I hate myself.
There. I said it.
Nothing feels better though.
Admitting it is weird.
People are gonna answer
and use that tone:
"no you shouldn't!"

well too bad,
it's not your choice.
****, i wish it was mine.

a fall from heaven,
but I’m falling for you.
if our love is a sin, why then,
i’ll make sure all of hell
bows for me as
i descend.
god should be thankful
i will never have face him,
for he’d have to beg
my forgiveness instead.
we are still angels,
my dear, despite what
he may say.
my fall from grace
(or to yours)
may have been less than graceful,
head over heels over
head over heels for you,
but i know I’ll have a pair of open
arms to catch me when
i land.

and when those arms finally
embrace me,
i swear i feel wings
holding me as well.

I'm lost,
and that's fine by me.
I'm following a faint song
that keeps me focused,
fighting,
but not alive for long.
I'm blinded by tears,
stumbling through
a forest of sadness.
I'm tripping over roots
of way larger trees
partially obscured by mist,
the rest obscured
by stress, anger, rain.
I'm stuck in a teacup
pacing the tiny area,
drowning
in some sort of drama
all the time,
every time.
I'm stuck wandering a forest,
in a teacup,
lost in a tiny cup,
walking in circles,
tripping,
skinning my knees,
scraping my elbows on the bark,
blood dripping,
tears dripping,
leaves in my hair.

in the dark,
scared I’m not alone,
desperately wishing I wasn’t.

alone with my demons,
so not really alone,
just lonely

some days, the tears threaten to fall.
other days, they command it.
helpless.
that's how I feel.
not even able to stand up against
mere drops of salt water.
how, then, am I to survive,
let alone stand up against the world
without help?
lonely's a friend.
ironic right?
the feeling of loneliness, my only companion
as I wander through the desolate field
that happens to be called life.
alone.
a word accompanied by laughter
and a fake smile
plastered on to defend the reality
that I don't even want to admit to myself.
how can I be alone?
I have family, friends, love.
yet I am so so alone.
I go through life without anyone by my side,
yet they still ask the dreaded question.
how can you be lonely when you have
everything you could ever want?
and I can't answer.
don't know how to.
so I leave it to a forced laugh and a smile
to say that I was kidding.
I didn't mean it.
how could I?
I have everything, apparently.
so the tears threaten to fall.
and I can't deny them,
just like I can't deny the ones
who say I can't feel alone.
I can't cry, supposedly.
it seems, however,
the tears didn't get the memo.
they want to race down my face
with no thoughts given to the people
who say I shouldn't cry.
Because I have everything, supposedly.
So the tears that once threatened to fall
command their exit.
and here I stand.
alone with my tears.
alone with my thoughts.
alone.

there’s something about rain
that makes me want to
run outside with someone
and kiss them until the world
stops spinning.
to dance under the weeping
clouds, incandescently happy
in their embrace.
to feel soft grass under bare feet
and warm skin under wet clothes.
to love in the rain.
to laugh in the tearstained face
of the cruel storm.

there’s something about rain
that makes me wish
i had a love to spite it.

There are moments in life
where we're made of wonder.
Stardust and sunshine
and moonbeams and gold.
Love and passion
and dreams and truths to be told.
Happiness and sweet messages.
Moments where the world itself
is made of diamonds and smiles.
Moments where words are music
and everyday sights turn to beautiful views.
Moments where people seem to glow
with pride and blush at little compliments.
Life is full of those moments
that convince us slowly that we are stardust
and sunshine and good and wonder.
Moments that show us mirages
of beauty and happiness.
And then our dreams,
our sweet sweet dreams of peace,
are crushed by a cold harsh reality.
When we fall and start to bleed,
how then,
how are we pure stardust?
Or when we get angry
and hurt the ones we love,
how can we possibly be
all sunshine and passion?
Or when we lie, when we cheat, when we steal,
how are those truths to be told?
When we stab our own bodies with metaphorical knives
of tears, of insults, of hate,
how can we be pure happiness?
Stardust can't bleed,
Sunshine and passion can't hurt others,
Truths can't lie,
Happiness can't be stained
with the sad truth of self hate.
And so goes our dream-like fantasy
of our own unique perfections.
Because they've been coldly proved wrong
by the sad truths of reality.
And with that we sink back into the relieving,
albeit depressing,
embrace of the actualities in the world.

