I crawled under the door, with none in hand
sitting in the backseat waiting
I’d wish it all away, if I could
high noon; the world sighs
over the railroad tracks ruined my day.
the little thing whose bones got rearranged
We make up stories to feel safe at night
and the Parisian streets under unbearable heat.

But they won’t let me,
handing out promises I can’t keep
broken heart strings
plucked and snapped
here I am,
still stuck in between.

When I hear sirens
I wonder if they’re carrying a lost soul
or on their way to save one.
Either way, they sound like December
with brown mush lining the streets
and they keep me missing Luna
even when I say
I’m doing fine
and everything happens for a reason
and every soul lost
has a greater purpose
that couldn’t be fulfilled on this earth.
But I still think about her
and wonder if the smoke hurt
or if she looked for me
or if she was already gone
by the time the firefighters broke in.
I wanted to give her all of my love
but I think she’d be okay with me
giving myself that love instead.

I hate the fact that
you ruined so many things for me.
Every album you played
while I drove you home
(which made me late for work)
while you showered
(to avoid apologizing)
while I was slowly waking up
(much earlier than preferred)
make up the soundtrack
to every awful thing you made me do.

I hate that when the air outside
feels like fall disguised as spring,
it smells like you laying beside me
bottoming out after a night of Jameson
and me still awake from the previous morning,
dialing the numbers to emergency responders.

I hate that black coffee and marb reds
taste like your mouth
and take me right back
to that bathroom where I hid,
waiting for you to fall asleep,
because you wouldn't let me
sleep in my own ******* bed.

I hate that
I probably still love you
after all you put me through.

I had a panic attack in an American Eagle dressing room recently.
As I sobbed quietly
and begged my racing heart
to please slow the **** down,
I listened to the chatter in the adjacent stalls;
other girls proclaiming their depression because
that top did not come in their size.
My mother stood
on the other side
of the locked door, suggesting
that I just
"stop."

While I struggled to catch my breath,
my mother went out to the floor,
feeling the need to tell the tale
of her poor daughter who lost everything
to the sales clerks and managerial staff.
They brought me water
and a cookie
and cleared out
the dressing room.
It's too bad that my demons didn't really give a ****
about their kind gestures.

Eventually, I was able to **** in air long enough
to call out to my mother and tell her
I needed to go home now, please.
I hid my face from the customers in the store
casting condemning looks in my direction.
I was ashamed, because I knew
everyone else knew
and I never want
people seeing me
like that.
But,
at least we got
a 50% discount.

Am I a strong woman?
if I weep every night
and sleep into the afternoon
because I can never seem
to get enough rest.

Am I a strong woman?
if I'm constantly
absorbing the traits of others
consuming myself
with who I am not.

Am I a strong woman?
if I don't know myself
as well as I should,
and more often feel lost
than found.

Am I the woman
that would make my mother proud
after she's spent half of her life
teaching me
and modeling
the one that I should be.

Am I a strong woman?
if I can't stand to be
alone with myself
with my thoughts
and let my insecurities win.

Am I a strong,
independent woman,
if I have to question it at all?

I’m sorry I make us late for everything.

I’m sorry that my inability to make decisions frustrates you.
I'm sorry that I constantly seem distracted and detached,
and that I never have any good suggestions
or anything genuinely interesting to say.
I’m sorry that my irrational questions annoy you -
It’s just that I always get caught in these loops of anxiety
that I can’t possibly find a way out of,
let alone explain to you.
I get stuck,
like a broken record, playing the same part of a song
over and over.
My mind convinces me that you’re displeased.
I’m sorry I can’t look you in the eye,
because I know I must have done something wrong.
I’m sorry I withdraw and fall silent.
I’m sorry I consistently expect more, but continue to give less.

I’d like to call you a bookmark

because I want to think I can

remove you from my story at will.

But you’re more like a dog-eared page,

that remains creased 
long after it’s been remembered and unfolded.

