my self-esteem is lower than it has been
and my thighs feel bigger than usual
even though I'm eating less,
I blame you
both of you

I'm finding it awfully difficult to put my thoughts into words
and sentences and phrases
they all come out as fragments lacking detail and persistence

you're something
something I can't figure out
you're something great?
no, you're not great
you're normal you're just a person
you're something I guess
just something

did you like it when I stopped glorifying you
I took you off that pedestal

you're just so
I can't explain you at all

what was her name again
oh
andrea
andrea, I feel bad for andrea
I feel bad for you too
but mostly andrea

I AM DARK SHADES OF GREY
AND TINTS OF BLACK
THESE VOIDS WERE ONCE FILLED
WITH THE LIGHTEST LIGHT
AND THE JOYEST JOY.
I KNOW THAT YOU SEE MY DARKNESS
I KNOW YOU DO.
BECAUSE YOU, YOU WERE A PART OF ME.
I THINK YOU STILL ARE?
AND I KNOW YOU STILL REMEMBER THE DAY IN DECEMBER.
YOU HAVE TO, I KNOW YOU DO.
ALL ALONE I HIDE OUT IN THE OPEN
EXPOSED AND VULNERABLE
READY TO FALL BACK INTO YOUR ARMS.
AND YOU CAN STILL SEE ME
BUT ARE YOU REALLY LOOKING
REALLY?

Sometimes you walk on concrete and feel like you're floating on clouds and
that's never such a bad thing until you realize that you have flowers growing out of your ribcage, yet
you have so much potential to start an earthquake.
Honest to God it does not need to turn out like this darling
the snow has not even melted yet,
just wait until morning to think it over.
And if you decide to walk away from me I would scream
your name so far and so loud
my lungs would practically burn out in seconds.
But unfortunately,
I am fragile I am delicate I am much too weak
to start an earthquake,
who am I kidding I could not even make a bolt of lightning strike no matter how hard I tried.

I always did love the way you said my name or the way you used to trace my bare spine and I just need to let you know
Even the way you used to look at me
knocks me the **** out.

*-andrea

if you don't like the reflection in the mirror,
then stop looking.

and that's all there is to it,
there was no big epiphany moment
when I made love for the first time.

it was something that seemed like forever,
each movement and caress happening
ever so slowly.
But once he left,
it felt all too sudden.

There I was,
a few days before Christmas,
having *** for the first time.
At first the adrenaline rush hit me like,
"Oh my god, I am actually losing my virginity!"

But after a few thrusts and a couple of moans, it hit me.
I realized that I am going to die one day,
and one day,
I won't be able to make love like I was at that moment.
I can make love whenever I want and to whoever I want on an impulse decision,
or I can play it safe.

In a world filled with constant predetermined change,
the need, the desire, to be filled with love,
or some might call it lust,
stays the same.

It is so simplistic that I would **** to have such a simplicity in my life because once something starts to get good, it cracks in the palm of my hands.

I need to feel something,
love and lust and sadness and exhaustion,
and complete and utter confusion.
I felt alive,
for the first time in my life.

And on that night, when I made love for the first time, I accepted the fact that life changes. One day I am going to die, and I need to live every impulsive moment like it is my last, because in a split second, it will be gone.

How naive.

*-andrea

Now I wasn't raised in the church, and I haven't got the slightest idea of what I believe in, and I also know that my morals have been slipping down the drain lately just like my tears after that terrible afternoon that I cannot bare to discuss. I am a little let down since no religion I have come in contact with has talked about a sad teenage girl who feels violated by a boy she once trusted. I don't know if this has anything to do with religion, but I remember learning in English about the seven deadly sins. There is gluttony, pride, lust, greed, sloth, envy, and wrath. And God do I want to somehow want to slowly etch your name between lust and greed. If I made the rules, I would create an eighth deadly sin with your name.
And I absolutely hate it, my mind has been wrapped up lately on what it felt like to have your bare hands running down my skin. I didn't even enjoy it, yet it haunts my mind. Please do not talk to me like I am less than you, because I have actually proved myself to be greater than you. Do not grab my arm much too forcefully and tell me to stay with those stupid eyes and that stupid mouth of yours.
You have nothing to prove. Nothing at all. I do not belong to you and I do not belong to him, although I wish I did. All I know is that you are my salvation, and I hope that one day he will become my redemption. It took me a year and one January afternoon gone horribly wrong to give up on you. It'll take me much longer to give up on him. I am selfish, consumed by lust and fire and blood and bruises and sin and broken glass and illegal substances and whiskey and mistakes. I hope people will not figure out that I am not the naive little girl I was two years ago. My pride has been diminished to almost nothing thanks to you and that January afternoon.
I'm not quite sure if I believe in God yet, but the Devil is someone I've made a close friend with. He laughs each time you somehow manage to manipulate me and use those stupid eyes of yours to get me to do things I would never ever want to do with you, only with him. Only with him. I'm not much for religion, and I do not own my own bible, but I do know for a fact that I whisper God's name when I'm thinking of him. Not you. I will continue to relate everything regarding him to sin and heaven and hell and paradise and sometimes purgatory. I hope that his mother warned him about girls like me, and I know that he will still sneak out of his house to see me during the deepest times of the night despite his mother's strong suggestions because all we've got to question is whether or not this is worth the sin. He is worth it. You are not. You are not worth the sin. He is. He is worth the sin.

