Stay.
I begged. I've never been too good at begging, but I fell onto my knees as though the floor was the only one listening and I shouted. Stay. The vibrations of your feet walking across the room to the door I always kept unlocked for anyone who wanted to step into this empty space, where memories of us hang on walls as though they're clutching to not hit rock bottom as I have. You always told me that I was enough, that I was the chain holding you onto me. That I was the abandoned swing set in the backyard that you never wanted to leave, but that was too damaged for you to love anymore. So you stare, as if nobody's there to get your eyes away. Maybe at the end of the day the arms of gravity loosened their pull and let you go but let me tell you, that was the day I realized there's nothing good in "goodbye" and there's nothing more that makes me cry than your back turned away from me; that's if we're not counting the promise of no return. Ever since that day the mirror reflects a melting puddle  of "wait for me, you're going too fast", it was a cry from the past of everyone who's stepped out and never acknowledged what they were leaving behind. The problem with goodbye is it's as real as the promise to love till goodbye isn't an option. It's the promise to drip morphine into your veins so the doctors don't have to tell me its time to let go, we're in this together. Till the last breath isn't the breath of you or me; but of us. Because what's it worth to live a forever without the person who gave you hope on forever in the first place? And what's the point in walking away on somebody who's still got your finger prints on the sides of their face? There are always stories that will go untold, but for now I'm re reading the the volumes of your chiseled frame and protruding lips like they were abandoned in the attic. They sat with first kisses and locked fingers for so long they need to be dusted off by the same hands years later. Yours are alive, and cut and rough. Mine are tired, and fragile and soft. To this day, they still fit perfectly into each other. I don't know why I wore out so early, why I no longer found the will in me to do the things we did as young lovers. I don't know why I'd spend my evenings on dusty couches while you'd beg me to come out with you and watch the sun like we did. I don't know why I stopped trying, I couldn't stop the constant crying caused by a fear of time running out. I don't know why I ever feared time in the first place. It always went so fast when I was with you but as long as I was with you everything was okay. Everything was rolling like the days the tide was pulled higher by the tugging moon. Our picnics on the sand always ended too soon but that was never a problem because we could run home in drenched clothes, have the fun of tearing them off each other and collapse naked into the warmth of clean sheets. All these memories I keep reminiscing. All the younger days I keep missing, the clocks keep ticking and I have lost the one I want to waste away the minutes with. I guess as an abandoned swing set its hard to say goodbye to the growing child. And as the melting puddle in the mirror its hard to look as yourself and smile. But nothings as hard as being the only lover in the hospital bed with none of your morphine in my veins, and no hands to hold onto. No final breath for both of us. Only the realization that the only good in this goodbye, is that I won't leave me with memories of us. It'll leave you with the memory of me, clutching onto the walls so they don't hit rock bottom as I have.

At midnight there's a freight train that passes through the neighbouring town; its loud enough shake the windows of our room and wake me. At 12:03 you roll over, kiss the blade of my shoulder and pull me closer into your embrace. You are sleeping-  silent and easy. My eyes are wide, watching the shadows on the walls as the cars drive by, putting the thought of leaving on my mind but keeping me in the warmth of our sheets until I can figure out how to slip out from under your arm. It feels so natural resting there below my rib cage just above my belly button, so i'm asking myself why I'm so urged to escape the one place that feels familiar; the one place that feels warm. It's 12:07 and the wind chimes start singing outside our window, giving signal of the cold winter breeze that would chill me to the bone if I decide that tonight's the night I leave you. It always works this way, running away from heartache before it happens; dodging the pain before I feel it on this body that you worship. Trying to forget about the nights when I'd ask you why you do this and your response always being, "you're worth it". I've been left too many times to believe it's true so now it's my turn to walk out that door before you do and even though my hands are shaking beneath you, my heart is whispering that the time is now. I wish you could wake up and beg me to stay somehow, but your eyes are sealed and a part of me knows how you would feel if you woke to me shutting the door ever so quietly the way I'm used to.
Love isn't enough to keep me satisfied- it used to be when I was young and naive but my heart's been broken too many times by guys who've watched me helplessly cry yet sat there and denied that they're even hurting me. It's a road that I'm used to walking down. The sidewalks beginning to know the sound of me dragging my feet at a quarter past twelve while the moons getting ready to hear me yell "why am I ******* like this?". I wish I wasn't like this. But God put me together like a puzzle and I think he lost a piece during the process. I don't know if I have a purpose, and I don't know in which God I believe. But I've spent my whole life running- trying to find someone who feels like the missing part of me. It's 12:23. You weren't the missing part of me. I'll never get the chance to apologize and at 6:41 the sun will rise but I'm begging you baby please don't cry when you don't see me laying beside you. People like me are hurricanes and we come around and bring too much pain and trust me sometimes I feel insane for always running away from from soft kisses and a safe place. But even bomb shelters get destroyed. And maybe love isn't meant for someone like me, maybe I'm meant to live with this void in my chest ; I haven't figured it out yet. Just make the bed like you always do, then go out and find yourself someone who loves you in all the ways I didn't know how. A girl with pretty eyes and a soft voice who is strawberry sweet and recognizes that despite it all, your heart is still soft and you will still need love when the sun rises.

The smell of death seeps through the cracks of locked doors where you hide the side of yourself that you never let me see. I keep having search parties for the key but I've finally convinced myself that you buried it along with all the other hearts you've broken. The blood stains on the ceiling are reminders that in some cases the last place I want to go is up, and laying breathless at the bottom of a lake is a better way to drown out the sound of “I love you” seeping through your clenched teeth.
When I was 10 years old I first heard the word ‘anesthesia’ come from the mouth of my best friend whose mother died a year before, and she told me that it meant she was numb to everything. Nothing could make her feel anything which is probably why she danced with death and there were rope burns around her neck as she lay in a casket 3 years later.
It escaped my mouth for the first time yesterday when I saw you walking towards me with a smile on your face and a gun in your hand and the realization hit me before the bullet did; sometimes the side that is hidden from us is the side we’re trying to escape from. But my fear of death subsides every time I stand before you, why else do you think I ever let your mouth meet mine? The consequence is just as dangerous. You’re just as poisonous. There’s no way to escape this.
I find myself standing in the middle of busy streets where cars hit me but I don’t die. I find myself waiting for the train, but never at the station. I find myself in places and I can’t remember how I got there but death always looks me hungrily in the eye and loses its appetite as soon as it gets close enough to take my breath away.
I want to quit breathing, but I don’t. This feeling is so strong yet contradicting. So powerful yet, so nonchalant. It was last night as I lay on a bed with sheets covered in my blood that I came to a conclusion...death is my anesthetic, and you've been giving it to me in doses.