A book.
Simple enough,
As a concept.
But it’s
so
much
more.
It’s a world of imagination.
That pulls you in.
That traps you
so you can’t
leave.
A drug
you're now
addicted to.
Sustenance you
really need.
A place to
curl up
and feel safe.
It means
Staying up late.
Ignoring
absolutely
everything
else.
It means throwing
your best interests
to the wind.
Because who needs sleep
when you have a world to discover,
A place to call home?

To be honest,
I think it’s untrue that thunder is meant to frighten,
to warn of a coming storm.
I think it’s nature’s call to throw open windows,
to for once enjoy something with open arms,
faces open to the sky, eyes closed and lashes laden with drops.
I also think we make way too many shutters
with tightly
stacked
wooden slats,
nailed to all walls to cover every window
of opportunity;
because we want to shelter our poor, supposedly fragile,
mercifully warm bodies from the elements,
from cold rain, cooling wind, colder snow.
Chill out.
Parents frantically shield their children in a noble,
albeit misguided, crusade to prevent their “little Timmy”
from experiencing anything at all.
Chill out, you, sit in the rain for a minute,
let the rolling thunder lull you
to…  
a slightly less high-strung existence, at least.
Where I come from, the worst bees can do is
sting you, you let it hurt for a little and then
it’s all okay, no (real) harm no foul,
and in the end you got to sit outside
and do your homework in the sunshine.
My mother always said not to eat the cookie dough,
that raw eggs would give you salmonella.
My sister used to sneak me bites anyways,
with a wink, because
“I haven’t got salmonella yet, and I always eat the dough!”
It was a risk worth taking.
I don’t consider myself one of those people
who would call others “snowflakes” for being
a bit more hesitant in the world,
for telling their kids not to eat the cookie dough,
for wanting a better, safer existence for the next generation,
but dear god do I think
we all should be allowed to climb trees,
scrape knees,
and live a little.
but enough about me—
Did your parents let you live?
You’re in charge now, have you ever let yourself live?
Do you want to go outside and spin
in dizzy circles
in the rain with me?

we paint a perfect picture,
a beautiful portrait of us
surrounded by flowers,
when our love's put on paper,
in a pretty little frame
hung on the wall,
like a kid's art
on the fridge door.

we're paint with our hands,
it gets messy and everywhere.
we yell and we scream,
hearts shatter and color splatters
across the room.
everything is covered in acrylics,
watercolors, oil paints.
some stains will wash out, others won't.

we paint delicate little details
afterwards,
as though a wrong brushstroke
could ruin the beauty,
ignoring the fact
that we may already have.
it's stiff and it feels wrong,
but that's the price of 'perfect'.

we paint with passion,
practically kissing the paper,
leaving the imprint of our lips,
our love, right there.
signing our names
in the bottom right corner,
as though we were really artists
making real art.

we do so much to pretend
we are okay,
even just for a passing moment.
we cry until we can't anymore,
wash our faces, and continue
with fake smiles badly pasted
to our faces.
we press our souls to one another's,
letting them break us,
and pretend we're surprised.
the scars remain,
so we cover them up with makeup
and pretend they don't throb
when others touch them.
we plant flowers on graves,
and send "thoughts and prayers"
in the wake of complete devastation
as though that'll make everything
better.
it won't, but perhaps
it will make the ruins beautiful;

appearances are all that matter anyways.

i will never be enough for you.
not white enough,
not latina enough for you.
not straight enough,
not gay enough for you.

but i will be biracial enough,
bisexual enough for me.

