I fell in love
not with you
but the way
you validated me
when you grew tired
and could not hold my sorrows
in your shaking hands
I felt nothing
I laid my worth on you
full forced and terribly
I loved you not
for who you were
but who you let me be
and I am sorry

an ode to what I am not
convenient
or skinny
organized
or welcoming
an ode to what you beg of me
all of these things I cannot be,
I will not be not ever
forever is a long time
to spend bending
your image of me
into something
that fits in your wallet
an ode to what I am not
gentle, rose colored china
sunday mornings with herbal tea
your hope or step in your 12 to get up
a beam of light at the edge of blackness
an ode to what I do not possess
healing powers like some 2,000 year old man
you pray to every day and beg I do the same
patience for another human who whats to change
who and what I am not
so I can play the part
I did not even audition for
an ode to what I am taking
back, my life
all of me, front and center
of the floor

I'm giving up on myself today
I'm jaded and sleepless and need a break
I'm giving up on my goals today
I'm sorry and hope you can forgive me
I'm giving up on myself today
I'm sick of this fog surrounding me
I'm giving up on everything today
I'm empty and can't fill up again
I'm giving up today,
and will try again tomorrow.

****** you
for being the only thing
that hurts me enough to write about
for not being a part of my heart anymore
but loitering in my brain
inhibiting anything else I try and create,
*******
I want to write about anything else
but I have not felt that much since

I know it hurts now
but hear me out
this year will heal your wounds
your scars will be flower beds
your pain I will be sunshowers
and you will be writing love pieces
by the time winter comes again

I know it hurts now
but hear me out
I promise it won't when you're with her
as she holds your scars like your favorite jar
picking up the pieces you left after dropping it
because you were too tired to pick them up yourself

I know it hurts now
but hear me out,
I promise it won't when you let her in

promise me you will let her sow her seeds
in your garden you let weeds take control of
last summer when you died inside your bed

promise me you will water her roses
and hold her hand when she plants
lilacs over pieces of land you didn't know could host life

promise me you will let her love you
because you need it more than you show
promise me you will love her back
and that together you will grow

How to conquer the world when you are manic and preserve it when you are depressed.

I had a close friend send me a text a few weeks ago
Reminding me how to breathe and that I had to get out of bed,
I thought if she could have read my mood from the west coast
As I rotted in cotton comforters in the east, I must have been pretty obvious
Maybe it’s because we have been friends for ten years or because
I plaster every up and down online to vague audiences, I cast out my emotions
Like frayed fishing line, trying to catch even a glimpse of someone who relates.
But when this friend texted me she said something that might help balance out
The high-highs with the unbearable lows is writing how I feel when I am both.
I did my best to put the feeling of flying at 100mph upside down with wings made of silken sheets into words but the minute I did they turned into wings of concrete and I lost my focus again. And so I went to answer my friend and I said ‘here is how to conquer the world when you are manic”

I am caffeine therapy,
engulfed in energy
I am yellow, I am green
I am everything at once,
I feel everything all at once.
Did I mention?
Hey, I'm really excited to tell you
I’m gonna save the world,
All of it.
Today.
try and stop me.
I woke up at 4 this morning
Watched the sun swallow shadows
Like it was yearning for something dark
To balance itself out.
Too much light is dangerous too.
I always like to watch the sunrise before I go out to save the world, Waking up early always gives me so much more time And today I will do a lot,  I want to save the world. I hope you know I'm going to.

I am yellow, I am green. I am everything at once.
I am traffic jams spread out across freeways,
I am six trips in a row to the same store because I kept forgetting what I needed,
Music playing so loud you can’t hear anything else
I wash down amphetamines with coffee
I am now Narrow energy. I'm traveling a perfectly paved road Home to a room where I cannot see the floor, but that’s okay because I’m
Going to save the world today.
It doesn't matter how fast I'm going as long as you see me get there.
I am validation starvation in calorie counting notebooks,
I am looks from strangers whose eyes wonder loudly how I got marks on my arms or how I'm bouncing my foot like energy is spewing out my body but still have bags under mine that insinuate exhaustion I never learned how to overcome.
I am a math equation stuck inside the text book
From that semester I dropped out;
I am heat energy dancing inside shattered beakers, I am weathered worn out sneakers still being used because it’s hard to let go,
I'm kissing catalytic conversations with those I love because I need a reaction to feel like they're listening,
I am potential energy ready to become kinetic,
I am energetic and today, I have the heart to save the world.
I am off track, my bad. Its like an “ADHD starter pack” but there's no warranty or handbook.
Anyway, I started by re-enrolling in classes because I have always been good at school,
Except for when I stopped going but I have always been good at school and I can understand why everyone around me might expect me to succeed, I emit determination from my mouth when my heart feels empty, but I did sign back up because
This time I'm ready, and this  time I won’t ever feel low again, I think i beat it finally
I feel it in my bones as I cross busy streets without looking either way
I'm invincible and incredible
I am yellow I am green
I am hydro energy feeding off the
Big deep blue sea,
I am gratitude as an action
Not a trinket I can break
and today I will save the world
and tomorrow I will not be low,
And today I will conquer my fears, all 647
And tomorrow I will tell my friends I love them
And today I will remind myself that skin cells
Replace themselves every 28 days
So I only have to wear long sleeves for that many more
And tomorrow I will wake up and do my homework
And today I will surely save the world,
I will never feel so low as I have ever again
How could I when there is so much to smile for?
I’m laughing so loud my neighbors are asking,
And my friends think I’m doing better and I tell them I am. I am.
I am yellow, I am serene,
I feel it in my skin that I am better
recovery feels like Holding hands at sixteen and iced tea, And this is easy!
I am yellow, I am green.
I am yellow, I am green.
I feel everything all at once.
floating between causes, altruism is a virus, slithering through my veins, celebrating how much I will do today. Did I mention how much I will do today?
I'm going to save the world.
After signing back up for classes I spread out my day like magazine clippings I'll never put onto a “dream board” because I will most likely forget about them, my dreams make better notes in my iphone where I can see them
As I check my contacts to see who I can talk to today. Or who will listen. I wonder who will listen. Or what kind of game I will play to make someone listen.
I am yellow, I am green. It’s noon and I am flying.
Here is how else I will save the world:
I will make sure I save myself first,
I'll clean my room and go to the gym
work off three weeks of sweets with three hours on the treadmill, I forgot how good it feels to run and I know that this is the last time I will ever, ever give up.
I’m better now. I run on a track that loops back in on itself because I find comfort in knowing it will always return no matter how many times I lose sight of where I'm going, I would get lost were I to run outside because when you are everything all at once you seldom stay in place, God there is just so much to look at. I will never look back at who I was even as late as yesterday.
I get lost inside rubix cube mentalities and short lived craft store hobbies, but I'm better.
I am yellow, I am green. And today I am going to be a wildlife photographer, And an artist, and when people ask me what I want to be I tell them
I will work for the United Nations and that I am going to save the world, they believe me and ask me how I'll do it and I realize that I have yet to start saving the world.
I woke up at 4, so sure today was the day,
I felt it in my heart like the time I took two of my adderalls by mistake because I forgot that I took one that day, I felt it and it was real. Throbbing like a bump from falling but real. I lost track of that feeling for a second and now it is fleeting.
What is happening?