Suddenly, the world went numb. All the pain, the worry, the apathy, the carefulness; it all went away. There was no sound, no hum, no white noise. The light stopped flickering; the curtains stopped dancing with the breeze blowing through the window. All I felt were your hands.
Slowly and softly making their way down my shoulders, tracing my skin like fingers exploiting a map. Gently feeling the goose-bumps form along the surface of my arms, and gently intertwining your fingers with mine.
I could have closed my eyes. I could have convinced myself that your love for me ran deeper than this. The truth is, this was the foreplay before the passionate goodbye. This was you staining your pigment onto my skin.

“Stop. This can’t be your goodbye. You can’t leave me like this”

You stopped. You looked into my eyes; the same eyes I looked into so many times before. As though you had it all planned out, you brushed my shoulders with your lips and whispered in a way that still forms goose bumps along my thighs;

“I have been looking for ways to show you I love you.
Now all I can do is leave”

"do you ever feel like maybe we're taking this whole life thing too seriously? Because I do. If I had the choice I'd be out somewhere west, living in a tree house with a dog and possibly a garden of some sort... I don't know, it seems like a crazy thought but I've always felt like this whole experience of life should be less cliche than it is. People take **** way too seriously and I just can't conform to it"

I laughed. Not a mocking "what are you even saying right now?" kind of laugh, but I couldn't help but be blown away by such a crazy thought. The moment was fitting; our backs leaning against the wooden fence that enclosed my yard, heads tilted up towards a sky decorated in bright yellow stars. It was nearly 3 am and the world was asleep around us. All there was to be heard was our breathing amid the silence and I could feel the heat from the smoke of my cigarette grazing against my fingertips.

"You have no idea how much my wanderlust tears at me"* I brought the cigarette up to my lips and breathed deep till my lungs were filled and exhaled slowly. "I just want to get out of this town. Move to B.C, meet new people. Feel something different; something other than this desire for a new perspective. Its almost like..." I paused "I want to be happy but I don't know what makes me happy yet, if that makes any sense"

He quickly turned to me, the kitchen light from inside spilling on his face so I could see the constellations of freckles on his cheeks the queer smile on his lips.
"I make you happy" he said mockingly

I smirked,"you make me feel an emotion that doesn't even have a name yet, happiness isn't complicated enough to describe it"

"You're so in love with me, its cute"
I couldn't see his smile but I could hear it. Suddenly it felt as though a curtain had been removed and I was center stage with the leading roll in a play that everyone wanted to see. I couldn't mess up my lines because I was making them up as I go and they weren't directed towards anybody but him. He was sitting in the middle row, with his eyes on mine, listening.
So I spoke. I turned my heart upside down and spilled words out of my mouth till everything I said fit so perfectly it didn't require an explanation.

I said;
"I am not in love with you. I am not in love with you. I am not in love with you. I know I sound like a record on repeat but you're a song and I  don't want your lyrics stuck in my head.
I love the way you're not religious but look up at the stars as though you can finally believe in something. I love the way you're selfless and undefined; like sometimes you die just to revive as something better than you were before. I love the way the earth doesn't feel so big when I'm with you, or that this whole life thing feels more like a two person game that we're so good at winning. I love the way you talk about your dreams in a way that you want to make them more than just dreams. I love the way you talk about plans as though you're already pulling them out of your head and getting started. I love the way you perceive the day as an agenda that needs constant filling. I love the way you look when you're passionate and inspired, or the way you get goosebumps along the surface of your skin when you talk about summer. I've never wanted anything more than to lay outside with you at night and hear you speak so I can experience your mind. No I am not in love with you and no it's not cute. But your presence puts me at ease, almost like I could be on the other side of the world with you and never feel home sick. I told you before that there's no name for the emotion I feel when I'm with you, but whatever it is I never want to stop feeling it."

There's nothing I would rather be than the one you call home.

I'm in the mood to write, though about I do not know.
Words have weighed down on my tongue, I need to let them go.
I'm in the mood to write, though I don't know what to say.
These thoughts are trapped inside my hands, I want to throw them away.
I'm in the mood to write, but I don't know how I feel.
Sometimes it's happy, at times it's sad but I don't know which is real.
I'm in the mood to write, but the page is remaining blank.
I can't control my emotions anymore, for that I have you to thank.
I'm looking out at the city, the streets are quiet tonight. Maybe it's the brightness of the sky but I'm in the mood to write.

I wonder if your mom was only sipping out the last drips from the bottle, to keep it away from the angry hands of your father.
I wonder if she slams the door as well, just to save him the trouble.
I wonder if she yells at the walls and buries her head where they meet, just so that he knows he isn't alone.
I wonder if she harms her own skin just so he doesn't have to.
I wonder if she tells herself she's worthless so he can save his breath.
I wonder if everyday, she breaks herself down so that he can feel like he's at least better than someone.
I ask myself often what you learnt from living in a house built up of dented walls and liquor stained floors.
I try to convince myself that you managed to build your own shelter, that you're different than them.
When you yell, I try to believe that you're just letting the sounds of your childhood escape your head.
When you punch the walls, I try to convince myself that your trying to make this new home a little more familiar.
When you bruise my skin I try to convince myself its because you don't want me to do it for you.
When you trip on your way up the stairs because of the alcohol in your veins I try to convince myself its because you don't like the way a full bottle looks on the kitchen counter.
When you turn away from me, I try to convince myself its because your scared to let me see you cry.
And after all this, when you tell me you love me; I try to convince myself that you really do.