I hate that time
passes.
Even if right now isn’t perfect,
it wouldn’t get worse
if time didn’t run away
so fast.
I’m breathless from chasing it,
I’m sore,
everything hurts.
one day I’ll
collapse,
and maybe then time will finally
stop.

I’m broken.

Every night
I am ripped apart
by a living nightmare.
My thoughts haunt me
until everything hurts.
Until the anger,
makes me punch walls
And hiss in pain
when my knuckles sting,
cry
til I can no longer feel
and I no longer have tears
to give myself,
scream
to no one in particular
because no one listens anyways.

And every morning
I look at the chaos strewn around,
and slowly
put myself together again
until every piece is aligned.
I’m shaky and unsteady,
but it doesn’t matter.
I don’t feel enough to care.
The pretty facade fools people
and that’s all I need
to “live”.

clouds.
their calming embrace
soothes hearts burdened by anger
and fills them with sadness instead.
it's calm and cool
and assures you that you're not alone
in your pain and suffering.
clouds will eventually produce rain for you,
perhaps as a gift,
a flower with millions of petals.
the rain washes away the tears,
making them blend in with all of the other droplets of water.
falling,
falling,
fallen.

So you’re on the Main Street, right?
Turn left onto the little alley way
next to the flower shop,
standing prettily with its painted windows and gorgeous displays.

Tucked away behind other shops,
you’ll see it.
With its inviting smell of coffee,
hot chocolate, and cookies,
and the perfectly neat pastry rack by the counter.

Each cupcake is frosted perfectly,
Each muffin baked with love and care;
and strawberries, of course.
Once you experience all of that, you know you’re at the best coffee shop in town.

The curtains are tied back into perfect little bows
To reveal glittering windows with a view to nowhere, but a beautiful view nonetheless.
There are little shops and restaurants, making it amazing for people-watching,
especially for artists that like drawing people!

If reading is more your style,
you’ll find gorgeous bookshelves sitting along the pretty walls.
They’re fully stocked with hundreds of novels, from new to old;
in alphabetical order too.
Sprinkled with dust that makes them even more endearing somehow.

So once you make it to the coffee shop,
Go inside and enjoy the food and drinks, okay?
Stay as long as you want there, they don’t mind customers that hang out even for hours
lost in a borrowed book or painting the summer sky that they saw 5 hours ago,
now painting from memory because of the moon coming up.

And maybe buy some flowers on your way back! 
The flower shop is pretty, with its sweet smell and colorful blooms.
Have fun,
and welcome to a town of dreams!

Everyone says it's not poetry unless it's got rhyme.
Well I wouldn't buy that for a dime.
My brain's a giant mess,
why would i try to make what I say any less?
Organization and aesthetics, you say?
well ***** that, anyway.

Coffee shops.
Lemon drops.
Those rhyme!
You'll see what i do with those in time.
Or maybe not;
I've already done a lot.

All this irony's made my brain jello,
so it's time to say hello
(to the end of this poem).

It got cold.
It used to be so warm, so bright.
But it got colder, darker,
dragging me into a world of frozen hearts
and calculated smarts.

I left to find my sunshine again.
To find the brightness,
the laughter
and the freckles
of happiness that spotted my face
like all the stars in space.

But the cold followed.
a tendril didn't melt over the golden,
overwhelmingly hot summer.
I can do nothing more than hope
that I will learn to like the cold, that I will cope.

All I wish for is an everlasting storm,
whose thunder will soothe me to sleep
when people fail to do so,
and startle me at weird moments,
putting a grin on my face.
Lightning that will wake me up,
and pull me out of exhaustion's grasp for a brief moment,
a moment of awe,
and add a sparkle to my eyes when I most need it.
A storm with heavy rain,
adept at hiding tears from prying eyes
and muffling escaped cries
with constant drumming on the roof,
distracting others from my pain.
Rain that cools down blushes and keeps me humble
because ****,
my hair looks awful when it's wet.
Wind that can pick me up
and take me somewhere else, anywhere,
or blow my hair in strange ways to make me laugh, a least.
I want a storm to keep me company,
because sometimes people just won't do.

