dear you,

i’m in love.
yes. you were
waiting, i
bet, for this.
this time, though,
it is not
what you would
think. it’s me
this time, not
you, although
it’s still you,
but not in
the way it
used to be
you. it’s my
fault this time,
my doing,
my painful,
pitiful,
suffering.
it’s you in
the sense that
i cannot
control you.

this time,

it’s your mind and your thoughts
the things that slip off of your tongue
the words you put, pencil to paper
the ideas that come out in your songs

it’s your eyes and your sight
the careful observation of beauty
the need to bask in warm, pure light
the stare you give me, rarely now

it’s your movements and your touch
the hugs where you grip my shoulders
the times where i’m drunk and playing with your fingers
the warmth you give off and your gorgeous smile

none of them
are mine to
have, to take
to keep, to
love, to break

i miss you
and to go
and detach
to break what
we have, that’s
the hard way
out. but i
am trying
to help me.

i feel the
same way i
did when you
said i was
wrong about
this. about
how i feel.

i’m hoping
disposing
myself of
you, means that
the dreams will
go away
too. but if
they stay,
i’ll give you
a quick call.
probably
a text, to
be honest.

i love you,
unhealthily,
with every
part of me.

keep in touch,
please.

love,

me.

‘it’s possible to love her
even after all of this’
pills
needles into arms
spoons with burnt bottoms
passed out on the floor
drooling
skinny
starving
convulsing

i knew when you
lied about being over it
you were still skinny
i saw the needle marks
in the crook of your elbow
i saw the spoons
in the back of the drawer
i knew when you
made me go home so soon
your dealer was also your affair
your husband, your ex lover
your ex life, the opposite of living
you’re dying
you are dying and it is your fault
and i have run out of empathy
yes it is a disease
yes it starts as a choice
yes
you were depressed
but you still
you.

you said.

“who cares i want to die anyway
who cares i’ll ruin my body
my brain my
relationships
my life”

the hope has left your eyes

what’s it like to look up to a destroyer
what’s it like to love a broken woman
what’s it like to watch the progression
the regression
the walking backwards
one step forward but if you say
“just one more time”
it’s 5 steps back
10 steps back
20
30
the cut is deeper
the scars are darker
and you are gone.

what’s it like
to admire an addict
to be denied what you had
to be ignored
questions go unheard
“where have you been?
is everything okay?
i miss you.”

you see the inevitable
you hope it turns out different
you hope she is the one in a million
to miss a ruiner
to cry over the loss
to realize that
you distanced yourself for this exact reason

it is sickening
and you ask
“what if”
but “what if”
isn’t
“what is”
so you vow to never go down that path
so you pray you will break the cycle
so you progress
one step at a time.

“happy mother’s day!”
plastered everywhere,
tangled in my hair;
it’s knotted and tearing,
crowding my eyes,
my ears..
it frustrates me.

i’m not sure
what the statistical probability of me
getting into some terrible accident
that causes me to go deaf and blind would be,
and i’m not sure how to research into it.

so my hypothesis remains,
that it’s probably a very small percent.
maybe it’s bigger than i think it is,
i’m not sure.
i never claimed
to be good at numbers.

but in this possibly
very small or very big percentage
of this reality coming true,
i want to make sure that i have, in advance,
memorized every inch,
every crack,
every hidden part
of you.

i want to touch your hands for hours and remember every curve and dip of your fingerprints,

and i want to kiss your lips for days to ingrain in me their taste and the feeling of your breaths.

i want to lay in the crevice of your neck for weeks, to make sure i have studied your scent,

and i want to rub my fingers through your curls for months, so much so that i could recite this poem, even in the after-death.

i want to feel your cheek against mine for years, so that i am able to describe the warmth of it through nothing but colors and love,

and i hope that i can just spend my whole life with you, learning more everyday that not everything is meant to fall.

i fear one day that
i will write to please.
i will not write what
needs to be said, i
will not write what begs
to be removed from my
aching chest, i will
not write when i need
to write, i will not
tell my truths to my
small community.
i fear that i will
lie to make others
feel the emotions
they want to feel, not
the emotions i
need so urgently
to get out of me.

