i inherited an entire library
full of books that offer explanations
as to why you are incapable of loving me.

the romance section was laughable,
giving me bullet point commentaries
as to why i am doomed to never
be loved or feel loved again,
reasons why i settle for beautiful boys who
enjoy my company because i'm quirky, cute, time killer material,
not anchored, solid, strong, soulmate material.
but that's just it, i guess, no one can deny it-
(everyone knows when they are in the presence of precariousness.)

the mystery section offered me nothing but
a full buffet  of questions i already had,
questions that always seemed to give clues to future answers,
delicious questions that tasted sweet at first
then turned suddenly sour,
questions that made me understand the meaning
of a deceptive cadence.
(these books made me wish i didn't leave fingerprints
on everything i touch.)

the fiction section made me feel like a child again,
these were the books that reminded me why hope
is and has always been my favourite bedtime snack.
(these were the books that reminded me that just
because i couldn't make you love me did not mean
that i couldn't make believe you love me.)
since i've stepped out of my fins every step has made me wish
for the courage to throw myself into the sea,
to dissolve in an instant,
to be a daughter of the air forevermore.
(perhaps Hans Christian Anderson was the only person in the world
who knew just how much it hurts to be a human being.)

the self help section gave the illusion of answers,
the way a fortune teller with a foreign accent
doused in flattery and jewelry might seem.
i have spent hours of my existence with these books,
laying on my stomach, furrowed brow, fingers turning white
from clutching the ballpoint pen for dear life thinking
maybe if i just keep
underliningunderliningunderlining
things will start to make sense again.
(because, don't you know? the more you underline
the parts of your life that are relevant on paper,
the closer you are to having figured out your life so perfectly
you eventually will walk by these books wondering
which unfortunate person you should donate them to.)

i inherited an entire library
full of books that offer explanations
as to why you are incapable of loving me.
i think maybe there are some things
that we are never meant
to know.

We used to write stories on each other’s arm
About Greek gods
I wrote about Apollo and how my world revolves around him
Because Apollo is made of sunlight and he just ******* bursts with starshine
And the beating of his heart is a melody sung by the highest angel
You wrote about Zeus
'Cause all your life you've been treated like ****
And you just wanted to feel something other than pain
And the sound of your father’s voice calling you weak and worthless and
It just hurts so much, doesn’t it?

I packed a suitcase full of your favorite books
And those green pens you always tuck behind you ear
I took you to Paris then Venice then Spain
You looked happy, I think
Most especially in the spaces between the seconds

You painted a picture of me
Using the words
"Hurricane" and "Torrential" and "Catastrophic"
But I know now that that is how you say I love you

You caught raindrops on your palm
And pretended it was Aphrodite’s tears
And you drank it with a broken kind of need

You wrote about Zeus
'Cause all your life you've been treated like ****
I wrote about Apollo

And the way my world revolves around him
You will never know that I wrote about you
And I’ve always been writing about you

"Please stop tapping out messages in Morse Code. I can’t understand it" I once said
But now I know that that is how you say I love you

The truth is
We are all running
From something

A daughter runs
From a father
Who never loved her

An alcoholic runs
From the cold harsh reality
Sobriety brings

A man runs
From the shattered
Foundations of a love
That didn't ever work

But if you're
Very lucky
I think that
One day
Maybe
Just maybe
You would be
Running
                   Towards
Something

You said you wanted to
Know me better
So here I go:

I've got exactly 28 pens
I know because I counted

I've got too many notebooks
Yet I can't stop
Buying more and more

Sometimes when it's 4 am
And my mind is
Driving me to the brink
Of total insanity
I take 3 showers
to try and calm myself down
(It never works)

I like apple juice but I hate apples

I've never been good in math

There are too many
Cigarette burns
On the crook of my elbow
And scars on my thighs
and demons in my head

I love the smell of cinnamon

Once when I was 15
I drank blue paint
Because I think blue is beautiful
And I wanted to be beautiful too

That didn't work

So I drank a bottle of bleach
To clean my very core

It didn't work either

Now you know me better
I understand if you'd want
To run away now
It's okay
Save yourself
Run

I'm getting better
And you know what's the best part?
You're not fixing me