It rains diamonds somewhere,
I know it does.
Jagged edges cut my face,
dig into my cheeks.
The tears create scars,
cloudy lines
burning,
hidden with covers of laughter.
So precious,
yet they leave behind
a searing pain.
Dripping off
the ends of my eyelashes,
leaving traces
on the backs of my hands,
the tip of my nose,
blurring my vision.
Scratching off what's left
of my blush,
my happiness.

It pains me to think,
that in the grand scheme of things
I am nothing.
I mean nothing, I’ll be forgotten
more easily than I’d be noticed.
If anything,
I am a disappointment.
There was so much potential in me
when I was young.
Too bad I never had a passion for anything,
growing up.
Too bad I never had natural talent in the first place.
We blame natural circumstances like it’s nothing,
because it’s easier than looking
inside ourselves for the real reasons.
Too bad I never tried hard.
Too bad I never stuck with anything long enough
to actually gain skill and expertise.
Too bad I realized all this
way too late.
Now the realization comes like a disappointment,
a shattering heart made of
Hopes and dreams.
The vain but natural desire to be recognized
for some talent we have, for something,
anything.
We search and search
for something we can do.
Some accomplishment we can brag about,
letting our vanity get the best of us,
just like we are taught not to do.
Too bad our desires come crashing down with reality,
taking our hearts with it.
It hurts to know that we really don’t matter to the world.
The Earth will keep turning,
the sun keep shining,
the stars still twinkling,
long after we’re gone.
Truly, it hurts to realize that we are
a disappointment to ourselves,
most of all.

Nightmares hurt.
The emotional pain,
and the physical pain.
I can't count
how many times
I've woken up
to be
haunted by
my own
mind
and what
I think of.
I can't even
imagine
the times
I've woken up
with a
headache,
a heartache,
or both.
I can't begin
to reason
why my mind
has such a
vivid
perception
of what
a gunshot
feels like.
Or what
drowning
would be like.
But I've
dreamed them
so many
times,
It feels
like I've
lived them.
And please don't think
for a second
that's every
night.
There are the
good dreams
too.
The happy ones
where
everything
is alright.
But those hurt
way more.
Because
when I wake up,
I can
feel them being
torn away
by Morning.

Standing alone
in this eternal downpour.
Rain washes over my face,
as hopelessness takes over
my heart.
The drops hit my face
in a pattern
I won't ever remember.
Because now
the feelings
are overflowing.
I'm worthless.
I'll never be good enough.
No one cares.
These thoughts crowd my mind
as it rains even harder.
I look up
to let the sky's tears
mix with mine.
The drops are icy,
but not as cruel as my thoughts.
Never that.
At least my tears
are hidden by the rain.
No one will know,
nor will they have to.
The tears roll down my face faster
as the wind knocks me down.
My heart asking why,
my thoughts asking
what did I do
to deserve this pain.
On my knees,
I beg for help.
To anyone at all.
Anyone?
Please...
Please..
Please.
There is no reply.
I hear my heart breaking
with a final clap of thunder.

I stand alone
in this eternal downpour.

yes,
"i've got everything."
i know i do,
but the darkness doesn't discriminate
like you want it to.
it chases me despite my privilege,
despite my "perfect education,"
my "perfect family,"
my "perfect life,"
despite your protesting.
you cannot stop the darkness,
no matter how hard you try.
you cannot stop the darkness,
and neither can I.

drip
     drop
drip
     drop
that's the sound of rain drops
pounding on the roof,
on the walls, on the windows.
they're knocking,
as if politely asking to come in.
drip
     drop
drip
     drop
that's the sound of tears
hitting my pillow gently.
except,
they didn't ask to leave,
politely or no.
drip
     drop
drip
     drop
the rain keeps falling,
seeping into the cracks
of my heart.
the salty tears escape me
like painfully beautiful flowers
that cannot stop growing.
drip
     drop
drip
     drop
that's the sound of sorrow,
both the sky's pain and mine
watering the flowers.
i can't stop them from growing,
so the rain and i,
we take care of them together.