When I flip through the pages

I’ll always catch my thumb on you

and try to find the lesson

you may or may not have taught me

about love

or myself.

But I’m pretty sure all you’ve left me with

is a deep, stinging paper cut

that makes me hesitant 
to ever pick up a book again.

Sometimes, you gotta just sit
on the bathroom floor for a while.
Because,
that’s where you got ready for
sleepovers with the popular girls
and made “potions”
out of various lotions and shampoos;
tattooed your finger when you were 15,
started to give up on the world,
and started to believe in it again.

Those bumpy tiles beneath you,
leaving red imprints on your upper thighs,
they saw your manic impulses
and sluggish lows,
they saw your meltdowns
before dance class,
and your moments of privatized shame,
after knocking over a vase
at your own house party.

The walls have changed over the years,
the floors have been
tile and ceramic and hardwood,
but a bathroom is a bathroom -
your own personal echo chamber,
a makeshift confessional,
wherever and whenever it fits
to serve that purpose.

I'm retracing my steps
with a skeptical pen
and my tired feet
through our brief story,
to see where I started
to walk off the page.

I try to pinpoint
every smile that was half hearted
and every remark
that was unremarkable
before the pain in my feet
migrates to my head
and this pain in my chest
punctures my pride.

We had a petite love,
never quite blossoming
never quite growing
to it's full potential
and I'm the one stuck
wanting more time
and I keep wasting my own time
so I can't place blame,
but I'll let a little anger
sneak through
because it's warranted,
and because
it feels so ******* good.

Why does he get to be happy?
when he should be knee-deep
in regret and repenting
from calling me crazy
and lazy
and blaming any fault on me.

Why does she deserve what I built?
when all I got was a botched love
or something worse than that
compelling me
to feel as if
I don't deserve anything
still ringing true
from his distorted,
gnarled logic.

Why can't I have what they have?
I guess the joke's on me
once again
and I'm left being haunted
by flashes of him in the kitchen
rendering me
feeling all or nothing
overwhelmed or numb.

Why does he get to be happy?
and surely sleep soundly at night
next to her
and dream of the future
that I once dreamt of too,
pried loose
from my unsteady hands.

I often think about the summer before I went away,
probably more than I should.
I was working that job I hated
and you were living in the house
that felt more like a home to me than mine ever did.

I think about all of the nights that my life felt like a classic teen movie,
with my eyes acting as the camera
and your lucid words writing the script in real-time.
Us and a few close friends sneaking onto a rooftop
in the town where we grew up and grew to love.
Laughing until our stomachs hurt
and yelling things at the unsuspecting people below.
Forgetting what time it was.
Forgetting that there was a whole world below us,
which we chose to escape for the night.
My heart was light, and it felt like floating.

Now friends are in different states,
becoming people I’ll never know.
The garbage can we used as a ladder
is no longer where we could always find it,
and the gate behind the bank,
which was almost always conveniently left open,
has been locked for years.

I remember how carefree I felt on those nights.
But I tend to idolize nostalgia,
whether the past was truly picture-perfect or not.
All I know is, I was lucky enough to have had those nights,
and the unwavering memories that they created.

For once, my head had nothing to say.
like a regular at a local pub,
if I ask for my "usual",
the result is my brain offering
a flood of it's cyclical thoughts
all clamoring to be heard at once.
But this time,
there was only silence.

It feels like I’m dreaming,
the atmosphere thinner than I remember,
while still trying to remind myself of reality
and I'm hoping to god
that the cliches concerning
the fleeting nature of life
maybe hold some kind of truth.

Every time there’s an upswing,
and my stomach hops up into my chest
because I’ve finally reached my pay-off,
something knocks me back
and clips chains that tether me to stability.
all the donations
all the condolences
all the "support"
don’t mean a ******* thing
if they don’t give me back my peace of mind -
and I'm scared that nothing ever will.

