she said hello

he said hey

her eyes said i want you

his eyes said i need you

she said how are you

he said im good

her hands said where have you been

his hands said ive been waiting for you

she said im glad

he said me too

her feet said im so happy

his feet said ive never felt this way

she said good bye see you soon

he said good bye ill see you again

her lips said this cant happen again

his lips said i wish this wasnt the end

she walked inside
he drove away

she returned to her life
he just drove away

I was eleven, wondering why everyone was so much happier than I was.

I was twelve, I thought, "Is this really all it is?"

I was thirteen, I knew I wasn't doing something right.

I was fourteen, sitting in the bathtub of my own tears.

I was fifteen, wanting to rip my veins open.
I was fifteen, scratching at my skin.
I was fifteen, staring at that risky bottle of pills.
I was fifteen, plotting to give up.

I was fifteen; I wanted to be dead.

But I realized, I died far long ago.

As a little girl, my mother and father would drive around while smoking in the car, with the window rolled down, as I would roll up the ends of my sleeves clenching them towards my nose to be rid of the smell I have never liked.

I believed that when my parents would smoke around me, I was a smoker too. I had had the scent of a smoker too. But when I was with you, it was different.

That night, not caring how much I hated those sticks of paper as a child, I would watch you put it in your mouth and on your lips, inhaling it until you couldn't any further.  I silently sat in the backseat admiring how you would slowly inhale and exhale the toxic fumes it gave off.

That night, I went home.
I walked in through my back door.
I slid my shoes off and tiptoed toward my bedroom.
I passed my parents' room, witnessing them sound asleep next to each other, peacefully.
I took off my old grey sweatshirt and inhaled slowly, the smell of your secondhand smoke, and smiled.
Because it was yours.

I hated those sticks of paper full of toxic fumes.
I hated the smell of those sticks of paper full of toxic fumes.
Now, myself, I am one of those sticks of paper full of toxic fumes.
We both have touched your pink, chapped lips, got used, and are now thrown away.

The dogs chasing the late autumn leaves
Fluttering down the lane way
The sound of the train as it passes by
Peaceful afternoon walk
The cottage walls and porches
Flourish of colour
Enwreathed with ivy green
Bellflowers, hollyhocks, hydrangea
Scents of lavender and sage
Evoke
Memories of childhood days
Visiting grandparents cottages
One in the Irish Wicklow mountains
The other in the suburbs of Athens city
The free flowing sound of the river
Smoke billowing from chimneys
The cottages have no pretense or grandeur
Just a sanctuary of comfort in the silence of the lane
Reaching the darkest corner of the soul

emotions floating high above
dark thoughts on a makeshift cloud
of spoiled milk mixed with blood
on weak wrist and a weaker heart
a fool's neck on a jester's axe
for the boy betrayed with lust
poisoned arrows from careless hands
poisoned hearts from careless minds
who would survive this apocalypse they call love?