I’ve got flowers
of all types in my pocket,
stars hung up
in the sky,
a dress
made out of sweetness,
honey, ice-cream, and pie.
I’ve got plans
for some tattoos,
a tiny blue flower,
stolen right from the clouds,
peaches and cream,
and a strawberry,
picked from the sunset,
delicate, pretty, almost a dream.
I’ve got a lifetime left
of laughter,
of tears,
and hearts shattered,
swept up, stored away,
memories clouded by sunshine
and London fog lattes,
talking with friends
in a timeless, gorgeous café.

i cry at any song that’s
even remotely
“pretty in a sad way,”
as my roommate says.
i cry whenever anyone
raises their voice around me,
it doesn’t even have to be
at me.
i cry when people
cry around me,
even when it’s not my problem,
or worse, when it is.
i break,
break down at minor inconveniences,
but who’s to call me fragile
except myself?
(because if anyone else did,
i'd probably cry)

I’m galaxies away from anyone,
even on the busiest of streets.
I revel in the comfort of the stars,
they sleep behind my eyes;
The cold of the darkness
it creeps into my heart;
The dull ache of the void, the empty space,
it seeps through my being.

I may die among the stars,
alone for ever and eternity,
but it’s a fate better than feeling lonely
in a room full of people.

nothing like going back
to the golden days
when getting up 20 minutes earlier
was a fun thing
to put on a bit of mascara
and lipgloss;
the blush was natural.
now 20 minutes of sleep
seems like a treasure,
worth everything
and never to be given up.
back when laughter was sunflower yellow,
music was neon blue,
and friends were a sweet purple,
their smiles like lavender
addicting and easy to find.
nothing like going back
to the golden days
when choosing the font for a paper
was an hour long experience;
the funnest part of writing anything.
now no writing matters
to anyone
unless it's 12pt font,
Times New Roman,
double spaced,
and with a heading in the top left corner.
back when school was light,
homework was a breeze,
and the only thunderstorms
were those that involved
coffee shops, window seats,
and copious amounts of hot chocolate.
nothing like going back
to the golden days
filled with warmth
and honey
and a whole lot of butterflies.

Staying up too late to read,
sneaking books and candy into class,
the sound of golden laughter ringing
with innocence and pure happiness.
I miss that.
Shopping for christmas dresses,
ending up with smiles and excitement  
more often than with dresses,
because the one had to be perfect.
I miss that.
Climbing trees and getting reprimanded,
laughing and doing it again the next day
because it was exhilarating and fun and awesome,
no matter what the teachers said.
I miss that.
Going on skiing trips,
grinning with excitement,
armed with confidence, hot chocolate,
and marshmallows, of course.
I miss that.
Sitting in a window seat,
writing poems at three AM
because the stars were inspiring and comforting
and felt like home.
I miss that
Road trips blasting music,
stopping at gas stations in the middle of nowhere
to buy gummy bears and chocolate,
riding with the windows open.
I miss that.
Taking naps in the grass,
the sun shining, and waking up warm and happy,
making flower crowns to procrastinate
going back inside again.
I miss that.
Ordering chai lattes
at cute caffés because they were delicious,
albeit overpriced, sitting by the windows
and smiling at strangers through the foggy glass.
I miss that.
Exploring cities, stores, and museums,
just kids curious about the world,
ducking into shops and a tea place,
discovering that bubble tea is amazing.
I miss that.
Smiling and laughing and loving,
none of it fake of forced,
just genuine happiness overflowing,
adding to the beauties of the world.
I miss that.
I miss being happy.

