Anorexia is a demon
An angel wrapped in a shroud of darkness
It starts out slowly
Restricting a bit
Chewing 32 times before swallowing
Writing down the foods that you eat
Then she knows you're falling
Maybe you should start skipping lunch
Did you really just snack?
Your insides become an empty cavern as she makes her home in your lungs
That overwhelming guilt
When you reach inside the bag of Doritos
And you want to cry because it's all you have to eat today
No she screams
And you obey because you don't know what else to do
And your sinking in this abyss of loneliness
She makes it better, she makes you feel so free
You think you may collapse from love
Stupid cow
Feel the fat swim around your tummy, thighs, ribs
And you feel so strong when you can go
16, 24, 48 hours
Without so much as a cough drop hitting your stomach
And the empty echo of your stomach feels like comfort
Even though it hurts
She took over my mind and ever since then i have been trying to get it back
My sanity, my personality, my happiness
The light has gone out and i stare at pictures of me
The emptiness behind these dark brown eyes is unbearable
I thought this would make me undefeatable
But i feel more guilty than before
This didn't make me strong, this crushed me more than i thought anything could

I want to take the darkness away
My hands throb with the wish
To rest upon the ground and
Absorb the loneliness from this earth
The light still casts to many shadows
For my sensitive eyes to see
I wan't to cast out the darkness
And give unto you beauty
You are much to young
To feel such pain
But life is not a wish granting factory
And the tears still stream down your face
I want to take back the burns on your thighs
I want to scream until the wind returns your laugh
I made a wish on a dandelion today
That you could find happiness
And i blew as hard as i could

Such a compelling urge
To walk the path of self destruction
It is that feeling you get
When your rent is due in a week
And you still don't have the cash
For the third month straight
That force that drives men
To fight for their families
Three thousand miles away
That causes missionaries
To die for their cause
It is reckless abandonment
Of safety and well being
As the needle keeps calling
Or the bottle or the brothel
And you tell yourself:
One last time
Tonight will be the last
Because your heart is racing
Like a train full speed
And one drop will calm you down
And one cut can't hurt
And you'll stop some other time
When it's less stressful
When school is over
When he comes home
But it never ends
This is a vicious cycle that tears
Your heart and rips your veins
It seeps into your skin
And nests in your skull
It is an invisible parasite
Feeding on everything important
Until at last
You wither away

You're sitting here on the internet,
Scrolling past timelines and getting into cyber wars.
But in some part of the world,
A child is losing her parents.
A nephew is losing his aunt.
A granddaughter is losing her grandmother
A boy is losing his cousin.
A woman is losing her husband.

A boy is being gunned down,
A girl is being forced to starve,
A boy is being forced to watch his parents die,
A girl is being forced into believing her grandmother is asleep.

Blood runs down like streams,
Peacefulness is completely being snatched,
They are treated like trash in their own country,
And everything is being taken away.

Don't you dare say you can't do anything about it,
Because everything makes a difference.

A word,
A phrase,
A thought,
*Just a sense of concern.

Dear Talia,


I found you.

Have you ever lain in your bed, after a night of restlessness and tears that tessellate on your face as you dream of a new place where crying isn't a thing, and where beautiful girls in dark dresses and black Keds are?

Have you ever looked at the stars and say to yourself, "Wow, some of these are dead, but the person I could love, and who could love me, may be looking at them and is still alive?"

When in our darkest places, when the hurt can't escape our bodies, when we think we'll never recover, have you ever thought of a person that you don't know yet, but you know that they're part of the answer? I think you're the person I've been thinking about.

Do you want to be my Alexa Chung?

Do you want to be the soft song in my room, as we slow dance on a carpet covered in removed clothes and removed fear?

Can I be the one to show you how you could save lives with your presence and that your presence is a present?

Can I be yours?

I want to wipe off the lipstick on your lips with my lips. I want to paint my face with your mauve and laugh about it in bed, over a bowl of ice cream and teeth showing as we smile. You're a nice dream. You're the only dream I have right now.

If I die, I want you to know that you are one the most beautiful people I've ever encountered.

"I'm so ****** whenever it comes to this final," were my first eloquent words to you as we trudged out of Cerbone's, and pushed double doors that opened the opportunity of ourselves to one another.

When I think about it, I could have said something a little less Sid Vicious-esque than, "I'm so ****** whenever it comes to this final," but you can be my Nancy Spungen, sans stabbing you in the stomach. I'd rather you be my Alexa Chung, though. Plus, Nancy Spungen was kind of *****, inside and out, and you're cleaner than a rain-kissed afternoon.  

Is this weird? I'm writing a letter to someone that I spent five and a half hours with in a cafe. Then again, I think it may be warranted.

We left his classroom and avoided bumping into each other until we were at The Daily Grind. You were beside me, attached to my hip, or was I attached to yours? Your hair is dark and has a quasi-bronze streak in one part. It's unique, like parental guidance. I think your eyes could break hearts and fix spider-webbed windshields after a collision with, "Are you okay," and, "I'm fine; I'm not going anywhere."