I am yellow, I am green.
I am yellow, i am yellow I am yellow,
Are you still listening?
I'm potential energy locked inside a pendulum
Hanging from a chemical tree that dies fast and grows slowly, Im staggered progress dressed up like empathy, I'm baggage too heavy
I am yellow, I am green.
I am fleeting energy
The kind that sparks a few times
On telephone lines turned pink infront of sunsets in july, gone before your friends can see it too.
They never really see it, too.
I am yellow, I am green

I forgot to shower every day this week but
I'm too tired to get out of bed,
What is happening? Can you remind me what I was doing?
I was supposed to save the world today
I’m sorry.
I was really going to save the world today
I'm taking in as much caffeine as I can without
Making my heart feel like it will push its way
Through my ribs out of my chest
Though being able to feel in my chest again
Might not be so bad. I’m stuffing smoke inside my cavities to fill them up, doing my best to keep feeling inside the skin I wear when I can feel it
Going numb, even it hurts at least I can feel it, I wish I could inject caffeine right into my veins,
I wish you could jump infront of moving trains without Hurting everyone on board,
I wish I felt less like this but I wish I felt more,
I reread texts from last night where transitioning
Felt like fist fighting recovery, her having one up on me,

I am crimson, I am grey, I am fleeting energy.
I’m so sorry.


I thought I said that before
And I might have but I forgot, I feel cloudy
I stumbled through steel wool tall grass to make it
Out of bed today and the weight of every single mistake I have ever made feels like it will surely break my spine Right in half, I don’t know if I will make it through today.
I wish someone would save me today.
I am crimson, I am grey.
I need someone to save my world today.

loneliness consumed you
while you were busy finding distractions
your eyes sunk deeper, your nights darker
you found a marker and wrote it out in black ink, you left half a cup of tea by the sink,
one final reminder that you could never clean up right, your scars were not quite healing
men came and went like hopscotch manic feelings, daily warfare, gentle as a tide though
you would let them in just to let them go
crafted a plan to **** yourself
because you didn't know anything else
but the bottom of a bottle you swore you didn't drink you spent 11 months sleeping on the brink of death
loneliness consumed you
you took the bad parts, shaped them into something you could swallow and fell in love with the high from your insides eating you alive now you're full of sculptures you gave up on years ago and maps of places, far away, where you'll never get to go
because you're bed ridden and tired, you're only 20 and you did it, you have carved yourself entirely empty

I'm stuck inside myself
I got scared and called for help
but a year of pushing friends away
left me yelling to nobody
I missed all of my exits and now
the road looks unclear before me
I've forgotten what I learned in driving lessons
and I keep seeing signs of you and me

I'm stuck inside myself
waited too long to ask for help
a year of deviating healing
and speeding down roads I carved out of skin
I should have shed months ago,
how will I know?
What does healing look like?
This intrapersonal fight has fogged my eyesight,
and the roads are snowy now since it's winter again,
I fear I won't ever win,
this intrapersonal warfare has left me on the field,
wounded and silent, afraid to reach out,
I fear I might not ever know what it's like to heal

I wanted a globe tattoo
to prove to the world I had ambition
to ditch the small town I was raised in
and make myself something huge

I wanted a globe tattoo
to portray adventure and fun
to leave on foot and not stop running
and make myself something new

I wanted a globe tattoo
to tell the world I was speical and kind
that wanderlust floods my mind
and not the constant fear of being stuck in the town where I met you

I wanted a globe tattoo
just to convince myself I would ever be able to make it out of this town

What no one tells you about loving a writer,Is that they're nuts, man.They're slobs, they're hoarders, Have you seen my room? I barely have, to tell the truth.
Crumbled paper lines the floor, Ideas withering from the night before,
What no one tells you about dating a writer, Is that they're so moody.
We’ll try to play it off like some sort of
Artistic facade. Mysterious. Yep, that’s us!
But in reality, we’re probably just ******* wiped. We spent 3 days and 3 nights writing songs and painting pictures that you won’t ever see. And what no one tells you about dating a writer, Is that it is hard.
What no one tells you about loving a writer, is that they’re going to love you back. Hard. They might notice parts of you that you never have, they might focus in on each part and it might make you mad, But I promise they love every scar as much as they love every laugh. They might notice every freckle and how the ones on the small of your back, right there where you start to laugh when you get brushed by another, even lightly, make the little dipper, and how it might be cliche but it’s their favorite constellation. And they will try to connect the dots to make sense of your body, to create a solid thought.
Even if it does not come together like the stars in the sky, they will try and try and what no one tells you about loving a writer
Is that its hard. Remember what I said about us hoarding? We hold on to everything, letting go isn't something we do easily and we'll take in everything you say and do whatever we can to make you want to stay, we're messy, we're clumsy
we're odd but we will give you everything we've got. There’s a reason they have a desk full of half written poems, a reason they might feel so hard, they have a broken heart. Hearts that are whole don’t make art, We hate to admit it but it’s true so what no one tells you about loving a writer, is that you’re loving pieces. You’re loving Monday morning, Chaotic, panicked, angry, hungry. You’re loving Tuesday night, Tired, weary, shaky, sorry. You’re loving a Saturday afternoon when the week catches up and the bags under their eyes become a muse for a new piece they might spend weeks composing only to throw into the trash and what no one tells you about loving someone like that Is that it’s normal to throw away something that took so long to construct. But they won’t tell you that they’re used to that. What did you think made them write in the first place? They are used to that. Their whole lives have been building bridges with flammable wood Over barren lands. What no one tells you about loving a writer, Is that you’re loving two eyes, two hands, Two legs, two ears, and two lips but too many souls to try and control. Don’t try and control them, they’ll turn their back on you, they are conditioned to take their sorrows and turn then into words that can't be taken back, ones that make their spine stop chilling, Perhaps pass it on to another, what no one tells you about dating a writer, is that you will be that “another," you will have to absorb some of the energy, The forces that make these people soak up Every piece of sorrow in the world And make their heads heavy, And make their hearts scary, their hands shaky. What no one tells you about dating a writer, Is to be careful. They are broken and they cannot heal. Because they might stop creating, And their hearts might stop beating, Because their words bleed out of their skin, Their hands shape the world they’ve come to Live in, to love in, And their lungs are filled with every word you’ve ever said, And when you left, They took those words And wrote them down, And what no one tells you about dating a writer, Is that if youre not going to love the writer, At least give them something worth writing about. They will.