i am trying to spread my wings
i am trying to heal in a place that isn’t good for healing
i am not healthy
i am not healing
i am sick
i am withering away
and i am trying to fix myself for you
but it is not working
and for that
i am sorry

i am the moon.
small and insignificant,
almost pointless,
almost being the keyword.
people say i light the night like the stars do,
even though i am a floating chunk of rock.
floating chunks of rock do not illuminate,
no.
floating chunks of rock are illuminated,
but only by the stars.
i reflect your light on to the world at night,
and i am worshipped like the god i am not.
you are the beauty,
burning at temperatures unheard of,
touching every planet in the solar system,
gleaming off of me.
i am not envious of you,
your job is much too important.
and like i said before,
i am almost pointless.
but what is the world without your light,
even when you’re asleep?

the kind of person that gives you
straight,
blunt
advice:
great for breakups
or motivation to get off your ***.
they use logic. they say things simply.
it hurts
but the truth is
often what you need to hear.

the kind of person that gives you
understanding,
reassurance,
and love:
great for the sad days,
and for hope that the brighter days are
just around the corner.
they use compassion. they quote books.
it feels nice,
and you might get a good cry.

sometimes, though,
the spiral doesn’t want
logic,
or the blunt truth.
it wants, not understanding,
or reassurance,
because telling it that
“everything is going to be okay.”
makes it burn even worse.

sometimes it needs to
laugh at itself.
not to be told that it is
being ridiculous,
but to realize that
they way its brain works
is, in fact, ridiculous.
how it can look at a rainbow
and turn it into tears,
how it can laugh at
the most horrible joke, but yet
still get sick
at the idea of its friends
being in pain.

it needs to be reminded that
it is complex.
and that, while everything
will eventually feel better,
it might be worse one day,
too.
that itself,
and the metaphors it uses,
are just a small fraction of
the extravagant art
its pain,
its brain,
is able to create.

so maybe this isn’t a second chance
but what if it’s our last?
so dance with me this time
instead of your bottle of ***** at 3 am every night
and make love to the one you’re in love with
not just for validation
but for comfort in your relations
love the way you were put here
and let someone kiss your scars, dear
you’ll feel better after a good night’s rest
better than the the blade of a razor slicing across your chest
and your art can still be great
without killing what’s left of you in order to “create”
find someone who doesn’t want to domesticate you
and let them take your shades of blue
and turn them into purple hues
your mental state has never defined you
and you like to experiment, as if on cue
you text me at 11, and unable to get through to you
i leave you be
and then feel even worse the next morning when i wake up
too early to make up
lies
about everything you said last night
so instead i write
and i tell the truth
of course, i’ll never show any of this to you
but if you happen to find it
maybe you’ll be flattered to know
that you make beautiful art yourself,
but the art of observing you is something
only i have had the time to master

fire;
engulfed by a heat
that wasn't man made.
a heat that burns
worse than a burn
or a cut
drowned in alcohol.
a desire to feel pain
a desire to feel nothing.
but a breath,
but a pulse,
but the warmth of a touch.
but feeling is nothing.
it was a drug
and these are just
withdraw symptoms.
and one day
the feeling will return
but not today.
today i am burning
without turning to ash.
today i am
a fire
that can only
be put out
by her.

june;
before july,
after may.
the influential month of summer.
drinking the alcohol left over from last week.
swimming in pools that don't belong to us.
skipping rocks in the creek by your house.
walking thirteen miles to sit together,
and watching the sunset.
pure bliss,
without anxiety for the school year to start.
contentment,
without complaining about walking those god ****** thirteen miles.
i stub my toe on a rock that i don't see
because i'm laughing at your stupid grin.
that's june.

