1.
A boy dropped his pen on the floor next to me
and I took it.
I said it was mine when he asked about it.

2.
I didn't cry when
my cat
or my dog
or my great grandma
died.

3.
I read the text.
I just didn't want to talk to her.

4.
I broke up with him
on the phone
because I thought he might cry
if I did it in person.

5.
I stopped talking to him
when I got a boyfriend.
I started talking to him again
when we broke up.

6.
We flirted for 2 years.
He told me he loved me.
I told him he was like a brother.
He started doing ****.

7.
I knew his dad hit him.
I didn't tell anyone.

8.
I told her to stop talking to me
because she was too depressing.
She went to rehab for self harm.

9.
When he told me he wanted
to **** himself,
I told him a million reasons he shouldn't,
but never once said
*don't.

she wrote her number on a cigarette.
three days later I inhale smoke as the numbers burn away.
the pile of ash on the ledge of the balcony is the only proof that she ever existed.
if she doesn't exist then I can't miss her.
I didn't lose her because she was never here.

but the smoke feels heavy in my lungs
and that's proof enough.
it felt as though those digits were swirling around,
choking me
so that with every cough I ingrained the memory of her deeper in my mind.

*she's gone. she's gone. she's gone.

Friday 28**
the lack of attention,
lack of sexuality weighed on my shoulders
the abundance of stress and hardships
without any distraction
all at once
***** take away the pain
and it does
surrounded by beautiful people
with strangely demented faces
at least from my point of view
they watch over me as i stumble
a small rest in an elevator with pranksters
a cigarette on the balcony with..
who knows
a burning cigarette resting on my body somewhere
gum in my hair
then in the taco bell drive through
removing the toxins, in the worst of ways
and heading to the drunken second home of the beauties  

he cuddles me to sleep

The purple tracks
running up her arms
were a tell tale sign,
a roadmap of hell
to the death
she was travelling to
& no matter what I said,
her hollow
black-eyes spoke volumes
about the journey
she hated,
but could not stop.

of being sad.

I've made a decision.
I'm taking all that I felt about you and putting it elsewhere.

I'm putting these feelings into anything else but people.
I'm putting the feelings of confidence that you gave me into my step when I walk around my beloved city.
I'm putting the emotion into my writing (I wanted to write you as many poems as I could, now I'll do it for me)
I'm putting the laughter into the moments that I am with my friends and find something truly funny.
I'm putting that huge smile you made me feel on when I walk outside and feel the sunshine touch my skin.
I'm putting my fingers, the ones that I used to run all over you, on the keys of my laptop, on the pen I take notes with.
I will use those hands that used to hold yours to instead hold the rain when it falls, to help a friend whenever they are down, to pet my dogs.
The arms of mine that used to find comfort in your embrace will now be used to hug my family, to remind them what they mean to me, and to hug my friends, hold someone when they are upset.
They will soon forget what you felt like.
Lastly, I will whisper tales of our love into the sand of the town that we probably will never admit that we love.
I will give my memories back to the places that they happened, and let someone else erase them with new memories.

I was tired of being sad.
So I decided to try something new.

Your eyes are telling a tale
Everywhere you go

Your steps are making rhythms
silent and slow

Your head was never high
Nor does your voice

Every tremble of your hands
Every quiver on your lips
I know.

the stale New York City air leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
I wish to be back by the clean ocean air.
I often enjoy that I can hide in a crowd,
go by unnoticed, go long periods without speaking or listening,
but right now all I want to do is be with the friends who have known me a while.

Don't get me wrong,
I love the life that I lead,
the friends that I've made,
the conversations I've had.

There's just something about that place you call home.
You need it every once in a while,
to remind yourself who you really are.

the city winds had ****** me up and spat me back out,
and i thought i was so hip and unknown, with swirling
leopard prints and black gloved hands. a boy by my side
that looked at me with thunderstorms.
the city buildings shadowed me and protected me from
the truth attempting to leave bruises on my
buckled knees.
a tourist in uncharted waters, a damsel
who continuously puts herself in
distress.

my hair was Medusa, his fingers were
Dionysus, and when they fused,
our Mount Olympus was created, tasting like
berries and scratching at snake bites
scabbing and itching to be
reopened.

his kisses tasted like nostalgia.

i’m an american girl who is super glue, affixing
herself on whatever will stay long
enough.