When I was 15 I told my mom I couldn't go to school because my heart hurt.
She brought me to the doctor.
I couldn't find the courage to tell him the pain lives in the place where you used to be.
I had no courage to diagnose it as chronic.

There's something about the time of year when the leaves start to fall that makes my eyes go from clear blue to stained glass. Something about morning breath that makes me wish I could stop breathing until I remember that no one will love me even if I'm under a headstone. There's something about the wind, something about a whisper that sounds like it's begging me to leave; but when I fear the power of gravity after I tie the rope, I feel like death is trying to tell me I'm not ready yet. There's something about the frost bite on my hands that has me wishing there was something more for my empty palms to grab hold onto. Something about the way the cold makes my lips tremble and my voice crack, but no one hears a **** thing. Something about the way I'm looking for eyes to melt in and restore the life in mine. There's something about the way the doormat makes me feel anything but welcome and how the slammed door yells at me that I should of never come in. Something about winter and the absence of you, makes me feel like I wasn't meant to see December.

At some point, we all reach happiness.
We all get there in different paces.
I've been working on my strides,
but baby wait for me at the finish line.

The apple never falls close enough to the tree.

My biggest fear
Is that I'll wake up in 10 years
And still miss you

I constantly find myself reaching out to the side of my bed where you used to lay, and disappoint myself to have even set an expectation that I might have been able to touch your skin. I won’t lie, I've let myself fall asleep in the arms who have dared to hold me, but they've never felt like you. The day I woke up alone to a single sun ray beaming on my cheek, I realized that I held love in my hand almost as tightly as you held the door handle the day you left & I guess that’s been sitting on my mind for so long that I forget to welcome in any other thoughts. I let myself hate who I am, because you couldn't love me the way I thought you did. I hear people talk of love as though it’s the sweetest thing they've ever tasted, while I sit there listening with a bitter blandness on my tongue. I find myself clutching onto bottles of ***** and pills I never end up popping, almost as though my hands have the habit of holding on too tightly to things that aren't good for me. The problem is that I've never found this feeling in anything else but you. I've never longed for something so badly to the point that without it, I can’t function. My knees are so heavy, my head is constantly spinning I try to see the reflection of your face in the windows at night when I play your favorite songs. I write with my fingers in the snow till they go blue, messages to remind me this isn't permanent so that when the sun comes out and they melt, they will have been proving it all along. Trust me when I say, numb fingers can never forget the feeling of something so warm. And kissed lips will always remember the ones that made them tremble.

My mom once told me, I should talk to you about God.
because maybe I could help you get away from the clutches of evil.
She could smell the cigarettes off your jacket from miles away,
as well as the liquor on your breath the days you showed up late.
Do you remember the time she brought us to church?
I held your hand in the pews and you never let "amen" escape your mouth.
You never bowed your head or closed your eyes.
I remember you told me that you've never felt more out of place, and that the preachers voice stung your ears.
I guess I should of realized that you can't save someone that basques in their own misery.
Until one day I walked out to find you on the porch with a cigarette between your fingers, begging him to take the pain away.
You always prayed to him, I never noticed it.
You told me that you don't find God on your knees Sunday mornings,
but he's the voice you hear calling out your name when you're intoxicated Saturday nights.
Do you remember when I asked you what you prayed for?
and as you blew up the smoke from your chapped lips you whispered "Change".
It was never the kind you found at the bottom of a wishing well, but rather the one that you haven't seen since the day your mom left.
You never looked me in the eyes when we talked about what makes you cry at night, or the reason you keep going back home when its the last place you want to be.
The tremble of your voice when you confided that "God doesn't help people like me" has never crawled out the seams of my mind.
I still remember one year later, finding your name in the obituaries.
I still cry every night that God couldn't find a way to ease away your suffering.
I still thank you for hanging on for so long.
I'm sorry I never know what to say when people ask what I loved about you, other than "everything he hated about himself"

"...But truthfully I'd rather stare at your hands. I enjoy how they never shake the way mine do as though I've been carrying an object as heavy as my heart for too long; but they're always empty. I enjoy the way you wrap them around pencils, and coffee cups with a tight grip. I like the way you make it seem like you don't let go very easily. I used to rest in weak hands. I used to slip through the fingers of people who shook me off while I held on as though my life depended on them. I think the problem with the way I live is that I often never give myself the satisfaction of controlling whats mine. I'm not strong enough to make anyone stay. I'm not good enough for them to ever want to. I've lived with this reality making home in my mind but there's something about the way you looked at me this morning; kind of the way an artist looks at a finished canvas in total awe. Maybe that was the moment that I realized that I should probably stop staring at your hands and make love to your eyes. The way the light up as though you've been swallowing lightning bugs. The way you never hesitate to let them linger. The way their blue reminds me of the walls of my grandmas house that was built up with hands that look just like yours. I like the way you stare even when your blood isn't laced with alcohol. Almost as though I'm the painting that no matter how long you look at it; it still remains beautiful. The truth is, my walls are covered in love letters and poems written for someone I never knew... that was until I met you."

If I knew what I know now, then, I wouldn't hold the feeling of regret in my hands everytime someone spoke your name. I wouldn't have let you drive away without you knowing that you're leaving someone who loves you. If I knew what I know now, then, this feeling of "what if" would not be a soundtrack playing in the background every time I miss you. I shouldn't have to miss you, but I also couldn't have made you stay. Sometimes I wish that you would have shown me that you felt the same way.. but the smiles from across the room never lasted quite long enough. I wanted to tell you that night we sat on my mother's couch, but then I asked myself if I was ready to watch you leave and the answer was always no. I wanted to tell you when we sat on my porch and watched the cars drive by as the sun set over my little neighborhood. The birds would have heard it and the sun would have given its last drops of light to my words... but they stayed locked onto my tongue and never made their way out. If I knew what I know now then, I would have written you a letter instead.
The words I love you come bearing too much weight, I have never been strong enough to risk slipping them through my clenched teeth because I always thought you would respond with a goodbye. If I knew what I know now, then, I would shot a gun at my fear and let the words spill like honey onto my lips.