These days, my head tends to be
quiet.
Muted static,
silently glowing in the background
of the classic scene -
your father falling asleep
in his favorite armchair
just before the game goes into overtime.
Frankly, It's quite the contrast to
the usual occurrence
of somehow missing every word said
and blaming it on how loud
my thoughts can tend to be.

I see in shades of mauve,
taupe-colored glasses
dense, and probably
meaningless.
I take the form
of a bug on the wall
observing from the outside
and buzzing around the deepest parts
of my memory,
that even I
can only hope to recall someday
when I've decidedly
reached stability.

I felt the shift
in the innermost components of me.
Part of me thinking,
"finally"
Part of me repeating,
the old truth
that I hate any change -
with every cell in my vessels
and realizing with reluctance
that things will never revert
to what I'm used to.
So I guess all I have left
is to follow along, ebb and flow
with the currents around me
in hopes that every altered consolation
brings me closer to complete.

I’ve been thinking about
death again
my oldest friend
and it almost feels serene
to think about it’s certainty.
Sometimes, I still feel like her
all chaos and fear
heart as my mind
What if I’m not getting any better?
Trying to hold it together,
I hold on too tight
and constrict all
that keeps me upright.
Existing on borrowed time,
scribbled arrows over my veins
to try and find
a safe place on the inside
Because I can’t remember the last time
I felt safe on the outside.

I like
old-fashioned coke bottles
and the way the glass fogs up,
so I know it’s ice cold.
I like
the smell in the air after it rains
on a mild summer afternoon.
I like
my stomach in knots,
peanut butter ice cream,
driving with no destination,
freshly fallen snow,
the sound of waves crashing in the distance.
I like
back scratches
and goose bumps
and laughing at nothing in particular;
just for the hell of it.
And I think
I like
you.

It’s funny;
when I was a young girl
I used to make mental notes
of what I would take with me
if my house went up in flames.
I packed a “fire bag”
with all of my special belongings.
I rehearsed
how I would grab the family dog
and head for the nearest window,
meeting my parents
at the end of the driveway
by our plastic mailbox.

These plans evolved over time
changing with the folds of my body
different items, assorted exit strategies,
and I only laugh now
because when my childhood fears
came to fruition
I wasn’t even home
to save anything at all.

I always know when it's about to happen,
(an unfortunate foresight)
but I always neglect to prepare myself.
It's almost like
I look forward to the pain
because it gives me a scapegoat
for my persistant discontent.
Maybe I didn't love you,
I just need to be loved.
But either way,
I haven't been sleeping
and I'm struggling to find myself
outside the context
of someone else.

… for somewhere I've never been.
None of the places
I've used to store my ****
and myself
have ever made me feel anything
besides temporary warmth.
None of them have felt like
the relief that spring air brings
to my tired lungs
after a long, cold Upstate winter
when bitter turns sweet
and change is unexpectedly welcomed.

All these structures,
these secret keepers,
have never made me feel
like a dog in a field
or a child with a new toy
or the heavy sigh you let out
after another long day
of getting pushed around by the universe.

But before I die, I swear I'll find it -
a place where time is elusive
and I don't follow the clock
A place where the firing of synapses
aren't littered with cyclical logic
caring too much, or not at all
and every day is warm
like fresh laundry
and the sun shares its good graces
on the back of my neck
and this place will finally
earn the title "home".

I don't want to die alone,
I truly don't.
Though I scoff at the human race
and use the only strength in my bones
for hatred and beg the world
to erase my every mistake -
deep down I crave the brush
of a finger on my cheek
and the blood rushing through my vessels
closest to the surface.

Hopelessly indebted to
the fleeting feeling of fluttering
the butter on a summer day,
and I bloom.
I guess I love love,
and I would take it like a drug,
I love love;
I just don't love the side effects.
If I'm thinner,
it's because I leave a piece of myself
with every person I meet,
with every place I set roots.
My love rivals the Coliseum,
larger than life and utterly broken.

