON'T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME
MY HEAD WAS SILENT.
IT'S LONELY YOU KNOW, HAVING FIVE DIFFERENT PEOPLE TALK TO YOU AT ONCE IN BETWEEN YOUR EARS.
I MET SOMEONE THAT LIVES A BORDERLINE AWAY BUT STILL MANAGES TO SIT
ON MY PORCH AND WAIT FOR ME TO LET HIM IN.
I CAN'T STOP LEAVING DINNER TABLES WITHOUT PUSHING MY CHAIR IN FIRST,
I CAN'T STOP LEAVING PEOPLE WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE.
I FEEL TOO FULL. I FEEL TO FULL OF FLAMES BURNING DOWN EVERY LAST CITY IN MY BODY,
I FEEL EMPTY. I FEEL LIKE IT'S SUNDAY MORNING AND I'VE POURED MY FATHER A BOWL OF CEREAL JUST TO FIND OUT WE'RE OUT OF MILK.
PLEASE DON'T HURT ME, I'M SORRY, I DIDN'T MEAN TO, PLEASE DON'T HUR-
I have a body made of one-hundred sheets of college ruled notebook paper that kids like me used to make scrapbooks out of.
I am a collection of bruises holding up photos of a Father's fist,
My hands were only made to hold those who feel empty when not holding a glass of wine.
Some days I am full of constant negativity and feel the need to rip grass out from the earth
and throw China cabinets to the floor to say that nothing stays pure forever.
I stopped thinking about myself for a second.
I sat at your grave and said nothing.
I was going to tell you all of this but I couldn't bare to tell you I stopped believing in Heaven.
The only time I ever saw you smile was on Sunday mornings.

Somewhere there is a nurse putting clean sheets on what was once someone's death bed. Somewhere there is a police officer laying awake at two in the morning contemplating breaking his thumbs so he won't have to pull another trigger. Somewhere there is a body bag taking the shape of a person. Somewhere a warden has accidentally called a prisoner by their first name. Somewhere there is a man getting ready to pay for his glass of whiskey, his '1 year' AA token falls out of his wallet onto the bar counter. Somewhere the glass is completely empty, somewhere it's overflowing. Somewhere a therapist sitting in an empty session reading the local newspaper's obituary section wondering what she could've done. Somewhere a bullet has fallen in love with a heart, giving a whole new meaning to the 'kiss of death'. Somewhere the girl that never speaks is raising her hand but immediately putting it back down after the sound of her classmates' laughter bounces back and forth from the back of her mind to the front. Somewhere the silence at the dinner table is making a dent in a child's suit of armor. Somewhere a 70 year old man starts skipping instead of walking, he stops taking his medication. Somewhere there is a mother too drunk to sign her daughter's permission slip. Somewhere a man has stolen all of the flowers from a grave, so he can somehow feel as though he's  being missed. Somewhere a child is asked what she wants to be when she grows up, she realizes ''myself'' isn't a good enough answer. Somewhere a mirror has been mistaken for a stranger. Somewhere someone is being loved by another person the only way they know how to love; whether it's through kisses, bruises, sleeping too closely to the other, or fifteen missed calls. Somewhere a man is falling in love with the automated voice inside of a voice mail because at least she will listen to him. Somewhere a 911 operator is walking into her house, hearing screams that aren't actually there. Somewhere these short stories are being broadcasted on the news,  printed in the paper, whispered to a friend, or rotting in the back of someone's head. Somewhere I am whispering all of these things to a silent room full of people, none of them look up.

Darling,
         You are the Ocean,
                           and I and am drowning .
                                                                         .  .

it's a quarter past two in the morning, and i don't feel okay. i'm cleaning out that purse you told me made my eyes look like the sun right before it sets, and i found a receipt from that little old pub where i spilled my ***** all over your jacket while you were on your way to an interview for a job you never showed up to. it's okay, though, because you would have gotten fired anyways after stepping outside to light a cigarette once every twenty three minutes. god, you and those **** cigarettes. remember when i first asked why you smoked? it's okay, you probably don't. in the same scratchy voice i can't get out of my ******* head, you quoted john green, "i smoke to die." that was our second of exactly thirty seven dates. remember our first? it's okay, you probably don't remember that either. we walked from the pub smelling like a weird mixture of alcohol, smoke, and failure, to the nearest subway station and rode for two hours and how ever many minutes it took me to fall in love with you. i don't exactly know where in new york city we ended up, but i sure as hell remember the taxi driver's face when i told him the address of my ****** apartment. in case you don't remember, we didn't have ***. i wish i didn't remember our last date. number thirty seven, like i mentioned earlier. if you remember anything, i hope you remember finally telling me you were in love with me. you've never had such a bold smile on your face, walking out of the seasons 52 you've always told me you'd take me to. i remember exactly the shape of your hand waving goodbye to me, but i can't seem to remember the license plate number of the car that slammed into you the same way our lips used to. i know you don't remember that part, because before the paramedics could ask you what happened, you mumbled the same question through those lips i miss so much. it's okay, though, i made the mistake of asking if you know who i am. you didn't. it's two quarters past two in the morning, and i'm not okay.