I can't be the only one
held responsible
when I drown
in your ocean eyes.

The strokes of your tongue
could rival those
of a Picasso painting.

I woke to the smell of rain
rolling in through my bedroom window.

It smelled like you
and past nights of regret.

The best way for me
to describe
the demise
of our marriage
is an out-of-body experience.
I watched helplessly
as it all fell apart.

It breaks my heart
to watch the women around me
allow men

to silence their song,
mute their colors,
smolder their fire.

Love is meant to lift us up,
not destroy our existence.

Finding love
where only lust resides
is like
stopping the moon's pull
on the oceans' tides.

This is only our second encounter,
but yet here we are,

entranced in conversation,
shutting down the bar.

Perhaps I'll fall too quickly,
all rationale forgotten.

Ignoring all the warning signs
to "proceed with caution."

But if hanging on your every word
is something I'm meant to resist,

I think I'll just continue my journey
into this beautiful descent.

Naiveness does not plague me.*

You are nothing more
than one too many drinks,

nothing more
than sweat-stained sheets.

here we are
tangled up in these sheets-
a battle of radiance
will surely ensue
between this smile on my face
and the light of the moon

Does it show?
Is it easy to see?
The way I focus
every single time you touch me.

The caress of your fingers,
the movement of your tongue.
Fixated on nothing else,
to the rest of the world,
numb.

It's as if in these moments,
time ceases to exist.
A black hole's event horizon
after every single kiss.

I can't continue allowing you to do this-
opening me up,
exposing my heart to the elements
with no intention of providing any shelter.

The smile on your face
is enough to inspire.

To make these hands
dance like fire.

Enough to electrify
these dull, empty pages.

To spark emotions into art
that will last for ages.

On some days,

I feel strong enough to backstroke through the most treacherous of seas.

Other days,

My weaknesses tell me to open my mouth and inhale as the waves come crashing in on me.

One day I will meet a man
worthy of an uplifting poem.

I will use the kindest of words
I've never before spoken.

He'll make me rethink the sadness
that's always dripped from my pen.

And make me forget about this heartache
that has become so entrenched.

another weekend,
story the same.

punishing our livers
for our hearts' mistakes.

With each passing day
spent within these walls,

I start to wonder
will I have any creativity left at all?

Or will it simply be driven out
by all of this sadness?

Allowing this mundane lifestyle
to siphon off my madness.

I used to melt so easily-
The touch of a hand,
the whisper of sweet nothings.
I had a constant yearning
for the warmth of another.

I was stuck in a hollow
gelatinous state,
Ready to mold myself into
any desired shape.

But now, my exterior
has become much harder,
layers of stone
to protect an interior that's softer.

Now requiring others
to do a lot more forging
and convincing myself
to do a lot less morphing.

I’ve given up on the therapy-

The chats were always the same.

A plethora of emotional issues

and “daddy is to blame.”

Why, as women, do we allow men to control our mental state?

Knowing **** well it would be impossible for them to ever relate.

So, here I am

treading this vast, desolate sea.

Eyes toward the horizon, searching…

for a lifeboat, an island, for anything.

Surrounded by mirages

providing false hope.

Trying to decide if love is

even worth staying afloat.

Grazing my fingers
up and down your back

Abusing your body
as a means to distract

The longer you wait,
the more I grow eager

Breaking your flesh
as I dig my nails deeper

As you enter my body,
I place your hands on my throat

Begging for pressure
as a way to cope

Experiencing pain
reminds me I'm alive

A way to counteract this lifelessness
I feel inside

I hope I never witness the day
when I no longer welcome love, lust,

or even heartache.

For these emotions are the ones I savor,

the emotions that keep this pen
dancing on paper.

I’ve been asked countless times if I am

“afraid to fall in love again?”

Quite the opposite-

I’m afraid of never falling in love again.

One thing is for certain-

I do not miss you.

Even on my lowest days,

surrounded by solitude.

Because there are far worse things

than being alone.

Like living in misery

and calling it a home.

It’s not as if past skies
didn’t offer the same
harmonious hue,
they’ve just taken on
a different meaning
sharing them with you.