i am the “beware of dog” sign
and you are the dog
you are behind me
on a chain
loud and angry
i am there
so the next person that crosses your path
cannot be upset
as there is a sign
that warns
to beware of your tendencies

i fear that
i’m going to lose you that
i’m going to close my eyes and
i’ll forget to look behind me and when
i finally remember where
i’m at you’ll be gone and that
i’ll have nothing left but an emptiness
only you can fill

i will probably not go blind or lose my way of listening,
i will probably not run away into the sunset to see the water glistening,
i might not ever get to see the world, or write a song with whistling,
but loving you is the only thing that i’ve ever worried of missing.

i built a wall,
wide and tall,
but forgot to make it soundproof.

i’m glad that it was so easy
for you to accomplish what
i’ve been trying to gain the
courage to start for so long.

incoherent thoughts cloud my mind.
i am like a spider
who was never taught
how to climb.
thoughts of what could have been,
our stupid, well thought out plans.
the dull thud of a heartbeat next to mine,
keeping a rhythm that isn't in time.
desire and lust
and everything that we had in between the two of us
gone.
left behind.
like a piece of mold on a piece of white bread.
"it's *******!" i scream as i listen to music
that makes me think of you.
and my purple walls in my dark room
that were painted by our hands.
together.
a taste of something
i feel as though i will
never taste again.
i look at the hole in the wall,
and the broken ceiling fan.
the picture of you on my desktop,
an empty box of soda cans.
and i can't seem to remind myself that
there is always an end.

my expiration date passed long ago
but you keep me on your shelf
sure, i am in the very back
with the lima beans and the beets
and the condensed milk that you don’t know you have
but i am here
quiet
cold
and solemn
one day, i’m sure
you’ll clean out your pantry and find me
quiet
cold
and solemn
and you will throw me out
because i am nothing more than a place holder
to convince people that your shelf is full
and that you are whole

i’ve stopped trying.
i just bump into walls until i find a door,
blindly.
the dull pain is
more annoying than anything,
and i could stop if i wanted,
but at least i’m moving.

april;
wet and green,
as all of the moisture drains from the heavens
and you buy me flowers,
a beautifully clean and simple way to express your love
because you know how clouds make me feel
and one day, as we sit in the sprinkling rain
and as the sun sets
seemingly to get away from the storm
we see a rainbow
and we laugh silently and finish our ice cream,
not considering that maybe we should go inside,
so we just stand still
and
we see
the second rainbow.

detachment is key
to a life
full of coping.

i love,
yes,
i love hard and full.
i love with
the parts of me
i normally have
numbed and dulled.

but my heart
is still
wired to
my brain.
no decisions go
unchecked or
overthought.
no love goes
without pain.

i don’t charm
others with the
intent to harm.
it always
feels like
the right play,
until i’m,
again,
stuck in-between
my heart and
my brain.

fight or flight,
that’s the game,
no attachment,
no endearment,
no loss of anything.

i hope one day
someone comes along
and cuts my string.
i hope i can love
without second thoughts,
and think without
worrying about my
love for them
getting in the way.

i hope they see
the side of me
i know is buried.

i hope they can
love me
for
me.

standing in my kitchen at 12:11 in the morning
eating frost bitten ice cream in my neon pink underwear
staring at the coffee stains that plague my cream white counters
and thinking about christmas and how fast it passed this year

no, really i’m thinking about you
and how if you were still mine, we’d be on the phone right now
or even better, i wouldn’t be staring at the coffee stains on my counter,
because i’d be curled up in your arms, listening to your breathing
and thinking about all the reasons i love you so much

or we’d be out driving around, eating chicfila or tacos from that place we loved
you’d be telling me about a movie you just watched
and your hand would probably be on my thigh
you’d make fun of the way i hold the steering wheel,
and i’d tell you that you can talk when you finally learn to drive

and we’d stop somewhere
and i’d kiss you on the cheek
but i can’t imagine a time when things weren’t bad, so in this scenario
i’d also be thinking about all of my insecurities
but you would see it on my face
and you’d say “hey,
i love you, and there’s no ‘but’s or ‘anyway’s”

and i’d probably work less
so i’d have more time to spend with you
i’d deal with the smaller paychecks by loving you instead
but you’d probably work with me too, and i’d give you rides to and from
and i’d love that we shared something like that together
because of the places from where we both grew up

you always told me you loved shopping together
because it made us feel so real
and like we had our own house, with a big bed and a dog
and a garage full of cars, and a garden to grow from

but the reality hit too soon
we couldn’t handle the stress of it all
and i guess we tried to work it out, but on cue
i realized nothing is really ‘meant to be’

so here i am
now at 12:23 am
eating frost bitten orange sherbet
and crying thinking of all the things that i just said
wishing you were the one i was saying them to.