do not say sorry
for being human
your forgiveness
is not a crutch
for him to lean on
it is a conduit
for the you
that can swim
across an ocean
alone
while he still hangs
on your ankles
do not say sorry
for being human
while you are still
learning how to do so

I can count the number of times my body has been violated on both hands,

But I need both hands to do so, though and while that might sound horrible,
I've grown to know that saying "no" does not mean "stop" to someone who insists on trying,
what I've learned is that my body was never mine to begin with,

I grew sick with a task of delivering pleasure to someone else at the cost of myself and what I learned is that
waving that white flag cuts you open and
causes you to bleed on your white sheets
you already bleached stains out of twice that same week,

My body was never mine to begin with,

but I'm taking it back.

I'm stealing my body back from the fear that stole it every night I agreed to have *** to avoid getting hit.

I'm stealing my body back from every night I said no and you still did it.

I'm stealing my body back from the paralyzing thought of what people would think about how I got into that situation instead of why you did that to me in the first place.

I'm stealing my body back from the haunting, cemented, cold look on your face when you said "I do what I want"
I shrunk into my skin,
I swore I would never feel safe in my own bones again.

I'm taking my body back because it is mine.
I'm taking it from every person who stole it from me,
even if temporarily,
at ages 6, 9, 10, 14, 16, 18 and 19.

I'm taking it back for me this time.
It is not your temple or release.
It is not your garden or your sanctuary.
My body is mine to keep.

To the boy who loves me next:
Please understand I am complex,
and **** your cliches,
this is not some Tumblr post.

I am a host for emotions I cannot control at all times
there are some things you should know
before you decide that you love me,
don't.

Don't tell me that it's going to be okay when I stop breathing
especially in public.
Please don't go when I push you away, though. I don't mean it.
You need to know that I want you to fight for me when I tell you to leave.

My favorite color is purple and my favorite food is strawberries.
(oh and this weird vietnamese noodle dish I never know the name of)

Sometimes I will test you, and not in the "just checking if you were listening"
test kind of way

But I will see how far I can push you until you want to leave,
please don't.

To the boy who loves me next:
understand that the first boy to love me took a lot when he left.

I'm not picking up the pieces anymore, I don't expect you to.
But I am creating new ones and need someone to be there to hold the box of nails or kiss my finger when I've slammed it with the hammer.

Know that you probably won't do anything wrong,
well you might, you're a guy
so you're probably going to say something I will take as
completely sexist!
you pig!
don't you dare compliment my *****! *******!

wait! that's what boyfriends are for,
I'm sorry, I forgot.
I do that a lot.

To the boy who loves me next:
I'm a feminist.
I probably eat 10 bananas a day.
I love coffee and would rather wear my hair up.
And yes, I ****.

To the boy who loves me next:
my room will not be clean,
messy is as messy does,
and even when I don't do a lot
(which is often, oh boy do I have my days)
I am a slob.

To the boy who loves me next:
Chamomile tea is my favorite smell.
I will probably tell you 45 times a day that I think you're handsome
and mean it every time.

To the boy who loves me next:
I have scars on my arm
please don't mention them
I've put that behind me
somewhere you're allowed but cannot get comfortable

To the boy who loves me next:
I'm going to listen to the same song 150 times in a week because I like it,
and I'm sorry but you will probably have to deal with it.

To the boy who loves me next:
I'm sure you're going to like the song anyway.
I have three cats,
I can't take care of dogs very well.
I'm over emotional.
Baby goats make me cry.

To the boy who loves me next:
I cry,
a lot actually.
Don't take it personally.
You'll understand eventually.

To the boy who loves me next:
I like watching the History Channel but I've been watching Gossip Girl for a month now.
I pace myself because I become
emotionally attached to characters in bad MTV shows
faster than real people.
I want you to think I'm a bookworm but I start more than I finish

To the boy that loves me next:
You won't if you see me without my ADD meds.

If you love me next, know:
I like rough ***.
Pretty rough if I might add but I won't tell you that for a year
because I'm shy
You should also know I'm loud,
I don't mean in bed,
I mean roll the windows down because I talk
and get really excited over trivial things like
fresh fruit in season
and sometimes I ramble on about nothing
and you should be able to handle that

Can you handle that?

To the boy who loves me next:
I am apologetic and scared because I have loved once  
I never thought that high would bring me down to where I am now

To the boy who loves me next:
I'm going  to pretend I'm rough around the edges,
please see past it,
or at least love me long enough to let me explain.
The boy who loved me first knows everything.
And since he's gone,
you're going to have the leftover weight.

To the boy who loves me next:
I promise it will be worth the strength it takes to carry it,
I promise to love you back as much as I think I deserve to be loved at all.

To the boy who loves me next:
do it fully or don't do it at all.

A tall, thin man
stands outside my house,
it's cold out there and he waits for me to come out

The same young man wears a black hat
and a black blouse
he paces to and fro until he passes out

The tall thin man
waits for me to arrive
stands there singing songs
until he feels like he might die

He knocks on the door,
he sounds so polite,
begs for a minute,
and a glass of water if I might.