So I'm always ask for two things:
someone(thing) and the billboard from god
that I can finally be done searching
and I don't have to feel so lonely
anymore.

People around me communicate
in words and with fidgets
all of which I feel like
I don’t understand
and I want it all to be quiet.
I grow tired of this world around me.
It always finds ways to **** at my soul
like I owe it some kind of retribution.
I fall in love
and fall out just as quickly.

But I’m used to it –
Patience rubbed raw
from years of bad luck and disappointment
leaving me bruised and tired,
and always ready for the next bout of bad news.

floating smoke in the summer air
drifting along then dissipates.
the pounding in a head,
vessels pulsing and constant movement.
fingers dancing across a keyboard, to
incorporate a checklist of knowings and
to-be-knowns -
the insecurities of new scenery
mile marker after mile marker
and you’re happy, but irresolute.

someone tripped over the cord again,
yanked it out and dragged it away

a moment, and a guarantee
let’s look and see, to be sure there’s something more
than a simple crank of a machine, grown
rusted and unmanageable over years
I’m tracing back,
looking for something
I think I missed it.
these fingers that hold my wrist
and suggest
“please, let me assist”
you know what’s best.

My catchphrase that can’t be unlearned.
It’s often much worse to be in fear of a mistake,
than be a mistake itself.

I’m filling holes, and no one knows, because
I’ve become quite the actress.
Putting on a show, and no one knows,
It’s my secret to keep.
I’m filling my holes, and
I think I’ve got them all plugged up, but then
I spring another leak.
I should be happy, grateful, better; but I’m weak.
Every one is so proud, except me.
But no one knows, and it’s easier this way.

I saw a psychic
for the first time in my life;
it was horrifying.
She audibly observed
the tremendous pain in my eyes
and somehow picked out
the simultaneous emptiness and confusion
that I feel welled up inside of me.

She went on,
pinpointing my chaotic last four years,
me, struggling to find identity, and
looking for it in material possessions
and other people.
Telling me of my father's stubbornness,
and how that's not all I inherited from him.

I was scared;
because every word sputtered
exposed the innermost parts of me,
and spoke razor-sharp truths
to whatever it is that inhabits my core.
And she told me,
foreboding and omniscient,
I could overcome these troubles
if I find god again
and in that moment,
I felt that she might
be right.

But the worst piece of knowledge
she bestowed upon me,
was to stop looking for love;
instructing me to cease the search
that I've become accustomed to.
And I hate that
she's probably right.
And on the drive home from downstate
I prayed she wasn't,
because that would mean
even more years alone
with myself,
and I don't know
if I could endure it.

You had a friend
who worked on the CSX railway
and he told us about how
he killed someone once.
He knew it wasn’t his fault
But still, he was awfully calm
when he talked about it.
He told us he’d blow the horn
the next time he was riding by
the crossing behind the apartment
that I let you move into.

The tracks seem to follow me and
when I feel the rumbling in a different city
I half expect to hear the short tune of a horn
followed by your lighter flick in the living room.
It keeps me on my toes
and reminds me how
I can’t seem to move into a place
without ******* train tracks nearby.

Today is your father's funeral.
Part of me
feels guilty for not being there
even though I only met him once
and you spoke so poorly of your childhood.
The other part of me
screams about how you broke my spirit
and robbed me of 6 months
of this precious life.
I'll never forget
the feeling of complete loss of control
that you convinced me
was all my fault.
**** my empathic soul
and **** you
for making me believe
I wasn't worth the kind of love
that I have now.

You feel like
a scratch-off lottery ticket
that I accidentally won;
received as a belated birthday gift,
or bought impulsively at a gas station near the thruway.
I don't think the powers that be
intended to send you to me
but lo and behold,
you’re the winner
that I’ve waited too long to discover.