“it’s us against the world.”

you used to say it over and over, after dad left, after grandma died, after you got out of your first and second toxic ‘relationships’.
you said it so much that i started to believe it. even as a kid, it took a lot of convincing for me to listen to anything. i was stubborn.

but that became the truth, the consistent, the backbone of whatever we had at the time. i was comfortable with the simplicity of the phrase, and it was a way to remind myself that i always had you.

after i moved out of dad’s for the final time, as i was crying over the birthday cake he had gotten me:

“it’s us against the world.”

after my sister had her son, and moved in, and moved out, and moved in, and moved out:

“it’s us against the world.”

after you started getting suspicious that her husband was abusive and that she was stuck in a toxicity you knew too well:

“it’s us against the world.”

after my brother was sent to prison for defending her:

“it’s us against the world.”

you’re allowed to use that when things happen to us. when it’s truly US against the world.

when it’s YOU against the world, you can’t say that it’s US. when YOU put YOURSELF in this situation, you can’t say that it’s US.

i, as a separate person from you, am trying to feel better. trying to breathe easy. trying to get out of the couple of houses i coexist in more often. trying to eat more. trying to live the most simple life i can.

you say that you are too.

but the difference between us is that i am not putting myself in situations and then dragging you down with me.

you have dug yourself a hole, and every time you fall into it, your immediate reaction is to grab another shovel instead of climbing out, and i’m tired of being the one taking the shovel from you and dragging you out.

when you learn to throw the shovel out, or even better, fill the hole in, i will gladly agree that it is us against the world.

but until then, it’s not us against anything.

it’s you against you, and me waiting for something to be resolved.

blaming yourself
for him
becoming a statistic
of an epidemic
of sad-eyed boys
with clean cut hair
and baggy sweatshirts
isn't right.

may;
flowers bloom,
and it is easier to see the good side
of things.
baby animals everywhere,
sunshine,
the bluest skies.
everyone is smiling
because there is nothing better to do.

i’m gonna watch you fall in love with her
and i’ll be so, so overwhelmingly happy
for you
because all i’ve ever wanted
is for you to be happy
and if she is what makes you happy
sure, i wish it was me
but you are happy
and therefor
i am happy
————————
i’m gonna watch you fall in love with her
****, i’m gonna watch you
progress from the cute comments about her
the way she smiles and flips her hair
the dress she wears that you like so much
to about how she tastes like honey
and how you love to run your fingers down her back
to how good you feel when she moans your name
to how you guys are talking about your future
to your doubts
and insecurities about the relationship
and, although you’ve never been there before,
maybe,
to you proposing
and asking my opinions on rings:
“i don’t know what girls like!”
i won’t say anything,
unless, of course, i’m drunk
and then i’ll say everything
and you’ll remember more of it than i want you to
and i’ll have panic attacks
and you’ll feel like it’s your fault
but, god,
will i be
so
*******
happy
for you and her
because i will see the way you look at her
and laugh with her
and how warm and genuine your contentment is
you’ll be glowing
basking in the light that she gives off
and everything will fall into place for you,
finally.
just the way you’ve always wanted it to.
but my world
will
shatter
over
and
over
again
because i will never find someone
that gives off more light than you
and i will never
-glow-
around someone the way i
—glow—
around you
and i will never
feel anything more
than i did that night
when i thought that,
maybe,
you feel the same way too
but you do not
because you have found something in her,
in her bleach blonde hair and crisp blue eyes,
that you will never find in me.
but, ****
would i be
so
*******
proud
of
you
at your wedding.