The man barges in,
he breaks my door,
he raids my cubbards
he stains my floor,
he spills my wine,
he eats my fruit,
the man feels nothing,
he continues.

While he wanders
through my house,
he spits out lines
as ironed as his blouse.
"Thank you for your patience"
"I really have to say,
you're very kind and giving
in the most pathetic way."

The man then goes up to my room
he makes my bed look brand new.
Then makes me now lay down and pray,
tells me that I belong this way.
I beg him to stop as my hands start to ache,
my heart froze up and he swore I'd been faking.

The man in the hat
the man in the blouse
the man that I let into my house
the man that stole
the man who broke
the man who I let take all control
that man took what he needed
that man then left
and left me bleeding.

On his way out he said goodbye,
he said farewell, and thanked my time,
before he took off to the sky,
he told me something I can't deny
"You're too trusting, my dear,
and look at you now,
you let people in out of fear,
and you are left the clown"

you used me for ***
and I should be upset
but it's you I laugh at
because you ****** in bed
I faked every time
and I don't feel bad, not a bit
you used me for ***
just wished you'd be better at it

one day his words won't feel like knives
or stomach bugs, or shards of ice

one day his words won't haunt your dreams
or show up in once-happy memories

one day he won't be able to wrap his hands around you
even from a thousand miles away, when you've moved
to another state just to get him out of your brain,
wracking it for a thought that wasn't daunting,
didn't remind you every name he used,
one day he won't be able to

and it will be great,
I promise you

Men try to mend my wounds by spewing lines like  "But you're too pretty to be sad"
as if I asked for this.
They try and try again,
saving is in their culture.
Chivalry is etched in them like a childhood scar
Their forests are filled
with knights on white horses
as they've been taught.
Mine are not.
My woods reak of matted down blankets from days without movement.
They feel like exhaustion.
Sometimes you can even hear the sound of their roots being pulled
right out of the ground
that shrieking sound will leave you
Awake for days.
"too pretty to be sad" will not place these rotten roots in graves.
My trees have aged much faster than theirs, 21 years old, bending too easily with the wind.
as it howls, they cower,
I wonder when they will break
and who will be there to hear them.
Because sometimes I feel that people only like to look at my flowers,
and not bear what they have to offer, what they would say. Those sounds would scare them away. Sometimes I feel that people only like to look at my leaves.
They're too pretty to die, anyway.

fail to admit
you were getting sick
stains on your teeth
from cherry red lipstick
dirt in your nails
picking up sticks
to build a house from the ground
you buried your past self in
marks on your skin
purple and blue
bleed from within
so you look vibrant in hue
your insides burn
like cherry red lipstick
but don't get the same
looks or snippets
your insides are ugly
no matter their coat
please fix them first
before you start to gloat

"I would say I care about women's rights, but I wouldn't call myself a feminist"
"I think men and women should be equal, yeah, but I don't want to be called a feminist."
"Does that mean I can hit you?"

The word feminism rattles like a cracking cymbal crashing
just hard enough on pavement to scratch it
but not hard enough to break.
The word feminism manifests itself in our culture
in poisonous ways,
like the food dye in our candy'r
parabens we cover our faces in,
we don't say this word cos' it's scary
we don't want to make too much commotion

while white men in black robes orchestrate the court system
and have police by the neck, inserting money like a candy machine
we fear the word that gives us a step to bring equality

while white men in suits ask us "how we doin'"
and we don't admit that we're angry,
women don't show anger, it isn't polite
when the men in the subway puts his hand up our skirt
and says "hey baby you like that"
no, he doesn't ask if we do, he tells us out flat,
insinuating our satisfaction is a product of theirs
reminding us with a hand on public transportation
that anyone who has a **** can be one and we can't do ****
because we aren't supposed to be angry, it isn't polite

The word feminism manifests itself in delicate ways
we can't ask for too much, they won't take us seriously
****** intergrity? girl, try again
the right to not wear a bra?
Where do you think you are? this is america
An opinion
one that they hear
that isn't facilitated
out a white man's mouth
into a white man's ear
we aren't a filter
won't you raise your voice?
**** being polite,
please, make some noise

The word feminism manifests itself in ways you can't see
if you fear what it might make you lose
you haven't much yet by the hands of the man
so why are you choosing not to grab your sister's hands?
Stop saying sorry when someone interrupts you
stop moving out of the way for men who don't move
put your female foot down, don't say excuse me
you're a woman, angry with every right to be
stop fearing the word feminism
for the connotations are flurries
the word denotes storms we're starting
join us

How to conquer the world when you are manic and preserve it when you are depressed.

I had a close friend send me a text a few weeks ago
Reminding me how to breathe and that I had to get out of bed,
I thought if she could have read my mood from the west coast
As I rotted in cotton comforters in the east, I must have been pretty obvious
Maybe it’s because we have been friends for ten years or because
I plaster every up and down online to vague audiences, I cast out my emotions
Like frayed fishing line, trying to catch even a glimpse of someone who relates.
But when this friend texted me she said something that might help balance out
The high-highs with the unbearable lows is writing how I feel when I am both.
I did my best to put the feeling of flying at 100mph upside down with wings made of silken sheets into words but the minute I did they turned into wings of concrete and I lost my focus again. And so I went to answer my friend and I said ‘here is how to conquer the world when you are manic”