I’m damaged goods, baby
Or did you forget?
Loose-leaf paper crumpled and discarded,
Like every poem I couldn’t bring myself to finish.

This girl comes with a lifetime guarantee
of cynicism and constant apologies
and selfish laziness.
For a low price of only commitment and patience,
you can become proudly entangled in my dysfunction and  constant need for reassurance.

You didn’t receive me shiny and brand new
I have mileage, and I’m not afraid to admit
That most of it is self-inflicted.
I have scars that tell stories
and a schema that has been shaped
by 22 years of poor judgment
and never feeling good enough.

And I can’t help but wonder,
what it would be like if I was stable and motivated.
Would you still get frustrated
when I lay in bed until 3 in the afternoon?
Would I be able to accomplish
all of the seemingly simple tasks
that always feel larger-than-life to this pint-sized girl?
Would you love me more?

I’m jaded, baby
and I think sometimes you forget
that when I’m putting on a face
and trying to be less of a disappointment,
I’m still made of fragmented parts
that have been glued back together
one too many times.

Compulsive in the mirror
my sickening love affair,
the secret pact
crush and go
a 5k through my vessels
drag me out
skin stretched over
bones most conspicuous
up all night
and morning slips in
so quietly,
I don't even notice.

Roll me up and
breathe me in,
again and again
heart fluttering
listening through the hush
of a world I no longer inhabit
living amongst the stars
unless I'm crashing down.
How I wish I didn't
look back on you fondly,
but it's all I've ever wanted
until it's everything I don't.

My memories flash in shades of amber
golden hour light
an infinite dusk
in moments of silence
but just as quickly
fade to the present
where I'm sick to my stomach
because I think I'm broken.
Something always feels so wrong
and I'm scared
of how this is going to end,
inevitably.
I try to not get too attached,
but a hundred miles away,
you can't see
the mess I am without you.

I know you're telling me the truth
when you say it's okay,
but I hope you still stay
when it's my fourth day in a row
without showering
and my third day stuck in bed
with two bloodshot eyes
and one brain cell left,
out of focus and underwhelming.
Another weekend ends
and you have to go home again.
Each time you leave, I pray
that you're not
leaving for good.

There's so much of me
to give away
and so much of me
you know nothing about.
I met you when I was broken
and was well aware
that I could lose myself in you.
I sat all night in your passenger seat
watching you slave away,
cleaning every inch of the blackest night,
with the darkness somehow
smelling sweeter than before
and swallowing us whole.

But I never once thought to fall asleep
because I think
I was too busy falling for you.
I was content just seeing
you hop in and out
of the driver's seat
Swimming deep in your atmosphere,
wishing your rough hands
were tracing my spine
instead of flicking switches
that were carrying us closer
and closer
to the daylight.

Sink your fingertips
deep into my chest
plucking at my heart strings
one by one,
writing a symphony
with my veins and arteries.
I wish I could write down
my words as the melody
to your saccharine lullabies
that rock me to sleep.
You could be my muse,
if I can be yours.

tv shows on mute,
mouths moving but making no assertions.
a silence that doesn’t satisfy
slipping over the air like margarine.
loneliness in stillness
The feeling before you cry
but no tears are produced,
like a dial tone
with no intention of an outgoing call.
serenity’s evil twin,
a vibrant color muted with white.
no longer deep or dark,
just with the volume turned down,
apathetically pastel.

I’m almost never in the position to
let the curiosity and memories control me
But when I am,
it takes everything I have not to drive by
for my own contentment
just to see.
My tired body has moved on
but my mind is still upstairs and straight-down-the-hall
cutting pictures out of magazines
splicing them together in pages of notebooks
and aching for what I have today.

Things sound different now.
Fire trucks and shouting neighbors
kids playing on front lawns.
I don’t walk out of my back door
to my own personal jungle,
I don’t hold my breath to feel the stillness
and let the hushed air envelop me.
I’m not careless and flying on the seat of my swing set
that my parents tore down while I was away at college.
But I can still step outside and feel the same heat
and I can still feel the same weight on my chest
and the birds go on chirping like before.