Happiness comes in different forms:
Thunder storms
and hot cocoa.
Reading
by a foggy window.
Frozen lemonade
on a hot day.
Getting lost
in good music.
Laughing so hard
you cry.
Hugs from a person
you've missed.
Brand new, cute
haircuts.
Getting a letter
from a friend.
Looking at a drawing
you're proud of.
People's reactions
to gifts you give them.
Surprises and
surprising people.
Cuddles
while watching a movie.
Playing with dogs
and puppies.
Looking around,
and realizing how much
good there is in this world,
despite how dark it looks.
Because you have to
get used to the darkness
before you can see
all the forms
happiness takes.

the demons in my head
take my mind to hell with them.
they burn my dreams,
freeze my heart,
and torture my soul.
my thoughts wander with ghosts;
their lost expressions comfort me now.
they are empty,
but so am i.
i am empty but not alone.

I'm not sure whether you are clueless
or just deceitful
in your "hope."
You will leave us your ruined planet
and tell us you have
"hope" in us;
that you believe
we can fix your mistakes
somehow.
Like a child pasting paper cutouts
on an important project
and then scribbling on it;
that is how useful your
"hope" is.
You treat us as children
while acting like them yourselves.
Your immature "hope"
curses us.
Your tantrums
doom us to a ruined planet,
wrapped up in a pretty little bow,
signed "with hope."
Useless.
We do not want your "hope"
or your belittling stares
or your childish attitudes
or your arguments
or your optimism.
We want your action
your help,
your votes.
Lend us your strength,
not your stupid faith in us,
because by the time
we are 18
it will be too late.
We do not want your ruined planet,
we want you to act
like the adults you call yourselves.
We do not want your "hope."
We want your help.

Hope:
“a desire for a certain thing to happen”, according to the dictionary.
And yet Hope grants no wishes.
He pushes the doubt to the back of your mind.
Until you’re fully convinced nothing bad will ever happen.

Hope hurts, I’ve learned.
He betrays the most innocent.
He beats you up and shoves you to the ground.
Why?
Because why not.

Hope is like that ex that turns up just to spite you.
Hope is that guy you were in a serious relationship with, then suddenly cheated on you with your sister.
He brings your spirits up just to smash them back into the cold, hard, ground.

His enemy is Disappointment.
He’ll try so hard to keep you away from her.
He’ll say “I’m protecting you from her”.

When you meet Disappointment, however, it’s somewhat of a relief.
She welcomes you with open arms.
She’ll hug you tight, until you’ve melted into her embrace.

But now you’re stuck with her.
She’s a little rude, definitely honest, and sad.
Really sad.
And yet she’s better than being with Hope, even though she coaxes the tears from your eyes so they flow like a river.

But Hope seems so much worse. Because Hope makes everything better before he destroys it.
Disappointment, at least, you know what you’re getting into.

You brace yourself for her.
You know she’s coming.
Hope is the unexpected one.
The surprise you never wanted.
The surprise you never needed.

A tired hug early in the morning,
drowsy and uncoordinated,
but starts the day nicely.
Like a cup of tea,
mellow and lovely.

A wet hug,
filled with tears, tears, and more tears.
A comforting embrace
that no one wants to let go of
or experience again.

A happy hug,
one that happens out of joy
for something or another.
Like a lemon drop,
sweet and filled with innocent happiness.

A desperate hug,
the kind when the world is falling apart
and the only thing you have is each other.
Arms wrapped tightly,
a hug in circumstances no one wants.

A hug that isn't desperate, but still needed.
Those that you never want to leave,
that say the words you can't.
The ones you hold on to,
that you bury your head into.

A goodbye hug.
The worst kind.
Filled with regrets, words never said.
As agonizing as they are,
there is no worse thing than
not being able to give one.

I call your name,
there's no response.
I ask you why.
You don't reply.
Is it me?
Or is it you?
Your nothing
means everything
to me.

