there are moments when i can’t decide if i
want to die                            sooner or later.
and some days it’s like the        first regret,
the first time you hurt someone;   but then
you do it on purpose, revel in a   sickening
way, the manner in which you      discover
that empathy is a             two-edged sword
and   drowning       sounds            less than
gruesome and                more of a    fantasy.

i didn’t know how to hurt you until i hurt so much myself.

i learned slamming doors and  altercations
with the mirror from my mother           and
that’s why my fists are     bruised    and my
insides are   tarnished with      self-loathing.
to “forget” to look both ways before i cross
the street is as much a     bad habit of mine
as the tendency to     bleed   for people who
don’t           deserve         my             wounds.

i never thought i’d make it to my 18th birthday.

the real purpose of changing my pillow cases so often
is not for       cleanliness                but because I figured
my     nightmares        were multiplying on my sheets.
i haven’t had as many lately         but I fear that they’ll
come back, so i keep my                             superstitions.
i cannot figure out a way to tell you how often     sleep
felt like i was                            practicing for my funeral.

if God embodies the     clock work theory, then    i am
the first     rough draft                         of a masterpiece,
the intention was supposed to be                        poetry,
but instead I leave my   love              on ***** windows
and use   stolen    ink to                                 write down
all      of              my                                    bad intentions.

does this confession count if i address my diary to a deity?

if God is an                  artist
He must be          frustrated    
with His                 creations—
screaming in the       echoes
of                  space         time,

“when will she learn that
   breaking every pen will
   only stain her own hands?”

•  Old dresser drawers reopened
• silly, simple T-shirts back in style
• confusion of how the last 5 years of fashion
• abandoned honesty and compassion, straightforward presentation

• he swims into the swatch
• it fits perfectly, but what to wear with it?
• total mystery; his sleek, **** jeans?
• his soft, comfortable shorts?

• maybe this would be easier if
• he owned less costumes
• silently noting that nudists
• likely feel quite comfortable in T-shirts

• shuddering @ the thought of such vulnerability
• he sorts through another stack
• faded reds dredging long drowned days
• eyes closed, sun bleeding crimson, thoughts lofty

• wondering what the sneakers he used to wear
• really said
• long sigh, less than hopeful
• but these things are cyclical, you know

• what goes, eventually comes
• old pictures always met with "what was I thinking"
• with fashion, you never can be sure, not even later
• besides, one day you'll just wear a suit, so be simple now

The night you told me I didn’t put stars in your eyes anymore was the night
I didn’t see any stars myself. I thought we were written in constellations but that was more hopes
of my own then fate. Yes, I was upset. But I wasn’t in love. And that’s why it didn’t hurt.
I never lied when I said there was a moment when I thought we were some type of forever.
Do you remember the time when you were out by the lake of New Hampshire with the most gorgeous sunrise,
and you told me all you could think about was how much better it’d be if I was there to see it too?
I told you it didn’t matter but when I woke up the next morning, I felt detached from where I was.
There’s a part of me that wishes I saw that sunrise too.
But that’s just how it is.
All I have is stories of “has been”s and “could’ve been”s. A collection of “almost” and never seen sunrises—
the memories carefully stacked on top of each other, organized and filed away, collecting dust.
Somewhere I still think we exist though, an eternal splotch of sunshine and mutual caring, some place where our love didn’t hurt.
Somewhere there’s a lace wedding veil and a matching tux that were actually worn. Somewhere there’s the unfinished scrapbook I put together that has more pages added to it. Somewhere there’s a collection of passports from all the road trips we should’ve taken.
Somewhere out there, we are the type of forever I intended us to be.
Somewhere, in a little cabin in New Hampshire, surrounded by evergreens and daffodils,
there’s a little girl with the same name as my favorite movie character
with your hazel eyes and my dark hair.

he’s interested in disasters,
the kind of catastrophes that the media has a field day with,
the kind of accidental atrocities that are awe-inspiring in their horrid glory,
the kind of things that have self destructed spectacularly – so much so that the remaining debris becomes a masterpiece on the ocean floor, a memorial for beautified trauma.

and I guess that’s why he’s interested in me.