I am sick and tired
of people I love
being sick and tired.

I am sick and tired
of standing over
hospital beds
watching them pretend.

I am sick and tired
of them not wanting
to stay.

If you're going to take them,
take them like a Band-Aid.
Don't drag them out of themselves
and through me.

I'm sick of washing
grief out of clothing
and calendar dates.
Marking one year, two years,
three years, does it ever stop?

Realizing that one day
I will have lived more
days without you than
with you.

And I crumple
like leaves under feet
with every passing
season of my life.
Would you even
recognize me?

I'm running out
of room in my
fist to fit everyone
that I miss.




Running out of
time in the day
to do things that
keep me close to them.

The smell of cigarette
smoke and baby powder
is now a monsoon.

Because using her
dish ware with silverware
at every meal isn't enough,
my handwriting has
turned into hers.
And my god, we even
write my name the same.

If I can't be your
favorite, at least
I can still be mine.

Their suffering may be over
but mine has just begun.
Forgive these words
I'm just sick and tired.

You asked me                              
to write you
a love letter.
Instead I send
this poem
with unknown
intentions and
no expectations.

All I know is the simple thought
of your existence  
makes my cheeks go numb,
my thoughts jumble
I need to get more oxygen
to my brain,
my nerves never end
as my hands fumble,
my blood turns
to hot chocolate,
and my skin buzzing
like the trains
that pass by in the night when I wish
we could be together.

I lied before.
My hope is that
this is  not enough for you,
as it is not for me.
I also hope
this poem makes the corners
of your mouth
curl up
because that is
the least I can
do for you,
for all you have
done for me.
And if this poem
does not move
the muscles in your
face at all,
at least I have
the thought.

And maybe
I’ll never know
either way.
But for now,
it is my turn to ask
something of you:
How’s the weather?