Your eyes,
they catch mine
for less than a second
and seal my fate.
They capture my heart,
yet I see no recognition
at all
in yours.
Do I exist to you?
or am I another face
that blends in with the crowd
of desperate lovers.
I feel empty
without your love.

I know what
could have been
if you saw who I was
before I met you.
Now all you see
is a broken heart
looking at the world,
greeting it with a stone cold glare
and a maniacal laugh.
I'm gone.

A broken heart's replaced me.
A broken heart's replaced
my laugh like honey,
my smile of sunshine,
my voice of gold.
A broken heart's destroyed
my shining eyes,
my love of life.
It's destroyed me
and taken my place.

He found himself Untethered.
Unchained,
with every beat of waxy wing,
rising.
Sweet, tawny feathers
tickled his ribs pleasantly
with every arch
of his back, every tension
of his bare shoulders.

Warnings left unheeded,
unhinged cries leap from his lips
as he flips about
in the warm, salty air.
The undulating waves
far below,
look soft;
the rise and fall like breaths
of a sleeping babe.

A swarm of bees took his heart
in their sweet, trembling hands,
whispering congratulations.
He shook, blood burning with
each breath of bright air,
fresh.
His hair whipped by gentle breeze,
inviting sun
seeping into translucent, purplish skin.

Rivulets of hot sweat rolled
in the riverbeds between his muscles,
dripping from eyelashes and
elbows and jawline;
corners.
He spins up and up,
higher, up,
and down.
Down?

Arms flapping, flailing now,
trailing feathers and rivets
and loosening screws
like falling snow;
a storm above the sea.
Wax-coated eyelashes
laden with honey tears,
sticky, wind whooshing
through panicking fingers.

Scrabbling hands desperately clutching
chunks of melted wing,
scarred wood bearing the marks
of his father’s chisel,
unimportant now.  
His bony, haughty face twists in writhing
emotion.
He falls head over heels over head
over heels.

Split sea,
winded,
bones crunch as body impacts,
shoulders, back, thighs, toes.
Pale limbs bend in odd ways,
distinctly Not how his inventor
put him together, so carefully.
He tastes salt, metal,
blood and brine mixing in his mouth.

No space in there to thank his father too.

It's strange:
We don't talk anymore,
but I know you like no one else does.
I miss the feeling of leaning my head
in the crook of your neck,
your head laying on mine.

We never hang out anymore
but ****, we used to.
I miss seeing that I'm a little too short
for my arms to fit around your neck,
but you bend down just enough for me.

We haven't caught up in a while,
but I see you around enough
to know that miss you like hell.
I miss the feeling of your arms
around my waist,
your hands placed
gently above my hips.

I miss the feeling of my body
fitting perfectly in yours,
I miss laughing with you
about the most random things,
I miss actually knowing you,
talking with you,
I miss you.

No dreams come true on false promises.
We must commit to our dreams,
before even figuring out what’s possible.
Because impossible really isn’t what it sounds like.

Impossible dreams seem like a mirage at first.
Walking towards them ever quicker,
feeling that resentment as we see it flicker
And dissolve before our eyes.

But all dreams are not seen,
Not heard, not thought.
they are simply felt
Deep in our hearts.

Dreams are turned possible
when we promise ourselves,
when we convince ourselves that no matter what,
we can do it.

We must not wait for dreams
to become a reality on their own.
We must grasp whatever end of rope we are given
and pull ourselves up towards them.

We must build our dreams
From remnants of what we have learned,
from our struggles, from our successes.
Build a castle, a castle of dreams.

We must sit on our thrones in our castle of dreams,
and grin ruefully looking back
on the struggles, then look ahead
towards the impossible dream that lies beyond.

Towards what dream we must accomplish next,
towards another wall to scale, reach the top, and build even higher.
To do the impossible, because impossible
really isn’t what it sounds like.