I am caffeine therapy,
I am engulfed in energy
I am yellow, I am green
I am everything all at once,
I feel everything all at once.
I’m gonna save the world,
All of it.
Today.
try and stop me.
I woke up at 4am to watch
the sun swallow the indigo horizon
One last time before I go out and save the world,
Waking up early always gives me so much more time
To save the world, and I want to save the world.
I am yellow, I am green. I am everything at once.
I wash down amphetamines with coffee and I am
Narrow energy. I am traveling a perfectly paved road
Home to a messy room but that is okay because I’m
Going to save the world today.
I am a math equation stuck inside the text book
From the semester I dropped out;
I am heat energy dancing inside shattered beakers,
I am potential energy ready to become kinetic,
I am energetic and today, I have the heart to save the world.
I started by reenrolling in school because you need a degree
To save bees. That line might have been a joke but I did sign back
Up to finish my degree and this time I won’t ever feel low again,
How could I when there is so much to be happy about?
I am laughing so loud my neighbors are asking questions
And my friends think I am doing better and I tell them I am.
I feel it in my skin that I am better and recovery feels like
Holding hands at sixteen and iced tea in the summer,
And this is easy!
I am yellow, I am green. I feel everything all at once.
I am floating between causes and altruism is an ideal
Slithering its way through my veins, and today I am going to save the world.
After signing back up for classes I spread out my day like magazine clippings
I might never put onto a dream board because I will most likely forget about them
And my dreams make better notes in my iphone where I can see them
As I obsessively check my contacts to see who I can talk to today.
I am yellow, I am green. It is noon and I am flying.
Here is how else I will save the world.
I will clean my room and I will go to the gym
And work off three weeks of sweets with three hours on the treadmill,
I forgot how good it feels to run and I know that this is the last time I will ever give up.
I run on a track that loops back in on itself because I know that if I were to run outside,
I would get lost because I am everything all at once and there is just so much to look at.
I am yellow, I am green. And today I am going to be a wildlife photographer,
And an artist, and when people ask me what I want to be I tell them
I am going to work for the United Nations and that I am going to save the world,
And they believe me and it’s almost funny for a minute until I realize
I have yet to start saving the world. I woke up at 4 to save the world and I was sure today was the day, I felt it in my heart like poprocks the very first time or your first real kiss, I felt it and it was real and I lost track of that feeling and now I am scared that I might never save the world,
What is happening?
I am yellow, I am green. I am potential energy locked inside a pendulum
Hanging from a chemical tree that only grows each time it loses a leaf,
I am staggered progress dressed up like empathy,
I am yellow, I am green.
I am fleeting energy
The kind you watch spark a few times
On telephone lines turning pink behind July sunsets
And its gone before your friends can see it too.
I am yellow, I am green
I forgot to shower every day this week but
I am too tired to get out of bed,
What is happening?
I was supposed to save the world today
I’m so sorry.
I am drinking as much caffeine as I can without
Making my heart feel like it will push its way
Through my bones and out of my chest
Though being able to feel in my chest again
Might not be so bad. I am stuffing smoke  inside my chest to fill it up
I am doing my best to keep feeling inside the skin I wear when I can feel it
Going numb
I wish
You could inject caffeine right into your veins,,
I reread texts from last night where transitioning
Felt like fist fighting recovery, her having one up on me,
I am crimson, I am silver, I am fleeting energy.
I’m so sorry. I thought I said that before
And I might have but I forgot, today I feel cloudy
And I stumbled through steel wool tall grass to make it
Out of bed today and the weight of every single mistake
I have ever made feels like it is going to break my spine
Right in half, I don’t know if I will make it through today.
I wish someone would save me today.
I am crimson, I am grey. I need someone to save my world today .

The saying goes
"It takes 21 days to make or break a habit"
but it's been 71 and I've yet to even crack the surface on this one
I made a routine out of pretending to be stronger than what
I pretended you made me into, and that was weak.
I created a pattern in my head and brought it to life:
you were the reason I was this way and here is why:
what we had was a habit,
I'll spare the details because they're just as boring as the same series I've been watching on Netflix for a month without a purpose.
***, fight, make up, ignore problems, watch tv, sleep and eat ****** food, more ***.
You could smell the latex for two years before we stopped using a ****** and taking that risk became routine.
We knew all the answers to jeopardy but we kept watching and I think that's because we tried to pretend that we didn't know things that we already did
and look where it led.

It was a habit.
It was comfort after a week of routines we led separately but somehow over the course of three years never talked about deeply.
"How was school?"
Out of habit I say "okay"
How was work? "slow"
"I don't care what we order"
"Just pick something"
"Do you want to have ***?"
"Can you push over?"
"Who are you texting?"
"why do you always do this?"
"Are you finished being mad yet?"
"I need you in my life, please don't leave"

As humans we crave stability but do not know that what it brings instead is a suffocating cycle that should not feel so permanent at nineteen and twenty


So when we broke up I made a habit out of checking up on you
made a pattern out of blaming you for not wanting to leave my bed,

two whole months later.

What they don't tell you about habits is that 21 days is not enough to break down walls that held you in place for 956 days, even if you weren't very happy,
at least you were warm and at least you had something there to remind you that you always had something to fall back on,
even if it was weighing down your shoulders,
even if it would crack around you one day.

I made a habit out of projecting the blame onto others too,
like saying "would crack around you" one day.
Like I was warning others that love is not forever and to be cautious who you let inside your walls because I did not want to see you there inside when they fall,
when they really fell around me
and two months later,
it's a habit to still check in to make sure you're happy.
Scrolling your newsfeed though you have me blocked, I'm sure you know I do it anyway so you routinely make yourself look better than ever, satisfied in all that you have and I hope you are that way,  I really do
5 days a week in a factory coming home to microwave noodles and a small love seat is not ideal but it's comforting.
And so we accept these facts and allow ourselves to repeat
all we want sometimes is comfort, we don't even need to be happy if we have a place to sleep.

it is still a routine to forget about taking care of my self because that takes away time from caring for you and selfish is one word I never strive to be so I spend my days remembering all the things we repeated over and over.

I will always blame you because it is so hard not to.

I hope one day I don't.

Some days I try and make a habit out of pretending I'm angry with you when in all actuality I miss the stability of calling someone mine.
I don't know why I do this thing where I pretend like I didn't love you as much as I did,
as much as I do. Still.
I guess it's a habit because I have so much to live up to;
this "hard girl" image isn't easy, you know, but for 71 days it's what I've come to know is what I need to move on maybe half as fast as you did.
Maybe I wasn't a routine for you because I know you well enough to know you were stuck in your ways for longer than 21 days so many times and it was not easy to break through them.
Maybe I was different.
I think I loved you a lot more and that's why I have pages of words,
and bags of glass bottles,
I've made a routine out of this and you have done absolutely nothing.


21 days?
That's absurd.
I just let 21 days pass without trying to even move on

what happens if you don't want to break the habit?
I'm sorry, what happens if I don't want to break the habit?
What if I miss it?
What if I want it back although that habit is far gone and moved on?


What do I do now but blame that habit for my lack of motivation now as my fingers wear out the paint on the keyboard of this computer and I blame you for my weight gain and inability to stop drinking even though you told me never to start in the first place because you know I have an addictive personality and it's so hard for me to
break habits?

