What makes you happy? I asked little kids,
Their parents or sweet candies?
In a flash the kids reply,
Oh, surely, the candies give them joy.

What makes you happy? I asked teenage girls,
Their friends or a dress with curls?
In a flash the ladies reply,
Oh, surely, the dress gives them joy.


What makes you happy? I asked a young sonny,
His health or big money?
In a flash comes the fellow’s reply,
Oh, surely, money gives him joy.

What makes you happy? I asked married couples,
Romance or children’s chuckle?
In a flash the couples reply,
Oh, surely, children’s chuckle gives them joy.


What makes you happy? I asked old people,
Candies, dresses, money, or children’s chuckles?
In a flash the wise respond,
Oh, surely, of these things they were fond,

But,
with candies gone and dresses worn,
Parents passed and friends lost
Money blown and children grown
Health weak and romance bleak
Life has taken a sudden turn;
Happiness means not being alone.

I've measured her right
Little toe. It's exactly 16mm.
When she grinds her teeth in her
Sleep, just rub her jaw gently.
She'll stop without
Waking up.

If you read to her in bed, she'll
Watch you wide eyed from
Your shoulder; study your features
As you speak.
She'll stop you if you lose her
Between two words she doesn't
Quite understand.
She'll thank you for explaining.
She's worth it.

She's allergic to sugar, dairy, gluten
And eggs. I'll mail you a hundred
Recipes I've created for her.
Tell you all the tricks
So I know she'll eat.
You get used to the hassle.
She's worth it.

She's crazy about cartoons.
Let her watch them; seeing her
Laugh beats the game
Hundredfolds.
She'll love you for letting her
Read for hours and tell you about
The story.
She'll be so beautiful
When concentrating.
Give her space. Yours included.
She's worth it.

Let her grow.
Let her learn in her own time.
Let her be who she is.

She was weaker before me.
Now she's strong enough
To stand up and do the right thing,  
Though both our hearts broke
In the process.

If she goes, let her.
Help her out, send her off
With blessings.
Say to yourself I'd rather see her
Happy without me than
Unhappy here. You'll
Mean it.

You'll cry your eyes out
And scream at the skies. Then
Thank God for every minute
You spent as her man.
They were worth it.

I was told to
always
be
honest.
          But you wouldn't
      have cared if
      my words
      were
      true
         anyways.
  
You only needed
      me to
make yourself
      feel
    beautiful.

She said people were seasons,
and when I first met her, I couldn't agree more.  
After getting to know her, I wished that I didn't.
Her ex-lovers were Winter, and her eyes were a shade of Spring.
I could see the vulnerability of a car crash
swimming in each fountain trapped behind her emeralds.
She was beautiful in the way that could cause suicides,
and fix spider-webbed windshields after each collision of,
“Are you okay,” and, “I’m fine; I promise.”

Every story was Winter, and she was always left alone in the snow.
Mauve lips mouthed words that silently whispered,
"When is this too much? When are you going to leave?"

People are patterns,
and all she knew was the tessellation of temporary love and permanent loss.
Her hands trembled as she looked down.
She was in transit; moving after each hope of home fell apart.
And I wanted to kiss her like the world was falling apart.

one: dieing was the least of my worries.
two: living requires all my concentration.
three: i have not cried for three days because god made me without tear ducts.
and a half: I think he did it for my own good.
four: i can't sleep because he shouts at me when i dream.
five: i have been buying self help books and feminist poetry
and a half: i want to be stronger.
six: i think i got more of my fathers genes than my mothers.
seven: i am jealous of the other planets because I would like to be alone also.
eight: my loneliness is sweet, sweet, sweet.
nine: ive never felt the kiss of anyone who loved me. Not even from my dad.
ten: i listen to sad music because i understand sad music.
and a half: happy music has never spoken to me.
eleven: my aunties get on there knees and cry and pray for my health, whilst I drink eleven shots and fall to my knees for other reasons.
twelve: i want to believe.
thirteen: i want to be naïve.
fourteen: i would like to be less selfish, but I still find myself avoiding newspapers because my life is hard enough without the weight of the world on my shoulders also.
fifteen: i am weary of treading too ******* dirt because i know it will be my home one day.
sixteen: i remember how hard it was to imagine myself living past seventeen.
seventeen: as flames flicker I feel them burning my flesh. as they will.
eighteen: who would've thought my lungs would still support me to this age.

How are things going? I desperately want to ask
But now I remember how I called you that night crying and desperate
“Sorry dear, I have bigger priorities,” you mumbled nonchalantly in a tone that cut
I guess what was important to you was your short silver dress which you had to keep tugging at
And your layers of mascara which smeared in the heat and the sweat
Maybe you didn't feel like being responsible or putting up a fight
Didn't feel like talking in the pulsating strobe lights
Where you drank and danced and smoked,
Your hands around the masculine men with whom you hooked
I wonder if you still would have hung up if you knew I was crying for you.

And one year later you still haven’t changed
You’re out of school and awfully deranged
Lying at the side of the road in a drunken stupor,
Stinking of smoke and giggling hoarse
Your dress riding up mid-thigh and your heels strewn across the street
Ordering McDonald’s, planting fries in your friend’s garden throwing fits
Sitting in trolleys in supermarkets at 3 am in the morning screaming at the top of your lungs and I
Miss you I miss you I miss you I miss you.
If I ever saw you again I’d bury my face in your long raven hair and whisper how much you meant to me, once.
I’d stroke your whiter than white skin, touched and kissed by fifty other men
Bruised by the very people you call your friends
And I’d cry in your chest and tell you to come back
If all you’d do is swig down a bottle of beer
And not look my way, but cackle cruelly wailing dear
I would die more than a little inside

You stopped caring about anything that was supposed to matter,
Like being better than everyone and writing beautiful badass essays about saving the sharks
(And understanding everything I never understood about myself and laughing at the things I used to say and pinning my name with stars on your charts)
You forgot your dreams of wanting to travel and petting kangaroos, carving out something of yourself so they’d remember you for your passion
and loneliness is the only place at which you’re stationed.