I’m in love with a ghost,
Its fluttering distracts me
As I run into walls trying to follow,
bruising my body.
It tortures me at night,
Drowning me in disappearing dreams:
Running from death,
Attacked by demons,
Unable to save them from fire.
But then
She’s there.
I smell flowers.
The perfume of old memories
surrounds me.
then I’m falling,
Terrified,
Falling,
I wake up.
Still falling,
I’m scared to escape,
So instead I stay, falling
In love with a ghost.

I promised you roses.
Yet you took the garden.
Stolen,
Gone forever.
You took everything I had
and had the audacity to shatter it
As my obliviousness stared at the stars,
Entranced,
Like every other night.

I promised you love.
Yet you took my heart.
Pretty,
Sweet,
absolutely destroyed
Without my knowing,
While my obliviousness got lost in the songs we fell asleep to.
You threw my heart on the ground and stepped on it too,
As if to make up for any kindness you had showed me before.

You ruined the stars for me,
You ruined my love,
You ruined me.
All because I promised you love
and you took my heart.
All because I promised you roses
and you took the garden.

i’ve lost it
I’m not sure what it is
but whatever it was
it must have been good
because without it
i’m lost.

i’ve been mopping
myself up off the floor,
a hard tile floor,
where I get stuck in the cracks
and my bones crack with the labor
of it all,
of mopping myself off the floor.

i’m a wet pile of something,
a wet pile of flesh and blood
and hopes and dreams lost,
mopped up by a skeleton,
the crippling fear of everything,
but even she’s exhausted
she can’t do it anymore.

i swear to god
i swear i hate him,
wherever he is,
if he exists,
i'll **** his name and
walk backwards into hell.

you blew up her phone
every night for years
telling her how you would hurt yourself.
you had her in tears,
but she would respond each time,
despite her fears
that she would say all the wrong things.
everything was so fragile, she was scared
to type each word, to hit send.
A twelve year old, so unprepared
to become a self harm and suicide hotline,
despite how much she cared.
after that she would never seek help from her friends,
as she knew how hard it was to listen,
so she bottled her feelings and hoped the pain would end.

now i watch as the world
melts. the houses drip
from all their corners,
the sidewalks shine like sweat.
i hear a collective sigh of relief
now that the sun is bright and
the storm has stopped.
it’s not like it wouldn’t have,
but until it did, the world
held its breath.
the trees were stiff,
uncomfortable, weighed down
with snow, while people were
glued to their windows.
but now the world melts
with the snow. it sighs and
shrugs off its coat, shakes
its dripping wet hair, and
gives a triumphant smile
to the sky.

there's always a little bit of magic
in a last dance.
one that closes an era of joy or sorrow
or both or none.
there's hope in the way i hold you
hoping that maybe it really won't be the last.
but good things don't last,
can't last.
so instead i hold you
as tears stream down your face.
there's always anguish
in a last dance
to compensate for the magic,
for the hope
that the days before had caused.
anguish buried under layers
of false smiles and promises
that maybe we'll see each other again.
and with that your pretty face turns
walks away with absolutely no confidence,
head hung down,
destroyed.
yet somehow i realize that,
with everything,
you've taken my heart too.
so i'm left broken
without
you.

I fell for you like rain,
fell hard and fast.
It was constant
like raindrops hitting a roof;
I fell again and again.
I couldn't stop,
but the flowers would never
fall up to the clouds,
so I was left like rain,
stuck in a beautiful
but one-sided love.
I fell for you like thunder,
loud and hard to miss.
It startled even me,
but clouds would never react
to the noise,
so I was left like thunder,
shaking and bruised,
ignored or tuned out with music
by those scared of the noise.
You fell for her like lightning,
it was bright and quick.
Over barely after it started,
but for a moment I saw
the way your laughter in love
was so dazzling.
It was almost blinding,
but not quite,
instead it lit up my life
for a split second
before leaving me in an
even darker night.