Once I get started on a new one I'm sure I will be fine.
they say it only takes 21 days, anyway.

The next time you miss him,
or want to take him back,
look down at the scars on your arm,
and remember that he will always be a part of
who you are

What do you miss more?
Gaslighting so strong you shook yourself to sleep and let exhaustion run so deeply in your veins you're tired a whole year later?
Or the nights he kept you awake just to argue and bring to attention every flaw you've ever had and how you were so unlovable he'd be the only person to ever tolerate you?

Next time you miss him,
Look down at the scars on your arm
And remind yourself
you don't need to be tolerated
you are art

Elevation decorated with hues of green, shades of blue
Shapes and sounds that ground the climbers on the mountain

Inside the hardened lungs of the hikers among
is the newest, freshest air
The river that courses through each dip in the Earth
carries sediment as it sculpts
It bends and it breaks the ground that held it in place
it creates a new path to call it's own
It made a new place to call home

Elevation decorated with crinkled water bottles,
elevation drowning in bug spray
elevation soaked from the sweat that rolls off
the bodies of those who finally reach the top

There at the top, elevation and she coexist
Together, they are in rhythm
They breathe in for four, they take in some more,
they exhale the world left below them

The devil on my shoulder has the same mannerisms as you
So I naturally gravitate towards all he promises to give me
A life with no pain, a bed and a name
All at the cost of losing who I became when I loved you.

The devil on my shoulder swears he loves me back
So I naturally give him chance after chance
It's a disease, to see only the best in people
When they could easily rip your heart out and dip without a thought
All at the cost of losing you and getting lost

The devil on my shoulder smells an awful lot like you
Worn out hoodies and the same pair of jeans
the cheap cologne your mother gave you in January
The devil on my shoulder says he's heard of you before
But you scared him away and he's never been terrified before

Do it out of love
or do it not at all
for the power in your heart
should not pull on the strings of mine
it should dance with them, tangle them
in a web that catches fallen pieces
when my paper skin loses integrity
it should color them
when the grey has covered everything

Do it out of love
or do it not at all
the force that drives your lips to mine
should not derive from the same place
that drives you to work in the morning
or to bed at night
for these are chores
and I have been there before
so I ask you to do it out of love
not habit, nor chore
do it out of love
I've never had that before

In school, I was always getting spoken to about the length of my sentences; I used semicolons more than anyone else my teacher had ever met and he always asked me why I didn't just end the sentence and begin again; I always told him that I was scared to end one if I wasn't sure it was finished yet; what if it wanted another chance? What if it was ready to start again? I wrote an essay in which the entire introduction was one long sentence, it went on for two pages and I had to rewrite it three times because it was not concise enough. I grew worried that I'd end up the same way the rest of my life; what if I was always too scared to end things because I wasn't sure if I would be able to start from scratch? What if I held on to one thing for too long and lost the chance of another one hatching and what if I never learned how to start fresh? I was always used to starting over, but it's different when you're older. You don't start over with the same white heart, you start over, carrying the bruises you got from fighting for years and you start over knowing that any move could be the one that ends your sentence and you start over knowing you're creating run-on after run on but you don't care as long as your words have somewhere safe to go; you don't care as long as they know they're welcome there, because god knows they weren't anywhere else.

how many men
do i have to fill myself up with
before i am able
to get the feeling of you
out of my chest

Sometimes I wish you would have hit me
because I could take a blow like that
and get back up in a minute
those scars heal like bandaged paper cuts
though they hurt like hell at first, you **** it up
your skin covers its own trenches in amazing resilience

Sometimes I wish you would have hit me
because I could handle a few bruises on my arm
over endless nights of hearing your words that cut like knives
but the wounds do not go away,
they get deeper with time and everything I try to cover them with
too, is covered in blood

Sometimes I wish you would have hit me
because I would not hurt a year after leaving
Sometimes I wish you would have hit me
I fear the easier one to heal from is a physical beating

So maybe I can say that
I'm "clean" from self harm
because I stopped puncturing my skin
my arms are free from scars


but does it not do the same thing
to trace back old memories
of you and I
and feel the same sting in my stomach?
the same stab from the same type of let down
only this time without a drop of blood for proof of pain

Am I not hurting myself every time I pretend
that I'm okay like this

The scars have healed atop my skin
but the ones within will never get the chance
because every chance that I get to step forward
I take to stay in place,
or in the past
wherever you are still a part of me
and any time where I do not have to close my eyes to have you back

I have lost the sight of your yawns as they lengthen into sleep,
the smell of your skin when it is clean but free from cologne has lost me,

I have forgotten what it feels like to kiss you and see galaxies,
or feel bursts of energy, warmth and tragedy all at once, every time,
I have lost the rush in my bones reminding me that you were mine.

I tried to recreate the constellations your freckles used to make,
but I laid awake and could not see a single star.

That thought used to make me cower, even in my sleep,
and wither in my hollowed wake, but today I do not ache,
not even for you.

A point came where I could not feel at all but pain
But now I do not hurt at all.
This feeling is unfamiliar.
Foreign winds have replaced old currents that settled in one path too strong, and left me cold,
but they are now gone.

I had forgotten what it felt like to not be petrified of apathy,
to not be scared of forgetting the first night you took my body,
believe me, I thought I would never breathe the feeling of discovery again
after months of trying to replace the rushing feeling of breath on my skin,

But I tried tonight to recall details of those encounters,
the ones where you took my soul and I was not sure if I would get it back,

and I could not bring life to any of the memories I one time
feared would never die,

I have waited for this day and now I can finally say it.
healing from heartbreak
is more of a purge, a surge of emotions you cannot differentiate from real or fake as they take over your body,
and there I was, losing it all at once,
and I was left open on a stranger's bed, begging for a minute where
you did not fill my head,
appeasing to God for a day in which my heart did not bend at the thought of never experiencing a rushing heartbeat
without having to take off my clothes
again.

I was willing to give up anything for goosebumps on my skin,
anything to remind me that I was a human,
without you.

But I did it and I want you to know that,
I hope one day you see it because I finally truly feel it.

