there's this game she likes to play where she talks to people and in the most subtle way possible, tries to tell them she's dying.

it's funny because she's dead by the time they notice.

i'm a bad investment.
a fixer upper
that you'll be lucky to break even on.

there's mold in the attic,
water damaged floors,
but worst of all:
I'll never feel like *home.

restless
brooding
desperate
moody:

all wrapped together in a 5,2" package.

I can tell when I'm trying to hard to sound like what I feel a writer should.

this is hurting,
but I'm deserving after the way I hurt you.

I don't know how to begin to ask for forgiveness
for my sickness.

I wish it was the flu.

treading lightly
so you don't see how tightly I've bound myself
to keep from coming undone.

It's unravelling:
The ball of yarn in my hands.
It's fraying
As I drag it through the mulch.

But I need it
To find my way home.

People don't fix loneliness.

But loneliness likes company
That's why she went to the party.


*Parties are a celebration of loneliness.