*-andrea

My mind nauseous
and heart numb
over hearing  
three heavy words.

It so sharply stabbed the air that we were floating in
blowing through the breeze.

I can still remember the sound of your voice that night.
no
no
no
Please do not,
do not tell me you love me.
Because you do not even realize
that you do not mean it.
You are lying.
When you tell me you love me,
it strongly stings the roof my mouth and burns my ears vibrantly.

Please promise me one thing.
Promise me you’ll remember.
Remember the late night December kisses.
Remember the long car rides with our hands locked.
Remember the last minute plans,
and the nervous laughs and the roaming hands.
Remember the judgmental friends,
the strict parents.
Remember the mistakes,
the words we wished we said, the words we wished we never said.
Remember me.
I will remember you,
Please
Remember
Me.

And just for the record,
I hope one day you can say three heavy words,
and mean it.

(let’s dance the night away in humid August weather, let’s dance on top of our ruins and forget the lonely songs of yesterday.)

*-andrea

Lost notions of hope
fade into thin air,
developing with destructive growth.
Warm sunlight on an early morning
evaporates a single teardrop.
Broken waves crash
in debilitating consolation.
Moaning winds blend to create
agonizing discontent.  
Darkness brings upon
growing rage and
Remorseful renegade
ends with burnt offerings
and insincere apologies.
Misty air dissipates,
dishes break.
You and I
replace foggy memories full of
grief and regret and unsaid words
with
Indifferent opinions
lacking courage or conviction or compassion
creating comforting chaos.
The slumbering void
full of encompassing individuality
somehow pulls us closer.
Freedom and peace
found.

*-andrea

This is a poem about being uncomfortable in your own skin.
Think small spaces,
Too warm,
Too soon.
A car crash.
Being trapped in an elevator.
Shifty eyes,
pure white lies.
Unclear shadows on a foggy night,
salty wounds left open for much too long.

Think about demolishing something,
that is perfectly fine as is.
Think about finally making love to the boy
with the softest lips you have ever tasted
And has those eyes,
Those eyes,
that remind you of home.
Think about the buzz in the middle of your stomach
And your eyes that oh so dramatically
roll to the back of your head
When your closest ones
Pick apart and analyze every aspect of your decision,
Critique
By
Critique.
One
Immoral
Choice
To
The
Next.

This is a poem about mistakes that aren’t truly mistakes
And lust and blood and bruises
And passionate kisses and risky decisions
And sleepless nights and dour girls.
And broken mirrors and ripped pages.
This is a poem about what has become your life.

*-andrea

She is stunning.
Wavy hair, the color of sand
on a calm California beach.
With wide, naïve green eyes.
Her lips,
the color of cupid pink,
slightly parted with confusion and distress.

Where is she?
She surrounds herself
In a field
of black roses
and tainted carnations.
Her mind is blurred,
Her movements are shaky.
She looks around,
Where can she go?
She wants to go back home,
Where the hopeful daises
and the white lilies lie.

She wants to look at the world,
and see the protective, green trees as she tilts her head up.
She wants to see
the bright, yellow sun staring at her,
with welcoming eyes.

She is tired of seeing
Air filled with smoke and despair and sadness.
She hates seeing the
grass on her lawn,
that used to be so clear and vibrant,
turn to utter decay and an anguish color of
Lost hope and defeat.

She wants it back, she wants it all back.

Little does she know, that no matter how long
she spends contemplating and compensating
in that repulsive field of black roses and tainted carnations,
She will always turn back to those
lovely,
hopeful daises
and white lilies.

*-andrea

And still
My jaw is clenched
And I can feel your
Precarious breath,
Hitting me.
Like
The moment you realize you’ve had one whiskey too many
after you’ve invited that uncanny man
to your apartment.
And it makes me so deranged
I’m not even quite sure
How you can possibly contain the power to make me this
Exhilarated and unsure and electrified
and unbottled.
Every single word that                                                             ­                                                                 ­                      spills out of your mouth,                                                           ­                                                                 ­           
Sounds like the soundtrack to my dreams.
and I cling onto it all, only because
I want to remember every last detail, and
The only sensible excuse I have,
Is that you were my first.

*-andrea

It’s December and
I tried to explain to my body
That I need to stay at a constant 98.6 degrees
And that it’s not normal
For those 98.6 degrees to skyrocket
Whenever your bare skin meets mine.
Apparently,
I’d taken a liking
To being consumed by fire
In the middle of a blizzard,
In December.
I’ll never quite manage to grasp
How you make my thighs shake
And my eyes go wide
Each time you’re merely in the same room as I.
Or when you smile.
When you smile,
it looks like all the biblical miracles
Placed into one crooked curve
And you gave me memories
Risque, raw memories that will keep my cheeks blushing and my head spinning
For ever so long.
Although,
I had hoped that by this time in winter,
Something more would’ve sparked.
But you only seem to know of
Pale spring mornings
And sticky summer nights.
I feel like I don’t even know you.
I touched you, I held your hand, I kissed your lips.
You poked and prodded the deepest parts of my tar black soul
That were so beyond your comprehension.
Yet, you don’t seem real, this doesn’t seem real, we don’t seem real.
Am I even real?
It’s December and you’re more of the boy I made out to be in my head
Based on those few blissful moments
Than the boy
Who would warm me up,
To much more than
A constant 98.6 degrees.

*-andrea