I do not love you anymore.
or miss you anymore,
I do not think of you when I think of love or *** or adventure anymore,
I do not see you when I picture late July days and sandy toes and sweaty palms from holding on too long,

my heart is free for the taking and I want you to know that,
though you will not care or look for me somehow,
I do not want you back anymore and I wish you could see me now,

numb to pain
and what a sweet freedom she is-
liberation from sinful, teenage lust
broken from chains
that once held me to mountains
i climbed to prove my love

but i don't know her anymore,
i can't feel her anymore,
she left last year in a panic and
i remember watching her eyes fade
that time i told her i could hold her hand forever
love was scared to stay
and so i blocked her out
one brick more every time she left and came back


and now i see her on the street
everywhere, in new towns and old
but the world does not warm up when i spot her
i don't feel flutters in my stomach and
the sun does not shine brighter as she walks by
i simply smile to be polite
i don't know her anymore


numb to pain,
how lovely a skill
to detatch from everything you once loved
at the snap of a finger
and to watch the repurcussions crush worlds
without batting an eye- how graced to know pain enough to beat her
how lovely a skill
until you wish you could just feel something
anything, at least once more

The calendar that hangs on my white brick walls has been empty since the day I moved in. I don’t plan anything from day to day. I load up my year, usually in January. I fill it up with different colors, louder sounds than years before. I made a vow, or a dozen. I lost count after a while. I lose my train of thought real easily, and I find my progress derailed once a week, twice if I’m in a slump. But anyways, I fill my year up in the Winter when the frost pierces my brain and I’ve dirtied all the dishes in the house already. By March I’m hungry. I switch it up. Even louder sounds, ones I’d never heard before, ones I barely could because they grew so slowly, I grew impatient, it took time,  like that Madagascar Palm plant I read about 3 nights in a row without stopping. I hyper fixate on plants and people that promise even a glimpse of hope for me, it's pathetic. I got off track, oh yeah. It takes 100 years to flower, and once it does it dies. I thought I would do the same in March, sometimes I still do. Sometimes I want too. I take so long to grow that sometimes I forget that I still am. Back to the story, I switch it up in March. I get itchy for Spring flings that will defrost my bones and this year I remember counting every hour for a week straight, not in minutes but in ways I was alone. I counted each day in stomach aches because they never went away, even when I stopped eating to see if what I’d been feeding myself was the source of this and if abstaining from it would help. I thought the same when I left him. I lost 20 pounds in two weeks and I was happy about it because it was defeaning glee, the way people finally looked at me. And when I was counting the ways I was alone, the noise grew louder. It flowered.

I broke in May. I kissed three different boys in the same day and I remember going home and promising myself it’d be okay if I decided to stop living because if one plant that grew beside me could do so, beautifully and quickly, and I took longer, while it leaned on me without ever touching my roots underground, than there was not reason I had to be here. It didn't need me. There wouldn’t be anyone around to see me flower. Humans only live to what, seventy? I didn’t want to see twenty. I stopped growing. I chased ***** with whiskey to see which one was the first to hit me. Which one gave me a worse hangover so I finally had an excuse to spend beautiful July days rotting in bed? I remember the first time I took a shot of whiskey and it was ******* gross but I'd already adjusted to that fuzzy, churning pain in my stomach so I kept drinking. I drank a whole bottle. I was 19. The first time I tried ***** was at a party after you told me I'd turned into a "real ****." I remember that perfectly but the rest of the night is blurry and now I drink to get the fuzzy feeling back the way I had it for a day in May and thought I'd fallen in love again.  I never understood why I knew what it felt like to feel alive but chose to sit and brew inside a room that smelled too much like the Walmart perfume I wore every day the first year I fell in love. I still get choked up. It’s a weird feeling, to not love someone anymore and to forget, day to day that you ever did. But to remember how it felt to hear your heart beating inside your chest before your very first kiss, and how it felt like papercuts when you had your last. I disassociate when I get scared so I start putting “you” when “I” should be there. That’s something to note. I know how to let go but not how to take responsibility for my actions, ones crafted by loneliness, or bitterness. I counted this year in let-downs. How quickly it went by, too. Would you believe that? In just three months I will be able to say that I spent every day of my life, 365, thinking about you. I almost don’t want to publish this, because I forget that there is more to me than the way I felt in 2016. If anyone cares, there’s more to me than what I just stained the page with, right up there. I laughed this year too, with new faces. I drank in new places and got new bruises on body parts I hadn’t seen in years for fear of ridicule. They’re  black and blue but they’re beautiful. I spit words out sometimes and they don’t always make sense nor do they make a perfect sequence but that’s another thing I’ve learned this year. It’s hard to measure in numbers, what do I count when I’ve been out of order for the whole thing? Which parts do I mention when I start remembering the year that cut me open, and the year I bled for all the world to see because I needed validation, of any kind, I needed attention, from all eyes, for once because I could. How do I measure the year that I lost 170 pounds of freckles and lies and gained 40 in beer and candy? Or the year I finally made it to 32 months self harm free but that I talked about killing myself every day in between? How do I measure a year when I never feel like I’m flowering?

I don't want to know what could have happened
If I stayed and let you play my strings
to the same songs I dodge in public places now
because everyone knows how that turns out
My friends watched me fall over once a day in agonizing wonder
how you could call me a chore while I called you a lover
I don't want to know what could have happened
If that day in January when you told me I was nothing
didn't change the way that blood flowed through my body,
but I felt it change course and  collapsed in the kitchen with my family,
they didn't know that I was sick, you didn't look like illness to me
But I don't want to know what could have happened if I didn't leave,
because I can't count high enough to predict the nights I would have been unable to breathe

you would have taken the air right from my lungs if it could get you high

but I don't want to know what could have happened because despite it all, I turned out fine

Dregs at the bottom of my coffee cup,
the burnt remains I could never finish up,
My poems always had to rhyme and I hated that,
I hated me.
Sediment at the bottom of a river,
it turns from crystal to mud,
still carrying the weight of a 100,000 tons,
but never looking pretty enough.
Sediment at the bottom of a river,
the farther out you are, the bluer it becomes
because you can't see the piles of dirt underneath
or the diamonds that lay beneath

tea that steeps too long
leaves a bitter taste
the very same way
we held on too strong
to something gone
we wasted months

I soaked up
years of your self hatred
and now I am here.

Cavities now rot my teeth,
I spent months trying to sweeten
the tea we let steep
for far too long

Climbing streets we used to equate with mountains
but slipping on the pavement
falling faster this time around
when I hit the ground you won't be there to remove the gravel from my
wounded elbows
I have to do it on my own.
I learned to sew my own seams.