Maybe you would have kissed me and tasted it.

They all talk about loving with all their heart as though it's enough to contain the way their whole body feels. I love you with everything that I am; every good morning, every goodnight.  I love you with the scars and birthmarks that make home on the surface of my skin. I love you with everytime the corners of my mouth can't help but turn upward and my hands can't help but pinch my legs to make sure all of this is real. I love you with every finger that grips onto your shirt when we kiss, I love you with every kiss I plant on your neck when we drown ourselves in bottles of alcohol and get high on each others laughter. I love you, I love you, I love you. I never want to stop loving you. I've never felt anything like this before, and if you leave; I fear I'll never feel anything again.

I have been looking for poetry. I have been emptying drawers in search for metaphors to describe words too beautiful to roll off my tongue. I have been chocking on ways to explain this feeling in my chest and no
simile or imagery will settle because the result is always less than what I need to say. I searched under my bed this morning, I'm looking for a poem that would have convinced you to stay; a poem composed of concrete that would of kept your shoes planted here so that when the night broke to day I wouldn't of had to wake up alone. Alone in this house where picture frames of our love are hung on the wall and the carpet is stained with purple spots from that one time you made me laugh so hard and spill my wine all over it. Let me assure you I never tried to get the stains out, they were just as precious as a letter that I wrote you that never got mailed out because we shared the same mail box. And as long as I knew your address as though it was my own that's when I'd be sure that wherever I am; I'm home. I have been looking for poetry. I wrote you a letter and I placed it in our mailbox because I know you love when people write to you. I know you love the look of my handwriting when it's a message written to your name. I wrote you a letter telling you that I've never enjoyed a sunrise more than when the rays kiss our hardwood floor while we're dancing in the kitchen. I've never enjoyed a sunset more than when we're laying on the grass near that one tree and the crickets sound like they're urging us to kiss. I have been looking for poetry, and there's not one place in going to miss; I'm looking everywhere. I checked under the bathroom sink this morning where we stored those candles that burned the one night we got a bit too close, shut the windows and found ourself laying in bed running fingers along the inches of each other skin like blind men reading braille. I found poetry in the small of your back. The words wrapped themselves around your spine and made their way up to your carved shoulders. I don't think I had ever read anything more beautiful. It was as though our bedroom was a place of worship; and it's always Sunday morning. I don't want to bow my head because I'm too busy reading the prayer written in your eyes.
I'm looking for poetry. I'm not gonna stop looking for it because none of them are satisfying. I'm trying to find the poem the door mat and the porch steps wrote on the day you left. The day they wrote about the silence of your breath. And the delicacy of your steps as you ran away. The one about the cracked door you left open and the breeze that made its way upstairs and whispered the goodbye you couldn't find the courage to say.
I keep writing you letters. But they always find themselves in the mailbox by the end of the week. And I wish I'd find it in myself to accept the fact that our address is different now. Everything is different now. They say insanity is doing the same thing again and again, expecting a different result. Well I must be insane because I keep looking for the poem that tells me you leaving wasn't my fault. I'm waking up shaking in our place of worship and I'm hoping that maybe, just maybe it's God gripping me by the shoulders screaming "You are loved, you are loved, you are loved!"

I still remember the first time you brought your lips to my neck. I remember looking in the mirror the next morning for a hickey, but instead I found her name stained to my skin in purple ink. I always wondered why you  kept your eyes closed when we would pull away from a kiss; but now I think it's because it's the only way you can hold onto her memory for a little longer. She made her way into my head, under my skin and into my bed just by being the only thing on your mind. I've touched every part of your body but I cannot manage to clean away the prints of her hands. The first night I heard her name in between your breaths when you were sleeping showed that your closed eyes are the only thing keeping you with her. It's the only way you can hold her hand. You're at one end of the room and she's at the other, but there's something there that's blocking contact. Something that's keeping you from reaching out, paralyzing you not to call her name. They always ask me why I stay. Why I keep looking into your eyes when you don't look into mine unless there's a glimpse of green surfacing them. I guess it's because I keep falling asleep to my own bedtime story. The story where my body is the one you want to kiss. Where you can read my goosebumps like braille. Where you drown in the blue of my eyes. They say insanity is repeating the same thing and expecting a different result. Well baby I must be insane because I keep falling asleep to this story, but every morning I wake up alone.

I guess this is as real as it gets.
I stared at this blank page for a while trying to figure out how I wanted to express myself to you.
The easiest way to get my thoughts flowing was playing that Hedley song you once sang to me while we layed together on the black couch in my living room.
That couch isnt there anymore. Neither are you.
But it's that moment sits in my mind as though someone etched it there permanently and I can time travel back to that moment as soon as I hear the piano playing.
I remember how funny it was that you couldn't sing. But at the same time it was amazing that you remembered every lyric to that song and looked me in the eyes as if you meant every single word.
Ironic isn't it how it had to do with not letting me go.
Ironic that even if it sounded crazy, you were gone 2 months later.
I guess I should of seen your lose grip on my hands as a warning sign that you weren't staying,
I wasn't enough to make you stay and I guess that's why 6 months later I still lay in bed blaming myself.
They say if you love someone let them go and that seems like the most rediculous thing to me because I loved you more than I've ever loved anyone and watching you leave was just as hard as standing unarmed in the middle of a shooting range.
As pathetic as it is, I just want you to know. I want you to know how much I hate you for hurting me the way you did.
I hate you for consuming my thoughts everyday. I hate you for thinking its okay to make me fall so deeply and just leave as though I was nothing; as though we were nothing.
Ending a poem is probably the hardest part. I don't know how I want to leave you feeling.
I'll just say this; if love is what we had, then I want nothing to do with it because someone that loves you shouldn't be able to leave you feeling torn in the middle of the night, they shouldn't leave you wondering what they did wrong in order to not be enough for you. I shouldn't feel like love is something that isn't meant for me, and that's how I feel every ******* day.