It always happens this way.
same time, every year,
when the leaves burn red and descend from their perches.
same feeling, like I could be anyone else
but myself.
I could be you,
you’re getting older in a city you now call home,
and thinking of you happy
makes my stomach turn.
Maybe I’m jealous.
Maybe I’m guilty.
Either way, I can still hear your voice
saying something casually poetic
while our unspoken words made me sick.
I’d like to think that every part of you has left me,
and that it’s been long enough to say we never even touched.
And I still can’t decide who the victim really was,
when you’re out there living,
and I’m only pretending.

Today the high was sixty degrees
and I know what that means.
I feel foolish to have thought
that maybe this time
just maybe
it would leave me be,
and it almost did.
But I could feel it wash over me,
like a tidal wave of affliction
wrapping it's arms around me
rocking me to sleep
and reminding me how much
it feels like home.
It was building up inside of me,
bound to take over,
and now it's ready to explode.
This is the first you'll see of it,
and certainly not the last.
I hope to god
that you can handle
what it entails,
and I wonder how long
it will last this time.

Maybe if it was raining outside,
all of this would make sense.
The heavy drops would hit my window,
in this house that I’m not home in

It would create context, and rationalize
to my mother, to my friends,
who know of it but don’t see it,
who think it’s inside my head.
The funny thing is, it is inside my head
but not in the way they think

I can drink it away –
every sip feeling less,
until I feel it all at once.
drinking’s no good, I know this already.

So what is there to do?
A question left unrequited
like the meaning of life, or
where to go for dinner, or
how long I can keep you around.

I guess, if it was raining this would all make sense.
But there’s not a cloud in the sky.

I want to love you so bad,
but can I?
It’s been so long
and I’m not sure I remember how.
I know you’re tired,
showboat with all your
peddles and organs.
The years between us,
with your crooked smile from before-
when the air felt darker around me,
colored a deep shade
of midnight blue.

You’re so sweet,
sleeping in my passenger seat
and there’s makeup wiped on
my baseball cap
and I’m sore,
in so many ways.

I want peace for you,
every piece of you.
Close your heavy eyes and
peel off your layers.
Take a deep breath,
and take a sip from my
lip gloss-stained coffee cup
or sleep deeply instead
on the way
driving you home.

If I never feel happy again.
If I get a case of the “**** its”
and follow that red glow all the way to my grave
(because it feels warm once in a while).
If I walk into a venue in my hometown
and smell the familiar scent of stale beer and regret.
If my mom passes away
suddenly or succumbing to the passage of time.

That I’ll never heal from how I was treated
and continue to treat myself the same over and over.
That I have to rely on jokes about my grandmother
to keep her memory alive
when she is not.

If I let myself down
again.

I drowned you
like I drowned myself
in all the ***** I could find -
I feel sick when I remember how
I beat you down, thinking
thoughts I'd never thought I'd think
spitting blood into the sink,
it's all different now.
your "hi my name is" slapped on my shirt
peel it off but the residue remains
like your omnipotence
felt penetrating everything around me.

I wish I could quit you
like I quit smoking
I wish I could forget you
like you forgot me
I wish I could alter the ending
so it doesn't include the times I didn't say "no"
and all the nights you lost your sanity
on the mattress on your floor
or on a back porch filled with the haze
of cigarettes and empty conversation.

You tried to imagine me at my sweetest;
daisy hair dancing in the sunlight
on some endless day in July
eyes bright and exploding
with surf green laughter
All of this in slow motion,
All of this beautiful and feeling real
All of this while I'm pushing my palms against my eyes,
romanticizing your pain
tearing up inside because
I can't take anything back,
carrying this weight that I can't put down,
fighting off what is welling up inside me:
For what it's worth,
I'm sorry
and I can't keep writing about this feeling
anymore.