Swimming laps in waters we used to call holy
Forgetting the strokes you scratched into my mind
this time is different because I'm not trying to swim anywhere fast
I'm doing anything I can to stay above water.

Breathing in pollen
from gardens of lilacs we planted together
that are now covered in weeds
But I am not sowing what you will reap this time.
Taking the nectar from late July days that are now far gone,
and creating sweet honey for only me.

We are on different terrains now and
your water meangs nothing to me

The part I hate the most about this feeling
is that it doesn't look pretty in paint
nor does it sound lovely in lyrics
it doesn't rectify the emptiness
when I pour myself into other people's cup
I fill them up to forget what I am full of
things I do not love
colors that do not transfer well onto paper
words that don't make sense
nothing about this comes together
in ways that can expand and commence
this feeling is not a pattern
this suffering is not art
you can't trace a deadly storm that you did not acknowledge
from the start

Where did you go?
Where have you been?
Does me crawling back mean that you really did win?
Where do I head?
How will I know?
What if I can't because this fog ties me to my bed?
Where did you go?
Why won't you come back?

The times last year
you stole my body
I remember vividly
As that day grows near
I feel hatred growing in me
Something I have not felt
For anyone but myself
In the longest time
I wish I could show you
What your theft left me with
Or go back in time and
Lock the door though
you climbed through the window

Did you think I would have let you in?

Your confidence smelled
Of Cologne mixed with power
Your alpha hands grabbed my waist
And I have thrown up every day
Remembering how you called me names
For telling you to stay the **** away

I still see it sometimes and I hate that
No one, not even the witness believed me
I have yet to fill what you dug when you stole my body from me

*** without being in love
Another ghostly counterpart
to fill myself up
Says my body is lovely, my sounds are art
Can't see way I knocked over my cup
On purpose to distract him,
I needed it to end
I stopped having fun
6 months ago in a room in Boston
I thought I was filling the void
With attention,
A habit I learned in early
Adolescence
I was making it bigger
Confusing my soul
The men I sleep with are empty and foul
*** without love
Is an act of sin,
Not according to God
But to the person within
Myself, I am sorry
I give up on it
*** without love
Feels meaningless

Peace is no option,
hate sowed in every row of land
from coast to coast,
they stole everything but the sea.
A country founded on thievery,
an empire, starving for conquests,
a people that are nourished by exploitation,
the blood of minorities waters roots placed deep,
The stark white flowers turn pink in their petals.

And we admire their beauty.

Hatred walks with a rifle,
so peace is no option.
He does not have a weapon,
that could do any harm,
without a heart full of hate behind it.
Driven by fear,
fueled by confusion,
a bullet flies blindly.

The man who creates is not a criminal,
but is he who follows a path shaped by fire,
burning the colors that lived there before.
The man who believes in soverignty of his country,
at the cost of another.
The man who believes love could cause harm,
armed with a poisonous thought.

The barrel is only a conduit;
so shoot the palette,
splatter the colors,
our sisters and brothers,
alike they lay in one silent painting;
the white canvas will always stay
as clean as they say.it should.

Peace is no option,
when war is a game,
painting with blood
since the very first day.

exit out of netflix because I don't want to be distracted
I sit with the burning feeling of missing you entirely
your body hair, your violent laugh, the way you kiss  my back,
I let these feelings in because they are all I have left,
I learned love when I learned your body, what made you tick,
what made you happy, what dug holes in the side of your mouth and planted seeds in my chest, I learned love like this was the best I would ever get,
and now I know it was,
I learned love with you, like brand new shoes that take time to feel right, but these were the kind you never take off once because your favorite band had signed them,
I learned love like making up from fights before we went to bed,
I learned love was missing someone when you are with them,
yesterday you asked me if it was bad that you had missed me,
I laughed it off and today I could not get out of bed because it
smelled like you and the night we both know we should not have had,
I miss you so bad,
I learned love like high, high, high, euphoria,
and then nothing all at once
and I learned that even after your heart is ripped from your chest you have to carry on, standing up,
because you still love me, and you are still watching,
and I want to make you proud,
I learned love like being loud about it, shouting from the rootftops that you were mine and that our forever was bursting at the sides,
I learned love like high, high, high,
and now it is nothing at all,
I learned love like Crashing,
Low, unbearable low,
Pain from laughing,
Low, low, low,
Missing you everywhere I will ever go

I have bad habits,
and a good heart
the two never balance out beautifully
they don't fall in love like the first time,
when you're awkward and naive and sixteen,
on front porches and wired from caffeine,
they don't hold hands in July when it's too hot to think,
like lovers do at that age, eager to experience that innocent feeling
in color, over and over.
I have bad habits,
and a good heart; the former always wins,
they don't dance under autumn trees like lovers at 16,
they sting like the first heartbreak.
The kind of repurcussions that tip boats made to withstand
storms that even solid land could not endure,
I have bad habits and they make sure to show.
I have a good heart
but it barely matters
because what's a good cup
when the rest of your china is shattered
and even worse,
by your own actions.
I have a good heart, and bad habits,
the two don't balance or dance,
they bicker and bend.
I have a good heart,
but that's merely defense.

I wonder
where does your heart lie?
where does the extra go
when it's time to put on a show?
You live as an emotional exhibitionist
but golden lips trump hollow veins
you only show the world
your trophies and save the rest
for your pillow
so I wonder
where does your heart lie?
Who scared you into thinking
emotions are for the weak?
That sadness reaks of vulnerability
and that missing someone is unspeakable,
I wonder,
where does your heart lie?
The soul you expose
for the world to know
is a sliver of the pieces
that make you whole
you show only gold
when copper lies below
and I wonder
where does the rest go?

They're called our golden years
because they're shiny, energy
pitter patters inside dollar store batteries
didn't quite fit the mold the remote control
gave them but they still managed to get by
They're called our golden years
because 1920s America were golden too,
corruption blanketed poverty,
depression plagued the youth
while beautiful violin numbers drowned out the screams
I always pictured the song that I **** myself to,
one from the jazz age,
so no one knows I was so rotten underneath
the gold I worked hard to shine
each and every day
I'm 20 now
I'm golden, now
Composing my piece to debut
before I turn 22