I've always thought that I would be the one to write my own eulogy and keep it hidden in the back of my drawer so that when you see my name in the obituaries you won't need to worry about having to pretend you care. I'll write my eulogy for you. I'll talk about all the things you wished you could of told me before you ran off without warning, I'll write about how my love was a state of mind and all you wanted to do was blow your head off. I'll write about how you never really knew how to love me because all your life you were taught about the birds and the bees and never learnt about the significance of butterflies till everything you loved finally became everything you lost. I'll write my eulogy for you, I'll write about how the walls you built to shut me out we're decorated with us in picture frames, and no alcohol could consume you enough and give you a motive to take them down. I'll write about how maybe you thought the timing was wrong, the place was wrong, the motives were wrong but how you have never experienced a love so right. And maybe I wasn't always your cup of tea but I can bet anything that after the tenth shot of ***** your body was numb and your skin craved my fingers enough that you settled for the girl in your bed who's name, to this day you still don't know. I'll write my eulogy for you, I'll write about how for the past eight years you watched the sunset and talked to me from a different rooftop. And that even when it set it took you a while to get up and go to bed because you missed the feeling of watching me waiting in your sheets. I'll write my eulogy for you. I'll write about how you're sorry. Because the only thing different about you and a setting sun, is that the sun always came back.

...and it's after having looked into your eyes that I can say I've drowned in the ocean without stepping foot into water

twelve thirty-something in my sister's apartment
a moment of dancing and your lips met mine
tequila-stained breath and the sound of them talking
all disappeared at that moment in time.
Chocolate brown eyes and with a gaze I got lost in
What does this mean? Who is this guy?
your hands on my waist and the feeling of fire
all disappeared when you said goodbye.
Six months later you walk up my driveway
hands in your pockets, hair freshly done
lost in my sheets we spend half the day
How could this be? Is he the one?
One year later, we share the same bedroom
i sleep every night my head tucked in your arm
people's assumptions, is this happening too soon?
that feeling of fire is a slow constant warm.
You know all my secrets, we share the same hairbrush
we go and buy groceries, we laugh through the aisles
i know that I’ve said I’ve loved once before
but day after day you heal my inner child.
You hold my heart like it’s glass in your hands
Delicate and soft, precious as diamond
They always told me true love is worth waiting for,
but I never thought this was how I would find him.
I am yours in mind, and body, and soul
I’ll go through this life holding your hand in mine
and when our bones turn weary and old
when our breaths slow down and we know that it’s time
I’ll die smiling knowing I lived this life with you
we shared the best and the worst of our days
And when we depart I know I won’t miss you;
In every lifetime, I’ll love you this way.

I promise you a love that never dies. A love as real as a rose freshly blooming in the spring, a love that stays as beautiful as the fake bouquet in the window pane of your mother’s kitchen.
I promise you minimal space between our skin, I promise you undying sparks when our lips enfold like pages of romance novels.
I promise a smile that medicates to the pain you feel in your heart, I promise eyes that can identify where your suffering is making home.
I promise words as powerful as eviction notices on the door of your mind, I promise to never stop rolling them off my tongue until the demons make their way out.
I promise to open the curtains just enough for the rays of the morning sun to kiss your bare back. I promise to close them at night and hold you till you feel comfortable in the silence and darkness.
I promise to whisper my love into your ears so you can always fall asleep to the sound of truth.
I promise you days where we stay inside and listen to the rain slide down the glass windows. I promise to stay when the ground dries up. I promise to never make you feel the way your father did, I promise to always remind you that your worth is amplified in my eyes.
I promise so many things, but mainly to love as though it’s the only thing I am capable of doing.
I promise to love you till our skin cracks and our bones turn to dust. I promise to love you when the singing of church bells marks our departure.
I promise to love you when our home changes from brick walls, to mounds of soil.
I promise to love you as long as I am alive and ever after.

I once carved poetry into your back with the nail of my pinky finger-  so that any girl who lays beside you can read the way I fell in love with your breathing after all the nights you found sleep before I did. Maybe they'll get a bitter taste in their mouth when they realize my love for you was not enough to make you stay.
You traced your fingertips on my skin as though I was simply a map that led to your pleasure. You sunk your teeth into my shoulders while pulling back on my hair because you were convinced that I couldn't feel anything; somehow its 3 years later and my eyes still read through our conversations searching between the lines for the reason you left.
You used to touch me as though your hand on my thigh was the key to my heart and my moans were the only ways of expressing my love to you but you'll never be able to read the poem on your back that says I could feel your heart beat on the mattress of my twin bed... its been three years and my sheets still smell like vacancy. My heart is collecting dust in the corners because no ones been in there since you decided it wasn't enough for you. I can't recall the rhythm of your heart and sometimes my lungs forget how to breath.
Its days like these I wish you were right about my inability to feel. But God knows there are more nerve endings in my heart than the place between my thighs and maybe if you wouldn't have ****** all the love out of me it wouldn't be as hard to see you go.
Its been three years.

I still remember the day you stopped loving me

I woke up to open windows, rain spilling onto the window sill.

I wish it didn't end like this

but its still raining

and I'm still wrapped in these sheets

waiting for myself to drown.

I don't know how to tell you that I have found the love of my life in the corner of my hospital bedroom. He stands patiently. Watches me eager. Feeding me his hand-me-down depression. He could make me feel at home in a roofless shelter, make this rain feel like soft kisses along my skin, he could make razor blades feel like feathers. I have never known the true definition of flirting until seeing the hunger for my soul in his eyes. I don't know how else to tell you that I've found the love of my life. All I can say is that death has been begging me to stay the night, I've been choking on apologies. These days he's the only one who knows how to hold me.

