In a book I opened
on page twenty three
I came upon a pressed flower and
wondered,
was it for me?

The book was printed, eighteen ninety five
I guess
the flower was alive back then and
so
it wasn't for me.

I wonder who placed it
between pages twenty three and four and
why did they put it there?
who was it for?

Sad,
looking upon the dead rose
thinking about those,
and did the book close on them,
did the rose
speak of love
back then?

i hope my shadow follows you through the rooms of your house
i hope my perfume lingers in your bedsheets and my naked body lingers in your mind
i hope that when you look at your backyard, that all you can see is the red hammock that we broke
and we laughed and laughed
i hope you sit in your living room and remember when i counted the fourteen fake candles. i hope you count them and find fourteen and remember when we kissed on the floor
i hope that blonde hairs litter your possessions. i hope that you find them on your clothes, in your car, in your room, for months after i've left
i don't want to be so easy to get rid of.
i hope my voice has stained all your family photos so that all you can see when you look at them is how cute i thought you were
i hope that the sight of your empty passenger seat physically pains you and i hope that every day you feel as if something important is missing
and i hope that that something important is me  
i hope your lips burn bitter with my aftertaste and your hands grow lonely just like your friday nights without me

i want you to miss me
even if you won't

She cries late
                  every night
     Turns off all the
                           lights
         Sits in bed
bawls
             her eyes out
      in the dark
Cutting out pieces
      of her heart
No one can see
                          the scars
           of her sewing
back up her chest
       Soon she will be
             an empty shell
        Hopefully
                    putting her soul to rest
If her heart
                    is no longer there
It can't get broken,
              right?
If no one can see
                          the tears
Then she never cried,
                     right?

I know we’ve never been good at this
Telling each other how we really feel
Because in our hearts we know
That we both know the answer to that question
I can tell when something is wrong before you even set foot in the room
And I know you’re probably too scared to admit that
But know that I would do anything for you
And I know you would do anything for me
But what can we do
When we’re miles apart
And the letters on these pages won’t change that

Depression is being so tired every minute of every day
that finding the energy to get out of bed is taxing.
Depression is not wanting to be around people you know you love
because the thought of explaining how you are really doing is heartbreaking.
Depression is drowning in an ocean of your thoughts
while everyone around you scolds you because you should ‘know how to swim.’
Depression is being so confused as to why you feel the way you do
because everyone declares that happiness is a choice you have to choose to make.
Depression is avoiding even looking in the mirror
because you’ve surpassed the point of self-hate.
Depression is being stranded on an island and having the tools to signal for help
but not being able to read the language of the instructions on the label.
Depression is being surrounded by people who love you
but feeling completely alone and unloved.

If I can unwind
the strings of your heart
and pull them until
your heart pulls apart
and looks like a nest
blown down from a tree
then I will say yes
if you still want to be.  x