Tonight,
I'll have one too many beers
and scroll through my phone.
Send tantalizing texts
in hopes you'll take me home.
Ending the night
with you sharing my bed
will drown out this lonely noise
consuming my head.

Your love was nothing more
than a giant contradiction.

Like a history book
derived solely from fiction.

You provided never ending pleasure
in my bed,

but unrelenting pain
inside my head.

There were times you praised me
and other times you were just malicious.

You became both my anecdote
and my sickness.

You gave me well wishes
yet you walked out the door.

That night we became the strangers
we never were before.

I've gotten caught up
in your trainwreck of a life
and I have no intention
of untangling myself.

She's grown tired of only experiencing weekend love-

The kind of love that doesn't make it past Sunday afternoon,
the kind of love that stays within the four walls of her bedroom.

A bourbon-infused romance,
an ill-intentioned ******.

Maybe I should have foreseen
the way our story would unfold.

Reciting vows we did not script-
the most fictitious tale ever told.

Break away
from this state of servitude.

You must find happiness
in your solitude.

We fell asleep
less than four hours ago,
but yet here you are
heading out the door.

"That was fun"
is your weapon of choice,
inflicting pain
using only your voice.

I return to the mess
we made of my bed
with your final words
stuck in my head.

Too many drinks
and a lonely text in the night.
A vicious cycle
with no end in sight.

Opening up to you
when I'm far from sober
then piecing myself back together
once it's all over.

how sad it is,
we no longer touch ourselves
with thoughts of ***
in our head.
love has become so taboo,
we now fantasize about that
instead.

I’ve experienced it so many times before-

That moment when sadness turns to anger,
disappointment into mere frustration.

No longer concerned about a text back

or that long-awaited dinner invitation.

Because when you start to accept

that you simply care more than they do,

you can begin to recover what’s left

of your sanity and self-value.

Your promises
are nothing more
than pretty little lies,
misleading words
cloaked in the most
clever disguise.

Women are relentless creatures--
using the same stones thrown to
break them down
to rebuild an even stronger existence.

I have fallen victim
to some of the best actors…

Each reciting lines of love.

When in reality,

their scripts were full of nothing more than lust.

Today is for all the lovers.

The lovers going to bed alone.

The dreamers
searching for that someone.

Someone whose heart beats to their exact rhythm.

A rhythm that's in perfect synchronization.

A synchronization that makes them question how anything worked before this love.

The lovers who refuse to lose hope.

I've found it easier this way-
to **** things up before they even begin.
resisting vulnerability.
avoiding the ruse of misleading men.

It’s a difficult thing for me to explain-

Being overly emotional
yet unable to express my feelings.

Like being in a room quickly filling with smoke-
I could open a window,

but I instead choose to choke.

For years
you were the constant in my life.
My first touch in the morning
and my last each night.

Love is weird that way.

How at one time
someone's skin
can feel as familiar as our own
and yet today,
that contact
would feel unknown.

I’ve grown tired of being made to feel that I am difficult to love.

That the happiness others are experiencing, I am undeserving of.

I look at your Facebook
from time to time.
The man in the pictures
is not the one I called mine.
A genuine smile,
a face that glows.
Actual happiness
that finally shows.
I've come to realize
this is what you had to do.
Losing me to become
a healthier you.

Of course,

tell me all about your weekend plans,

please.

I’m just dying to know

how none of them involve me.

We barely slept at all last night-

too busy intertwining our bodies beneath these sheets.

But with a touch as electrifying as his, I really have no need for sleep.

It wasn’t until this year that I started keeping alcohol in the house at all times.

A year shy of thirty and I finally figured out what’s needed to survive.

595 miles.

The distance you traveled to start a life with me.

2095 miles.

The distance you traveled to get away from that life.

(Endless miles of heartbreak between the two.)

You always said I had no passion.

You said it so many times, it became ingrained.

Perhaps if I had discovered poetry while we were together,

perhaps then you would have stayed.

Or maybe this is how it was meant to be.

Maybe it was you that I was meant to lose.

So I could discover this zealousness inside of me.

So I could make you my muse.