I wish my heart had a hand
It could write about feelings I don’t understand
If you asked me how I felt, Id know what to say
I wish my heart had a hand.

I wish my heart had a voice.
when I’m with you it’d be the most beautiful noise
that speaks when I can’t find what to say
I wish my heart had a voice.

I wish my heart had a shield
Against a love that’s just weeds in a floral field
A love that dies at the end of the day
I wish my heart had a shield.

I wish my heart had a door
So I couldn’t let strangers in anymore
That leave scars in this fragile place
I wish my heart had a door.

I wish my heart had a sign
It could warn me about the lies in your lines
So that at the end of the day I’m not torn
I wish my heart had a sign.

You tipped me over. I spilled my words into your hands, they filled the creases in your palms and the spaces between your fingers. You held them as though they were malleable, crushed them with strength and shook them off as though they were something ***** that you couldn't get rid of. I still remember the night I found you trying to pick up the pieces, looking for the hidden message behind what I tried to tell you. Your knuckles ******, your face dripping with sweat, your eyes clothed in desperation. You replaced the heart on your sleeve with a broken one. You never gave me the parts of you that didn't need fixing. I wish you stopped blaming me for being the reason you're still filled with apathy, I wish you would of realized that I spent all this time looking for the right way to tell you I'm not what you're looking for. I wish everything I said was enough for you to leave, I wish my hands were strong enough to push you away. We both know that you're stronger than me; but I hope you wake up one day and realize I stopped loving you before you started. I hope one day you can wash your hands clean ; I hope you realize I never wanted to be the one weighing you down.

the sky was pink

lost in bed, room 26

blue motel walls

silent narrow halls

soft music in the streets

my hands, your cheeks

soft sighs

angel eyes

maybe

t h i s

is

the

P a r a d i s e

i've been searching for

I couldn't wait for the day the sun didn't feel like it was trying to burn me, or for the day the rain wasn't trying to fill my lungs. I couldn't wait for the day the highway wouldn't sound like it's calling me to play with it, or the day sidewalks quit threatening to swallow me whole. There was something about the way my fear of love made the words wrap themselves around my vocal cords. I'm sorry I've never been able to get those three words out without sounding like I'm going to choke. I couldn't wait for the day my love for you didn't feel like a consequence or for the day I could convince myself that what you felt for me was real. The truth is I'm not used to people staying longer than I'm able to hold myself back from pushing them away. I got in the habit of writing my love to you on the parts of my skin that I'd never let you see, so that tearing off my clothes would be the easiest way to show you how I feel. My veins are filling with ink now, a mix of red and blue filled with words left unsaid. Some nights I talk to the walls, some nights they tell me about where your knuckles made dents when I'd whisper in my sleep about leaving you; I never really thought you'd be the first one out the door. Loving you was making excuses. Loving you was throwing diamonds in wishing wells, knowing my hope wasn't worth the price. Sometimes when the highway calls me, sometimes when the sidewalks threaten to swallow me whole, sometimes when the rain fills my lungs with water;  letting you go looks a lot like the final death of me.

Its 12:46 and I'm wondering if she's the one you're staying up late for. Does she fill your stomach with butterflies, like I did? Does her name sound so sweet it melts in your mouth when you say it? Does she graze your skin with her fingertips, like I did? Does the taste of her mouth get you drunk? Does she stare into your green eyes and melt into them, like I did? Does she point out when your lower lip trembles? Does she curl her fingers into yours, like I did? Do they fit just as perfectly? Does she kiss you deeply in the morning as she does in the night, like I did? Do her hips fit perfectly in your hands? Does she tell you how much you mean to her, like I did? Do you hesitate before saying it back? Does she smile at you from a distance, like I did? Does she bring you laughter even when she's gone? Does she love you as much as I did? Do you love her as you loved me?
Or did you never love me to begin with?...

Loving you was mistaking a welcome mat for an eviction notice and never knowing where to turn. It was stepping into empty rooms with white walls and never feeling more at home. Legend always had it that if you stare into broken mirrors you risk seeing yourself dead, loving you was staring into your eyes and getting the same result. My mother always told me that evil can disguise itself into everything you've ever wanted, I finally understood what she meant when I would watch you fall asleep and start calling out someone else's name. Sometimes I still hear your voice resonating off the walls and it sounds a lot like the door slamming on the day you left. Loving you had me digging graves inside flower gardens because I kept anticipating the mornings I'd find myself buried in dirt instead of in my sheets next to you. Loving you was putting suicide notes and love letters into the same envelope and sending them to address's of empty houses. Maybe someday they'll end up at my door again. Maybe someday you'll come back again. Maybe I die too soon to see the day. I don't know how the story ends. All I know is that I've swallowed a pill for every flower that died on "he loves me not", and right now laying six feet in the ground feels more guarded than your arms ever did.

These past nights I've been waking up from nightmares to the wind howling against my window; it's almost as though it's begging me to let it in so that it can whisper in my ears not to miss you. That's all I know how to do these days, other than search for the man on the moon and ask him how he copes with the loneliness. But even the moon reminds me of you; there's something about the glow that makes me think of your smile. The craters that remind me of the dimples in your cheeks. I wish I could tell you how much I miss you. But I can't make words out of this ache in my chest and I wish you were feeling this too so that I could know that at least my love was strong enough to make you feel something other than regret.

Fire.
Fire in my eyes when I look into the spark ignited in yours.
The smoke, heavy breathing
coughing, trying to catch my breath
Hot, sweaty, my fingers on your skin. Bare skin. Soft skin.
Your hands in my hair. Long hair, rough tugs.
Shaking legs, wrinkled sheets, tight grips on old headboards
And this is it. Heat, heat, slowly getting hotter. Passion becoming more than just a word.
Lust becoming more than a thought.
You and me in this wild, uncontrollable
Fire.