it used to feel so absolutely suffocating
to reflect on a time when i didn’t love you
to think of all the wasted moments before
i was graced with your presence in my world

but now it burns to remember the feelings
of falling asleep in your arms,
of crying into your chest,
of kissing you goodbye.

i was never one who even believed in love
so it took me a couple of tries to realize
just how real it all was

of course, just when i got comfortable
things fell hard, and everything went south.
and now every time i hear, read, or say your name
all i’m left with afterwards is a bitter taste in my mouth.

and i rip off the chain you got me three years ago
and i chuck it at the mirror
and it shatters the glass
seven years of bad luck my ***
because if karma existed i wouldn't still be around
and you
you would be anything but what you are
because you are everything that ever meant anything to anyone who ever cared
and i was the anyone who cared
and i am the one who cares
and 'He' doesn't exist because if he did
why would 'He' let me feel like this
over you
someone who wouldn't look me in the eyes
someone who put on a show to leave me for someone new
and every little while I'll ask mutual friends how you've been
because i care too much not to check in
and it's always the same answer but i know better than to believe myself
because you're not better off without me, but then again
you weren't better off with me
so i will pick up the pieces of glass and put them somewhere where they are not a danger to me or my bare feet
and then i will go to bed
because the only way i can get away from you is to sleep
because my dreams are still blank.

light me and inhale;
hold it,
hold it,
hold it,
and exhale.
repeat until you are satisfied and then suffocate my flame,
i promise i will not complain,
for this is my purpose:
to be lit,
to be used,
to be put out,
and inevitably,
to be forgotten about.

i cashed in all of my karma for this one,
this feeling of coming up for air.
you’re like the first taste of sunlight in the morning,
the first hit of a cigarette, the first step into the ocean.
a solar eclipse, a dark night in the country,
a mcdonald’s sweet tea at 2 in the morning.

i love this, god, i love it,
and i hope one day i can have the privilege,
the refreshment,
the every morning rush of euphoria,
of loving you.
of saying that,
of meaning it with every ounce and nerve ending of my being.
infinitely small but overwhelmed by a feeling that is bigger than either of us.

“i can’t wait for more” i say,
but what i really mean is that i will wait,
as long as i need to,
to savor every moment,
every drop of sweet tea,
every star in the southern kentucky sky,
every cigarette, every sunrise,
of living this little slice of life with you.

if it was my choice i would’ve never fallen in love with you in the first place
well, you know,
i say that.
you showed me an intimacy i never thought i’d get to experience
and maybe if i was a little more trusting in the universe to give us all what we can choke down
i would’ve said “i know you love me”
instead of “prove it to me”
and right now i’d be saying “if it’s meant to be, it’ll be”
and not begging the gods to give you back to me.

tension:

there’s been a lot of it.

in the air, in the world,

between my shoulder blades,

forming against you and i.



apprehension:

there hasn’t been enough of it.

bickering and butting heads,

the bitter flavor of annoyance.



worrying about

the paychecks,

the car, the house,

the war of growing up

and moving on,

hasn’t much helped me out.



you’ve seemed stagnant

for months, for over a year,

and you will only tell me

what you want me to hear.

all i want to say is

“get your act together.”

“just actually try a little.”

“it isn’t rocket science.”

“just grow up.”



so, in conclusion,



i’ve learned my lesson

about begging people

for the bare minimum,

so i’m refusing to be

‘the bigger person’

for the rest of this continuum.

glowing under fluorescent light,
end of shift, day emerging from night,
fingers bent gently at the edges of a book,
i should take a photo to remember,
but i’ll settle just to look
at the wrinkles of my knuckles,
always had a thing for hands,
callouses and broken skin
can tell you a lot on who someone is,
where they’re going, where they’ve been

i wonder what my hands portray,
(although i do not care)
in this light, on my thigh,
they remind me of a simpler time:
gripping my mother’s fingers,
watching her stir a ***,
or a cigarette held between;
but i reminisce quietly,
for my mother i am not.