Regret rides shotgun,
more often than not,
with this endlessly restless soul.
And impulsivity is the worst kind of backseat driver
while disappointment tilts it's seat back
and waits patiently
for my next big mistake.

I've been thinking a lot
about the past,
and retracing my steps
to find a younger version of myself,
basking in the uncertainty of the future -
with all the conviction of an attorney
delivering the closing statement
that will undoubtedly win the case.
Because
a younger me,
naïve and untouched,
knew something I don't
about what it means to be content.

So as I steer myself and my gripes,
into what looks like a ditch,
I'll wrap my fist around the hope
that's still somehow dangling
from my rearview mirror.

Prisms casted rainbows
that danced on the walls
from the mirrored doors my uncle installed
onto my bedroom closet.
Just like that,
the old brown wood was discarded
and, in its place,
a heavier, more durable barrier
between my private belongings
and the hellscape I was forced to inhabit outside of them.

More often than not,
they were a barricade between
what I didn’t want to hear
and the comfort of old dance costumes
and holiday dresses I’d outgrown
all lined up in a row,
soft robes to melt into after a bath
and my trusty, fuzzy pink earmuffs.
I paraded around the house in them,
as a symbol of the silence I desired
or a more obvious cry for help.

I remember when we went to Lake George and didn’t return
and how I didn’t understand why we couldn’t just go home.
I didn’t want to stay on vacation,
I wanted to sleep in my own bed.
I remember smashing my hands
against my ears
to keep out the shouting
and sitting awake in bed,
waiting to hear the garage door to go up,
because then I knew you’d be home
and you’d be safe, and we’d be safe
and we could all fall asleep in the same house,
whether my happily ever after
was based in reality
or a bedtime story I told myself every night
so that I could finally rest my eyes
in hopes that my mind would follow.

I got drunk with your ghost last night.
Our demons were in attendance,
and we played stupid games
like Edward 40-hands
and cheers to the governor.
We stuffed our faces
with your namesake and
I tripped over your shoes
and fell face-first into the concrete
that lines the bottom of your garage.
I put a nice ****
in my right knee,
just like our college days.
I watched the blood poor out
as they all laughed
at my clumsy tendencies.

But you cleaned me up
that oozing cut,
and you told me everyone around you
was a sham
and wouldn't care if you drove
yourself off the road
but what you didn't know
was that when I woke up
and you weren't there
I was screaming out
that I could have
done something.

I’m being told to practice honesty,
so honestly,
getting sober kind of really *****
most of the time.
I take my medication every morning,
I go to my meetings at night.
I fill in the spaces with adjectives and nouns and bad reality tv.
I make my phone calls
and attend my appointments
and talk truthfully with the counselors
who have the same credentials as me.

But I float along on my “pink cloud”,
happy to not be bleeding out of my nose
or begging my racing heart
to please, calm down.
I feel things,
maybe less intensely than before
but in a real sort of way,
that isn’t filtered through
whatever I decided to numb myself with.
It’s not exciting, it’s not glamorous,
but I guess I’d rather live this way
than trudge through hell every day
and die a disappointment.

There are so many things about myself
that I don’t think I will ever understand -
like the way I let the most trivial things bother me
and give them indefinite permission to send me
spiraling downward
until I become oblivious as to why I felt so
******* petulant in the first place.
And I unknowingly settle into my misery,
because it feels like home.

Or how I’m constantly offering wisdom beyond my years
(or so I’ve been told)
but I can never seem to take my own advice.

And I’ve always found it ironic
that I could sleep an entire day away,
but am met with restlessness and anxiety
when I’m attempting to sleep at night.

I’ve heard it said that no one knows you
the way you know yourself,
but I just can’t agree.
I don’t understand myself at all,
but maybe someone else does.