I've never wanted someone so much it felt like all I was ever doing was wait for them. There's always a designated area, always an assigned seat, always a reserved table. I still don't know what my boundaries are to loving you, but so far you've taken up my entire train of thought. The cart that was filled with my sanity is filled with the thought of wanting you; and I'm starting to lose my mind. I have no control over the route of these copper tracks. I don't know when I'm expecting to find myself laying beside these rails wishing things would have gone a different way. There's no heads or tails in the gamble of love. I've put my heart on the table, waiting to see what you're willing to lose and it won't be as much as I'm willing to give; but that's just my luck. I'm never the one who walks out with the better end of the bargain, I just want something to be mine. The something being you, the mine being me. Together in a game that I can make easy to play. A train ride that lasts long enough for us to be able to pinch ourselves and it still be real. A reserved area that no one gets the power of overtaking. I'm in for the long shot, I'm willing to risk it. Just come down to the station and and buy a one way ticket.

There are days that my head feels too heavy for my neck to carry. Days that I wish my thoughts had a mute button or I could scream loud enough for them to find their way out of my mind. The truth is the demons have made their beds here, they've hung their pictures on the wall and painted the walls grey. I think they're here to stay. They've been flooding the place too often lately and I've been meaning to stick an eviction notice on their door but got too busy trying to teach myself how to breathe underwater. I don't like asking for help, I'd rather stare at the people in the windows. What their life is like, I don't know. I still convince myself it's better than mine. I don't like admitting that the pain doesn't hurt anymore. Somedays I just feel it more than others. My screams are silent and my tears are dry when they stream down my face. No one hears a thing. No one see's a thing. I am the deer in headlights that refuses to move out of the way, but the car swerves around me every time. Death has invited me over for dinner and life gave me a curfew. I wish the blood on my wrists didn't stain the clothes of the people who love me. I just don't know how to live in this skin when being alive is killing me. When being alive is keeping them happy.
I don't think living is supposed to feel like hands around my neck. Maybe one day it won't be so hard to breathe.

I'm sorry I can't get anything out of my mouth without it sounding like I'm sorry. Even my "I love you"'s sound like apologies when I'm trying to confess it as though the feeling hasn't been rotting inside my chest for the past few months. I'm sorry that the welcome mat looks like an entry prohibited sign, I promise if you squint your eyes enough it looks a little more inviting. I'm sorry I'm always the first one out of bed in the morning, I've never been good at making people feel like I'm going to stay and I'm not going to allow you to get used to me in the sheets with you. I'm sorry that I flinch when you don't pour enough ***** in my glass, but I'd rather be numb by the last sip than the third serving. I'm sorry if I keep cutting the conversation short, your voice reminds me of him and it rings in my ears like the sound of someone telling you they don't want you anymore; and well, that's what he did. I'm sorry the bag under my eyes keep revealing my lack of sleep, but I've never been good at being alone in the dark and it's hard for me to find the courage and ask you to stay the night. I'm sorry I keep saying I'm sorry; I've  been weighed down with guilt for every pain I've ever felt and I'm just hoping that maybe you'll see why I write poems that can't be read out loud.

They all talk of being born with skin of glass. I live with flesh of stones; no mortar holding together my pieces. One harsh touch to crumbling down into a pile of debris like houses after disaster. Houses that home the bodies of the forgotten. Houses of the people I used to love in a time when  love was something I was capable of doing. A time when blood ran through the veins that are now tangled grape vines. When the boulder in my chest once held the names of people whose lips I've once kissed. I am no longer able to hold people without them being a part of me. Whose heart was made into solid rock and built me. I am made of everyone I have broken. I remember you visited me last year, laying flowers at my feet. Crying, begging me to hold you. Begging me to take the pain away. You traced the lines of my composure, you rested your head against my solid chest. The chest that doesn't contain the resonation of a beating heart. I wanted to tell you I am sorry. I'm sorry for keeping them from you, I'm sorry that their names are etched into me. I'm sorry for being the only reminder of the ones whose absence you feared. I still remember the day the carved each death date into my side, It didn't hurt. Nothing hurts other than seeing your tears that shower onto the flowers that bring beauty to the darkness I am made of. Maybe I'll become numb someday... maybe it'll be the day they carve your death date into my surface; maybe death will look a little more beautiful.

Somewhere, right now, soulmates are meeting.
Somewhere, right now, lovers are departing.
Somewhere right now, a lonely man is sipping the last drops of his fifth bottle.
Somewhere, a daughter is watching her father drive away for the last time.
Somewhere a little boy sits with a therapist locking words under his tongue.
Somewhere a blade is being introduced to raw flesh.
Somewhere, right now a young life is being put in the ground, with a psychiatrist pondering at what he could have done to save her.
Somewhere right now, pettles are being ripped from flowers by hearts wondering if they're loved.
Somewhere right now a nurse is changing the sheets on what used to be a death bed.
Somewhere right now, a ship is sinking into the bottom of deep waters that don't promise revival.
Somewhere right now someone is crying out to a God who doesn't exist to listen.
Somewhere right now hands are being held in the back of churches in remembrance of loved ones gone.
Somewhere a song is playing that brings tears to the eyes of ones who haven't lived long enough to feel.
Somewhere letters are being sent to houses that are vacant.
Somewhere doors are being shut in the faces of those who have never known what its like to crave loneliness.
Somewhere there are all these things.
I'm here, you're there.
I don't know where there is; but its lucky to have you.

It hasn't rained this hard in months, the window is tasting the wrath of the sky and I am laying, clothed in empty. Have you ever felt the weight of lids against your eyes? It's almost like the closing of the curtain after a play that should have never ended. I guess that's how I feel tonight. It's the first time that the tremble of lightning shakes the house and I don't miss you. It's the first time that the thoughts inside my head are being drown out by rain. Maybe this is why there are storms, maybe everyone is a little empty. I've always loved the roaring of thunder; I never loved you.

A little girl knocked on my door today, flower bouquet in her hands and a smile plastered on her face as though its the only emotion she knows. She steps foot in without asking permission to. Her hair falls down the side of her face and I was trying hard to hide the tears that were streaming down mine. She didn't hide her curiosity
“Why are you sad?”