Now all you’re doing is living monotonously, “the *** life” you call it, your dreams all burnt up in the intoxication of the hookah you pretend to love and dissolved in the alcohol you swallow now pulsing through your veins.
Come back.

I wake up and take a deep breath but most days it barely helps to ease the sharp stabbing pain in my heart.
I get up and stumble to the bathroom where I’ve written “Cheer up, Charlie” on the mirror to remind myself that all is not lost.
But when I get there, my head is hung too low to see the mirror and the words that are meant to support and encourage.
I get dressed slowly but not because I care about what I’m putting on.
Most days I grab something from the hamper and make sure it’s not too smelly.
By then my morning ritual is almost done.
I’m just missing one last piece.
I look up at the clock and take another deep breath.
Here goes nothing to start and get through another day.
With that breath, I slide the mask into place and walk out the door to go to work where no one will notice the pain, the sorrow, the brokenness.
The mask is my savior, my hiding place, my peace from all the chaos, for even though I know what it hides, I choose to be disillusioned by it.
I choose to see myself as whole, as untouched by you, as loved, as happy, as friendly, as…as me.
And for twelve carefree hours in my day, I can believe the lies I’m telling to the world:
That I’m ok even though you’re gone.
That I’m just fine even though the person who said they’d never go abandoned me too.
That I’m fit as a fiddle even though this ulcer is eating me from the inside out and I just don’t care because you don’t either.
That I’m happy living on my own even though I confessed to you all my fears of living alone, but that didn’t stop you from up and leaving.
That I’m strong enough to pick up the pieces of my broken heart and somehow put them back together even though I don’t even know where all the pieces are.
But then the end of the day comes and I find myself standing in the middle of my bedroom again.
I begin the evening ritual with dread filling every pore of my being.
I change into my pajamas, I brush my hair, I wash my face.
And then I take off my mask.
That last piece.
I fall on my bed exhausted from the pretense of the day.
I fall on my bed exhausted from holding back the tears all day.
I fall on my bed exhausted from missing you.
I fall on my bed exhausted from still loving you.
And then I cry.
I cry for the girl who never knew the life she dreamed for could be this painful.
I cry for the girl who thought she had finally found someone she could rely on only to find her judge of character was grossly wrong.
I cry for the girl who wanted many things from life but now would give all that up just to have you back.
I cry for me.
I cry for you.
I cry for us.
And then in the midst of my crying, I sleep.
I sleep with dreams of you and me.
I sleep with nothingness.
I sleep only for a short while as has become my habit.
And then I wake up and take a deep breath.
A deep breath and it begins again.
Did you know?
No?
Well…now you do.

"I lost her to mental illness."
It just doesn't produce
Quite the same sympathy as
"I lost her to cancer." Or
"I lost her to a car accident."

People look at you strangely
As if you don't understand
What it means to be alive,
That you don't know a person
Is alive and well if they're breathing
And talking and living.
They try to correct you and say
That you're just not in contact
With her anymore,
Not that you've actually lost her.

People think mental illness:
"Can't be that bad, right?"
"At least she's still alive."
"You could still talk to her,
If you wanted."
They think being sad about it,
Being broken hearted over it,
Being depressed because of it,
Is just exaggerated hysterics.

But I lost her to mental illness.
I lost her to mental illness!

It IS that bad!
It means she is gone from me
As much as if she physically died!
I CAN'T talk to her
Even though I do want to!

There is no going back
To the way it used to be.
Every day of the rest of my life
Will be missing a key person
Whom I can never get back.

She abandoned me,
Chose to walk out of my life.

But it was the mental illness
That stole any hope I had
Of seeing her walk back in.
It was the mental illness
That orphaned me.
It was the mental illness
That "killed" my mom.

So please don't trivialize my loss.
Don't depreciate my pain.
It's just as valid and just as real.

I lost her to mental illness.

He was the perfect height for her.
Tall enough that her head fell
Right tight under his sculpted chin
But not so tall that he was called "giant".

She was the perfect shape for him.
Not so skinny that he worried
About breaking her bones with a hug,
But curvy in all the places
That made him say a throaty "whoa".

She was a bookworm who loved TV.
He was a chef who loved Mac and Cheese.
They both adored animals,
Though he might have loved reptiles just a little too much.
And they both hated politics,
Though she might have set fire
To one too many campaign signs.

They argued about music, money, and kids.
They debated the merits of dancing in the rain.
They held hands in the moonlight,
And kissed at midday.
They grew old together and never strayed
Too far from the home they had built.

Then one day his chin wasn't high enough
For her head to fit snuggly below.
Her dresses, though comely,
No longer made him say "whoa".

But they still held hands and kissed
And remembered the days of their youth
When they were still learning
What being perfect for each other meant.

It wasn't until the night her heart gave out,
That she realized how he was perfect for her.
It wasn't his charm and dashing good looks,
Or his witty retorts and clever touchés,
But the simple fact
That through all of the years,
He loved her,
And that made him perfect for her.

It wasn't until she took her last breath,
That he understood how perfect she'd been.
She was perfect not because of her curves,
Her smile, her laugh, or her intelligence.
She was perfect for him because she loved him.

They'd been perfect in each other's eyes
Because love is blind.
And sometimes that's not a bad thing.