lately happiness seems to come and go
like a lover who bores easily
as i don't offer them enough to stay
while the depression always returns
like an abuser, it's fists made of ravage fire
masquerading loyalty and love i know is insincere

in you,
you toss and you turn
in your sleep      
                         on the rough edges of memories
                and the end of a season unknown to you
                    you've woken me up
          with your interference, you make me worry
           you say you were back in the house
     and he was there; your friends were there
still trapped, and how you wanted to go back
to them all
how they didn't realize they were trapped in his abuse


     we cried for hours
                                       the pills to help you sleep
      no longer helped and churns your stomach
      i wish that i could undo those knots
          and remove the stress that wrinkles your cheeks
          but my greatest fear
   is that you'll follow your own words
   back to the place i rescued you from
   and i'll wake next to an empty pillow
   i see in your eyes your conviction

Over thinking
about nothing and spiralling deeper
and deeper into a vast and useless
consciousness is just another form of suicide
that you hear about on the internet.

I'm not bringing myself down into the dirt
again this time just because it's a better
point of view for
you. I know I'm just here for when
your stability gets too boring, and I'm a
liar now
because I shouted to the world from
rooftops and
illicitly whispered on street
corners that I was done
complaining.

And yet here I am, and here you are,
looking at me in the dirt. It's in my eyes
and now you look like it, too.

I guess I'm not strong yet
and I could try to twist this whole
situation into something desirable
and exotic and beautiful, but I will end up
hating those words. Tears don't
water the seeds of new beginnings and
despair isn't just a mask
that will one day wash
off, when in reality
it's your face
that you try to pry off every
evening while looking in the mirror.

Surrendering is violent.
And yet
even soldiers
must rest.

In a grassy ditch,
lets lie on our backs
until its dark enough to pretend
we're in a meadow far away from here.
There's a skyline in the stars
and we're young and determined enough
to plan to get right to the edge
of the milky way
someday, when our hands
have held the other's for so
long that there's an imprint in the lines
so deep a psychic couldn't tell
us apart.

We are the heroes in a miniature
wasteland world and there's a fire
in your eyes when you look out
across our kingdom
and declare that
hell has never burned so bright.

Having a happy ending is still
an ending. We carry tender
little tragedies wherever we go, and hope
one day, we'll be
older than our bones.

All that we can see
All that we can hear
Is nothing but a dream
It isn't really there