being with you
felt like
being icarus.

only
if icarus had stayed at the sun
and stared it
in the face.

you were
my sun
but
you burned
my wings off.

and so i plunged
deeply
into space
with my head
on the brink

of explosion.

i wrote you
a letter every day
letters to tell you
just how i feel

written in neat, curved
writing i told you
just how sweet
i thought you were
how you made my heart
glow

letters in which i wrote
with various colors of ink
pouring out my whole being
to you

i wrote you
a letter every day.

i wrote you letters in which
i told you how you made me
bloom.

eventually
i found myself
pressing harder on
the paper
than i had before.

creating tears in them
similar in shape
and size
as the ones
inside of me.

i began to send
letters
with creases
and bumps
and stains
splattered with tears

pouring
from my eyes

as i wrote
the anger
bubbling within me.

my last letter
addressed to you
contained
no words

but was blank.
because
i had none that

could reach
as far

and deep

into the cracks
of my
heart

to describe
just
what you

had left
of me.

i remember when you
told me how much i
Meant to you.
how i made you Flourish
and bubble with glee.

my face constantly contorted
with pain and love
that made me stay longer
than i probably should have.
festering until my heart spoiled
and stank like milk
left in a fridge that had stopped
working long ago.

and yet still.
i am attached to you in an aftermath
that leaves me to pick up the pieces
you left of me
once again.
attached like some sick
umbilical cord that refuses to rip
me from your hold.

but how much do i truly Mean to you
if i am merely just
a crumpled up glove box napkin
used to wipe my blood off your lips?

you are free
to walk with your hands covered in
my blood
and yet nobody sees it
but Me.

left in a pool
of red iron spilling
from me
and salted tears
that stick to my face.

i loved you
not because of your scent
or because of the crinkle in your eyes

i did not love you
because of the melody in your laughter
or the brightness of your smile

no.

i did not love you because you gave me flowers
or because you sang me a song.

and i certainly did not love you
because of the warmth of your embrace
or the softness of your hand in mine.

i did not love you
because you stayed up hours to talk to me.

no.

i loved you because you saw what no one else
ever saw in me.

i opened my closet of monsters to you
and even with fear in your eyes
you embraced me.

i loved you because
you still stayed beside me
despite the fact i was not as beautiful as you.

i loved you because of the gentle patience
you gave to me when i was filled with nothing
but doubt and despair.

i loved you because of the time
you spent with me
when i was scared of my own self.

i loved you because despite the fear i instilled in not only
myself, but you as well,
you tamed me.

you loved me when i did not love myself
and for that,
i truly did love you.

‘to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier’
i think about death everyday.
frightened by it,
intrigued by it
i cannot escape it.
i have seen what it can do,
an endless hunt after
anything that lives.
constantly wondering when
will i be marked?
when will i
be hunted
by them.
others embrace it.
death to them is a
blessing.
but how can someone see something so
frightening
something so
powerful
how could they see it as
beautiful?
how could they actually
want that?
there is so much to life--
yet so much more to death.
it is said that
how one dies, shows how one
lived.
and that those who run from death
stood still in
life.
what will my death say about me?
what will it say about how i wasted my life
with pools of sparkling tears
and butterflies that once sat in my stomach
pouring out of my mouth?
would people know that i
stood still?
i think about death every single day that i
live.
every day that will pass
every second every minute every
year.
every tear. every breath.
every sight. every look.
every beat of my heart.
every drop of blood coursing through my veins
every word i speak every
thought i think
i will think about death
i will run from death.
wishing that someday i can
embrace the beauty of it.
but until then, (if it ever even comes)
it will continue to be
run run run
chase chase chase
filled with fear and anxiety
waiting for them
as they lurk in the shadows of life
watching, perhaps laughing
at my fear of them at my
racing thoughts of
when why and
how

you planted a garden in me
with various flowers
each very different
in the way that they
made me.
you planted daisies first,
they made me feel the sun
the warmth of a smile.
then you put lilacs, asters,
and
red roses, too
that bloomed my heart
that made it beat
for you.
then, suddenly,
you planted something new.
you planted ivy.
you planted lavender.
and they overwhelmed me in
an overgrowth.
and they continued to grow
until weeds festered along with them
because you no longer
tended to me.
they grew out of my mouth,
and poured out.
you planted a garden in me
with flowers of all sorts,
but now they are no longer
as beautiful as they were
as the life from them
was taken
by the weeds you allowed to grow
because
you wanted
a new garden.