I find it unusual that whenever I was walking with you, that I felt calm. I haven't felt that way in a long time, when walking with someone. Then again, I've only been walking with my shadow, as of late. Usually, my nerves seep out of my pores and my hair spins in my scalp, as I breathe heavily and think about long ways to say goodbye and quick ways to die. But with you, the ocean softens the shore inside.  

Entering through the weathered door of The Daily Grind, you were still there. Ryan was there, but he doesn't know who I am. To be fair, no one really knows me. It's mutual, but I only know of him because of his questionable but interesting opinions. Actually, his opinions aren't that interesting, I just think his confidence is interesting. He reminds me of a bee stinging someone and confidently allowing the lower half of his body to be ripped out, as he bleeds out with insides hanging like cooked spaghetti noodles, with wings sputtering, as he talks about Bad Faith, with a smile on his face. Wow, that was a run-on sentence. That was the type of run-on sentence you could lose faith over.

I'm afraid that you may think that the way I perceive the world is weird. It's okay, though. I think I annoy my friends whenever I tell them about my problems, so I don't want to do that to you. I only tell them about a quarter of my problems, but you're the type of person I could tell everything to. It's not their faults, though. They have their own issues and lives to handle, as do you. I'd hate to be the cut in your mouth.

You ordered a ***** chai, I believe it's called. You're a regular. I'm only a regular to lonely nights. People know you and love you. I can see why, and I'm glad they do. You're the type of person that inspires books and to be yours would to be everything.

I ordered a Sierra Mist, because I'm about as cool as a pyromaniac's paradise. I like your eyebrows and your voice. We swept each other to a table by the window.

Your eyes are green. Your hair is black. And after meeting you, there's no turning back.

We were supposed to study, but I didn't come there to learn about Sartre. Existentialism did come into play as I tried to figure out if you could add purpose to my life. You did.

I think you were a little surprised that I didn't want to study, and I think you were even more surprised when I wanted to talk about you.

My God, Talia, I don't think you're aware of how beautiful you are.

We spoke for five hours and thirty minutes. I thought it'd only last half an hour. We bled ideas, stories, and questions. You told me the story about yourself. That was my favorite story.

After these five and a half hours, I had to go to therapy. You said it was four. This was the second or third time you checked your phone in almost six hours; I was flattered that I had your attention. The first time, out of probable nervousness, and the second time whenever your friend came in to talk to you.

I wanted to say so much more to you, but I bit my lip so I wouldn't and so my jaw wouldn't drop.

When you said it was four, I was sad. I didn't want to leave you, or for you to leave me.

Do blood and thoughts hold a race whenever we're afraid of losing someone?

We walked out of the cafe, and found the sidewalk. As we walked, I was wondering what was next. I didn't know what you'd think of my having a therapist. I'm not crazy, just scared.

I should have held your hand.

When we arrived to our destination, the lair, I told you that I had a therapist and an appointment. I asked you if you wanted to sit with me in the lobby. You said yes. I felt the words, "Thank you."

I don't think the elevator we stood in was big enough for our hearts, and I'd like to think that love seat was our sanctuary. You looked at me and understood, as we talked about our childhoods, our mothers, my father, and our worlds.

I wanted to kiss eternity into you.

My therapist came out, and I said bye. I got up, quickly. I would have said goodbye slower, but my heart was too fast. I'm supposed to see you tomorrow, so I can work on my goodbye.

If I die, I want you to know that you've given me the greatest six hours I could have asked for.

You deserve to be happy and I hope that you are, no matter with who. Despite all of that, I feel like you and I are supposed to happen.

I wrote a poem whenever I got home:

Move your hands with mine.
You're the current of the ocean.
I whisper your name, and I'm not afraid.
You are my emotion.

It's you, isn't it?


I want to be yours,

Josh

I wanted to write a poem about flowers, so that's what I did.
It was short, expressed how I feel, and cut like glass.
I showed my father "Flowers" and he thought it was mediocre.
And I said, "No, "Mediocre" is the poem where I talk about dying,
and I'm trying to stay alive, so I wrote about flowers."

Flowers strangling soil plots with their roots, with their existence.
And to hurt something you love with your existence is a terrible feeling.

I miss you,
More than the infinite,
Timeless number,
Our hearts cannot define.

I miss you,
The waves of efficient,
Self worth you gave me.
The feeling of clarity,
You stretched out,
across the shore.

I miss you,
Now the wind has changed,
And you no longer,
See me as who I know,
I could be.

I miss you,
Being your namesake sunshine,
Now I blend,
With the greyest skies,
And you just lie,

You just lie.

You tell me,
I need to breath,
As you watch,
My rib cage heave.

There's comfort,
In your clouded eyes,
But I ignore,
Your feeble cries,
It's pity lined,
With bitter lies.

You tell me,
I need to breath,
I hold my breath,
And watch you leave.

*you tell me,
I need to breath,
And suffocate,
My self belief.