I was told not to look for healing on the bottom of ***** bottles. That I am too young to be broken. Because I am too young to drink. No one ever said don't swallow the pills, no one ever told me that I won't find healing at the bottom of the orange bottle. No one said don't take the pain killers. Because no one's ever too young to be in pain. And I'm just trying to **** the pain. But it's hard when you realize the pain is part of you, so to end the pain you have to end yourself.

"What's it like?"*
Someone asks you on the bus, in line at the supermarket, or over a Sunday cup of tea.
It's a funny feeling; your stomach shifting uneasily and the smile forming on your face simultaneously.
You've done it again. Your lips couldn't help but to frame his name in a conversation that had nothing to do with him. And yet, you still found a way to think of him and mumble his name through a grin and a heavy heart.
So, what's it like?
They mean being away from the one you love, but all you can comprehend is what it is like to love him. And to love him, some days, is your only saving grace. Your safe spot. And yet, at the same time, your Achilles heel. Those parts of your heart are tender with the lonely nights, the constant worry, and the million and one what if's. The fact that you watch a How to Make the Perfect Omelette video at midnight while laying in bed alone, because he is gone, and all you can do to pass the time is plan things for when he comes home. It's a culmination of every night you thought would be the last night without him. It's waking up the next morning to an empty, quiet home, and filling up the air with awful noises that escape from the deepest parts of sadness. It's waking up in a panic saying his name in the middle of the night because you were dreaming of him once again. It's how, anymore, dreams are the only way you see or hear from him.
But love? It's also waking up six hours early the day he comes home, because you're too excited to possibly sleep. It's spending entirely too much time doing your hair and makeup that morning, when you know all he cares about is having you in his arms again. It's seeing his car pull up. It's the butterflies you get and the smile you couldn't stop if you tried. It's running up to him after months of imagining this moment and it being so much more perfect than you ever could have thought. It's feeling him wrap you up in his embrace and finally, finally feeling whole again. It's the second, or the third, or the hundredth "first" kiss.
It's everything.

I remembered in science class
We watched this video about the water cycle

They said something about rain
And how they were in those things called clouds
How over time they would cool down
And how they fall
Tiny drops plummeting to Earth
Conforming into shape wherever they ended up
In definite volume when in constant pressure and temperature
As they slowly become the makings of the oceans
Waves crushing, brushing over the shores, hiding what's below
Each wave a secret the ground could never know
But they gave it life and motion
Luscious colors, traces of red, blue, yellow
All combining into everything else, for everyone else
But they themselves only embraced what was around
Made to be see-through
But they never noticed
How in yourself you drowned

They played with you, toyed with you
Abused you, consumed you
Under the sun, broad day
In plain sight you slowly fade
But they never noticed
Until it was too late


Only then they called you, knew your name
Said something about the rain
About those clouds they didn't see
As guilty tears went down their cheeks
They call you now
But you can't speak

It's a cycle, they said
Something that never ends

Yet here I am longing



I remembered you in science class

It started with a hint upon the air,
the telltale heaviness of anticipation.
A few brave drops fall,
testing their reception on this earth.
Then the drops fall in earnest,
surging down on she who is uncloaked,
embracing the coolness on her skin,
each drop a sweet lingering kiss.
The thunder roars, both terrifying and exhilarating.
The lighting flashes, the wind picks up,
tangling her hair with earnest.
Yet still she stands, embolden by the chaos,
finding peace and comfort in it all.
Your love is a summer storm,
earth-shattering,
deafening,
irresistibly beautiful.

16 years older
our faces painted over
wasting time to feel the rush
classic self-destruction
still, we are children
older, not different
pretending to be
bigger than the universe
and we are that, we are indeed-

-our facepaint glowing
a multicoloured mixture
in the sunlight now
and our heads are
loosening once again
16 years younger
as clocks chase the future
and we waste our time  
because we still can.