My soul moves with fidgets and twitches and dreams of back porches.
feels like it’s constantly wasting its time, and smells like the air after summer rain.
My soul has not been patient lately, and went home at noon.
it sounds like a car crash on i-87.
I keep extra socks for my soul.
It can’t get over you, tolerate immaturity, or wait around.
My soul looks for a loophole or justification in everything it sees.
It gets older, impatient, and tired.
My soul remembers simpler times, when learning had a purpose.

While I stand in line to pick up my prozac,
the pharmacy’s preset radio
plays a cover version of a song
that I liked in high school.  
There was a time, amazingly,
when I was naïve to the comfort of prescriptions.
Floating through friends’ houses that were
too expensive to feel comfortable in,
gravel-speckled snow in mounds
mile-marking parking lots
while waiting for the 7:00 showing.
Teenage intimacy and
red bulls at a sweet sixteen,
trying to figure out the coolest way
to ask for a sip of the schnapps
that I know is hidden in that soda can,
parties I’m not sure I was invited to
and a 10:00 PM curfew.
Water pong with balled up aluminum foil
in a half-finished shed behind
his friend’s house in the dead of winter.
I wanted to feel like them,
incite my growth,
I know he was just trying to keep me clean.
He tried, but I got what I wanted.

The guardrail
and every exit sign
pulls me farther away
from your mother’s house
as I watched the lightning
spiderweb across the sky,
roots growing through the clouds
illuminating the road ahead
for just a split second
but then a swift return
to the rain and gloom.

In my head,
I’m in your room
with the sun pouring through
the blinds and bushes
outside your window
projecting a slideshow of light
onto the walls surrounding us.
I’m warm and I think about
how I need to try
and make very specific
plans with you,
so that I know for certain
I’ll see you again
and at least
I can hold onto
the thought of that
at night.

My words always move faster
than my fingers,
so there's usually
no way for me to describe
the feeling that rests
in the silence between songs
booming from your car stereo.
But I guess
I would call it:
empty.

The loneliest you can be
is when you're the only one
on the road
at two in the morning.
And so you scream to your songs
just to fill up the space
between you
and the rest of the world.

In the quiet moments
I think about all the things
I would have done
if I wasn't so scared,
and all the times
I did those things,
and it turned out
afterwards
I was still scared.

My flaws are not pretty.

My imperfections are not endearing,
my vices are not quirky,
and my regrets are not intriguing and elusive.
They’re ugly and unsettling;
better off buried in the catacomb that is my memory.
better off dormant, hibernating through all four seasons.
They destroy and ravage anything
that they can get their hands on.
They spread like wildfire through any self-respect
that might be living inside me.
Burning up every last trace of my dignity
until all that’s left
is a shower of ash and things I wish I could forget.
They don’t add character or substance
and leave me blinded by contempt.
They whisper to me that I don’t deserve to be happy.
And I listen to them.
They’re angry and want revenge.

You're always forging me,
to see how far I'll bend.
Hammering me down,
to see how low I can go.
Your heat dances close to me,
but I can't let everyone down.

Though you terrify me,
I would probably still let you cradle me
in your cast iron vice grip
and sing me to sleep,
like Louis
like Ella
crooning,
when I can't breathe.
You could reel me back in
with the promise of
creating something beautiful
and maybe not feeling so
empty and alone
all the time,
but I can't let everyone down.

Your atmosphere ***** at me
and I'm dragging my feet through your sludge,
plodding forward with my eyes cast down.
You know when my mind wanders
or when I'm filling my voids,
so you can sneak in through the cracks
and take your place in my subconscious,
but I can't let everyone down.

I try to remind myself
why your comfort isn't worth it;
like peaking out of my blinds
or chatting with insulation
(pushing me towards one last line)
or fearing the world outside
altogether.
I'm scared because I know
that you're the only thing
that has ever felt like home to me,
but I can't let everyone down.
I can't let everyone down.