When her eyes looked up and met mine I felt ashamed that I could be uncovered by a girl who I seemed to recognize but couldn't quite pin out the memory of where. She hands me the flowers and their scent brings me back to a time that seems so clear, yet so distant.
I tell her I’m not sad, but rather sick. And the smile drops from her face as she says “Mommy says that too”

It woke a spark in the hollow of my mind to a time where I used to hear the same thing. Flashed back to a time where the only music I heard was the crashing of pans in the kitchen and the fall of hard liquor into small cups that were guzzled before I could taste them. The sound of yelling in the bathroom and glass being broken at 1am when the world was asleep. The whimpering of a small voice coming from the dusty couch in the family room, where our family never gathered in. The stumbling of my fathers intoxicated feet as he came up the stairs to pass out in a bed that was made for two. I remembered her skin stained purple, her eyes shot red and asking her “Mommy, why are you sad”. And with delicate hands that enfolded my face, she barely looked me in the eyes as she said “Darling, I’m not sad; but rather sick”

In that moment I realized that sometimes, they’re the same thing.
My throat dried up and hands felt numb as I grabbed the girl by the shoulders
“What’s your name and where are you from”
The smile vanishes, her eyes meet mine; with one look she gives me the answer I already know.

But before I can tell her that I remember seeing her face when I looked into broken mirrors, before I can beg her to not get into the habit of turning her skipping rope into a noose, before I get the chance to say that love is not supposed to be fists to the skin, and rough hands around fragile necks;

I blink and she’s gone.

In all honesty I've never been good with words. I never knew what to respond after the doctor would ask me what hurt, or what to tell my mother after I saw her cry when my dad left. Poetry is placing words in all the wrong places in order to build something right. Poetry is taking apart the puzzle and forcing the pieces into spaces they don't fit. I tried to write you a letter to tell you that I miss you, the problem with poetry is that there's no metaphor that makes this emptiness inside my chest any more beautiful. There's no personification real enough to make my sheets feel like you're laying in them. There's no simile literal enough to make my heart feel as though its healing. I wish I could place these words on my tongue and roll them out for you to hear, but since I've last kissed you I can't even find the motivation to part my lips. I always find myself questioning why I keep writing; because the problem with my poems is that you're never the one reading them.

I hope you believe me when my I tell you my body is composed of more than a skin and bone frame.
My body is a picture book of times stained to me like tattoos of memories unable to be washed off.
If you stare closely enough my purple knuckles tell a story of walls caving in on days I can't remember.
My fingers are a light shade of skin because they have traced bodies who's pigment fell in love with my hands.
My palms are empty from receiving and giving a little more than I should of let go; some things I should of clutched onto for longer.
My arms are made of clenched embrace and have a scent of regret laced from wrist to elbow.
My shoulders hold individual carvings of finger nails and teeth marks from more than one individual night.
My lips are a discolored red from every poison stained mouth in which they've met.
My neck is a canvas of rough hands, ropes not tied tight enough and purple stains of affection from those who have lied about loving me,
and my eyes have turned grey from staring for too long into the forests and oceans they've met at three in the morning in the caves of unfamiliar faces.
So if you happen to walk into my room, don't be alarmed by the smell of apathy. Don't concern yourself about the bottles buried and broken under mounds of clothes that reek of Marlboros. Don't turn the light on, and don't open the curtains.
I have lived long enough, my body will tell you the story.
But before you read it, please trust me when I say "there is more to me than this."

Do not touch me with fingers that have cupped my mouth trying to keep me silent.

I am burnt.

These days, I find myself in a constant battle between the things I love and the things I need to push away because they don't know how to properly love me back. You have always been one to turn my feelings into a noose I want to **** myself with. You have always made me hate myself for having a heart that pumps the ink I use to attempt writing suicide letters with after making art on my wrists for too long. These days, I find more hope in the thought of dying... more peace in the thought of a final breath. We both get a different kind of pleasure when I beg you to choke me between satin sheets; I am looking for a beautiful way to to make my heart stop. The day I realized I stopped loving you was the day you told me you didn't like who I was becoming; you couldn't love the monster that was growing inside me. I've become to exhausted to keep trying to push him out. Its his eyes you're looking into now. Its his lips you've been kissing. It's his words telling you that I can no longer try and focus on my future when I don't even see a tomorrow for myself. It's hard to convince people you're okay with being alive after they see you looking for all the high places...

I've given up on trying.

Please don't tell me there's a light at the end of the tunnel; I've been running in the dark for too long for you to convince me I'll ever find my way out of this **** place.
I've become numb to whatever's trying to destroy me, I just wish it wasn't taking so much time to get the job done.

Open books with black covers containing stories never good enough to be read, words never long enough to contain the fragment of a thought. Maybe that's why I turn to putting my own in the complexity of poems, maybe that's why I'm never satisfied because I can never say what I mean. Sometimes I don't think you know what I mean, so if you haven't been able to read the between the lines; I miss you. I've been looking for so many ways to say it but none of them have been enough to make you come back. The thing about poetry is its never enough to make you feel the way I do. It'll never make you realize that ink seeps out of my pens with the purpose to make you feel something; but it never does. The thing about poetry is that you need to be empty to write it and that's why I learnt how to after you left. The shut door opened a new one which was the will to write about all the broken pieces of myself. The thing about poetry is it requires to see life through the eyes of things unspoken. Little do most know that mirrors and picture frames can speak novels of things forgotten which is me to you. The thing about poetry, is that I'm running out of things to say. I'm running out of words to spray on city walls, or carve in the wood of dying trees. The thing about poetry is that this isn't it. This is the goodbye, good luck. I have nothing more to bleed out for you, my mind is turning to dust. This is the last "I love you" I have left to write about, this is extended hands with empty palms.
This is the apology. It's me trying to feel something more than what I do, and as hard as I try to get there, I can swear that in nights of deafening silence I can still hear the sky screaming out your name.