When the girl, I loved, died,
I locked myself in her room
while her parents were in Arizona.

I went through her things
and found
**** photos;
A few where she seemed
ashamed
and a few where she
liked her body.
She had a gummy smile
and in others
she looked down at her *******
while having a blank expression.

I found empty
alcohol bottles.
Cheap bottles of wine
and a bottle of red,
stuffed with tissue paper.

Under her dresser
I found an unopened
letter she intended to
give the boyfriend before me,
where she admitted
to being ***** as a teenager
and how she hoped
it wasn't too much
baggage.

I threw out the photos
and
alcohol bottles,
but not the letter.

I don't know why but I kept it.
I occasionally read it,
because it's her,
and I love her.

I told my friend
and he called me a
Halomaker,
because I made sure
she was remembered
as an angel.

because please tell me how i am supposed to trust with all i've heard,
trust with the words you spoke of
turning bodies into jokes and filling my ears with words that have nothing more than an intention of being evil,
laughing and talking words of some of my own insecurities

please tell me how i am supposed to trust when all the men i have ever had to deal with have turned their backs,
physical abuse or emotional
smacking me in the face with their hand or their words,
regretting me and pushing me off,
acting as though i was nothing but an ugly girl or just a needy little fool begging for their love

change my mind and please prove to me that not all men with leave me crying a countless number of tears,
countless hours of me too hurt to get up and move from the spot they left me laying at,
reminiscing on the words they spoke to me;
their daughter or their ex

i am wounded by a number of men
and you scream to me to trust you,
you scream to me that you would never ever do anything to hurt me,
even when we part,
you want me to trust you
and i cannot find myself to it

because darling,
if you try to trust one after another
and they all seem to break it the same,
how can you find yourself to trust again?

If I cannot love you as a lover,
Then I suppose,
I'll settle for loving you as a friend

there's always been something poetic in how you glide across a room -
like a butterfly with a kaleidoscope anatomy, so beautiful yet so shy.

in how you laugh like you've never had despair knock on your door at 1a.m. and ask to see the ghosts that haunt the locked doors in the folded creases of your home - with signs labelled, "keep out."

in how they write love stories less romantic than your eyes, and how they kiss me from across busy intersections, and crowded rooms with empty souls.

in how every time your lungs are embraced by elation's vapour, your eyes are crimson like a sky set to flames and you smile gently like despair is but a word in a dictionary - one that will forever be a stranger to your sweet disposition

there are infinite stanzas folded within every corner of your anatomy, sprawled across lined paper in the midnight sky's blood and sealed in white envelopes.

and if sadness ever knocks on your door on a quiet september night. and asks to go inside that locked door at the end of the hallway that's entangled with ghosts that haunt the blank walls. the room that you avoid every lonely morning because you've never been fond of the dark or the frigid air, and least of all - ghosts, that you thought only existed in the pages of books.

if sadness ever knocks on your door with her charming eyes that seem to unlock the doors without question.

i will sit by your bedside, in a quiet room with the walls painted in blue,  and the folded edges of your sheets kissing my skin. and i will open every envelope, without leaving a tear - just so you can hear each sentence as it is dismissed from my crimson lips.*


(m.c)

I just love the idea of writing.
Sometimes it will suddenly pull you out of whatever you’re doing
Forcing you to jot down anything that came into you
There was a time when my thoughts are too much to handle on a pen and a paper
So I prefer to collect them first on a crystal clear jar
As it struggles to escape from me
Then I tried to watch them course through the sealed container
Until they have decided to calm down
And as soon as they did,
I would let them escape once again
Giving them the freedom to unite
And a chance to create new ideas once again
In order for me to place them back again
To where they are supposed to be
Nowhere else but, in my brain.

12/37/14



Our love flourished in the winter
In a place where it never really got cold
Your eyes were always icicles
And your smell like winter wind

You come off as cold
But maybe as winter progresses toward spring
And life reveals itself from under its snow blanket
You heart too will awaken

My mother’s head had been cut open,
But she had felt the splitting since I was an infant
Crying out from my trundle bed.

Then I was sixteen and still crying out.
Let me explain;
I couldn’t express that I was aching,
So I’d tell them my mother was.

But no one bothered to ask me if she was alright.
A friend of mine told me, frustrated
That people get attention hungry
When the slightest thing goes wrong.

It’s true, I needed attention.
But I don’t know why the word is so hated
Lurched off the tongue like lonely girls aren’t worthy of
Some common human kindness.

That shut me up
So I had nothing to say
Save one dismissive mention
No one bothered to ask me if I was alright.

The worst part is
The splitting feeling didn't go away.
Her pain is worse now
That I am nearly an adult.

The sympathy for my mother vanished
Faster than the money she spent
To lie in a hospital bed,
Wrapped in a paper gown.
The sympathy for me was never there.