This girl...
Counts the seconds using minutes
As far as the day is long
She's never been an artist
But still can draw a crowd

She likes pink and purple paisley
Because it goes with everything
Has a bird that speaks Pig Latin
And another one that sings

She bathes out in the moonlight
For an even nightly glow
She never steps on sidewalk cracks
Cause she loves her mother so

She shows up late to parties
So she can greet those first to leave
Takes advice from Sir Paul the knight
Knowing when to Let it be

Her bed is filled with China dolls
Not a one of them the same
She calls them all Sweet Lucy
As she knows no other name

This Girl...
Starts out in the middle
So she's closer to the end
Knowing that when she reaches it
She can start all over again

In the dark, yet the glare burns my eyes.
Silence, yet the screaming won't quiet.
My body is still, yet writhing in anguish.

Darkness, silence, stillness... This is the battle.
The old familiar lullaby of numb.
A beckoning finger, seducing me to depths of pitch black on a starless night.
I could sleep if the air wasn't stale.

I've been abandoned,  yet I refuse to be the abandoner.
I cannot give that pain away. It is mine to own.
I am surrounded by love, yet alone every direction I reach.

Abandoned,  pain... refuse, love, alone... Fight.
I cannot be selfish. Redirection is the only option.
I will not let go. Hold the pain close, never kiss the love with its sting.

Fight. With what weaponry? Armed with pain. Reaching, grasping for hope.
Protect the love. Do not let it fall to my fate.
Rebuild. Pain is my weapon. I could cause such harm,  shove them all away.
If only I could reach, yet if I did, I'd take the pain from them, protect them,
And sacrifice myself to no end, but an endless cycle.

Fight, protect, rebuild... armed with who I am.
Gather the pieces.  Put them together. Never in original form.
New stones, fresh mortar muddied with tears.  Reach, to find each stone.
Drag it into place, carefully stacked,  meticulous placement, calculated.
Construct not to protect me, not to hide, but to keep the love out of harms way.
Without love I am nothing.
Deny, refuse nothing.
Arms open, eyes wide.
Fight, for everything.

I remember the last day,
The last day I looked you
In the eyes

I remember the last day
You smiled and laughed at
What I said

I remember the last day
I heard the sound of your voice and the touch
Of your skin against mine

Oh how the last day of my happiness ended,
It haunts me
Every night
Every day

I feel lost
Without your love

6-25-15

Papier-mâché bliss,
wrapped of wafer-thin
  promises midst kisses,
glued together with
    yesterday's adhesive,
fallen as separate pieces
   of wayward glances &
   capricious charades razing
     death do us part illusions
   in finale's flimsy tissue shrouds

I was driving down an old road this morning, one hand clenched to the handle of a porcelain coffee cup, one hand clenched to the wheel; digging my nails into the rubber. I've always hated driving, it was always a better place to be sitting in the passenger seat, your hand enfolded in mine. Im rolling through stop signs hoping maybe a car will hit their brakes a moment too late. Each road line painted a bright yellow, the kind that reminded me of a sun we used to watch rise off the balcony of our house. I didn't want to think about it too much, it would of brought me back to a better time and place than now but they always told me to keep my eyes on the road. It was easy to do until I passed by this field of yellow daisies, the kind that were printed on the spring sheets we'd wrap ourselves in on the mornings that rain kissed the roof. The kind that decorated the church on the day that I made a promise on forever. A forever that should of lasted longer than sickness can control.
The golden sun grazed it's rays over the old barn where we once sat in hay bails and counted constellations. The rays were blinding, but so was the memory that lit up with them. The yellow dress your mother wore on the day we lay you down 6 feet too deep. The day a rock became your welcome mat. The day I couldn't find the right way to say goodbye.
I was driving this morning. I'm laying in a hospital bed now. I'm sorry that the yellow lights of that truck drew me in. Somehow I saw you smiling at me through them. As I lay on the pavement in pools of red, the yellow lines of the road by my side, heartbeat coming down till all I can hear is the softness of your voice; I finally felt like maybe this is the only way home.

From the softness of her wrist
Bleeds vibrant shades of red
But all she sees is black and white
A beating heart but dead
As tears cascade across her cheek
From kaleidoscopic eyes
Feels not but the paralysis
Sees only greyer skies
So blind to her own beauty
She breathes her final breath
Gone are the watercolours
Now shadowed by her death

What be more grandiose than poetry,

     expound at your own discretion,

   bottle sunshine, save it in a jar,

    tie an affectionate knot, spread it around

     flood desert mirages with flowing spirits,

speaks kindly and murderously about love,

  can tempt winds to uncoil temptation's gist

****** upon or written asunder desperation

    relentless in its seizing of human behavior,

magnifying moonbeams or star's decimation

    perfumed magnolias to winter's cruelty,

  call of the wild midst sweetness of fresh rhubarb pie,

infinitely vast in its incalculable grasp of predication,

  beyond limitless infrastructures 'neath fancied significance

When I met you I was new, raw. Unkissed, unloved, unfucked. I was equal parts young as I was stupid. The day you left I ran around my house and counted every hole in the wall; did you know that not a single one looked like you? My mom is convinced you are a psychopath and your father thinks I was just a crazy ***** but I think you just weren’t strong enough to handle the hurricane that I am. Remember when I swam too close to the boats and you saw your life flash before your eyes?  You taught me how to clean a gun, and I wonder if you knew I thought about what it would be like to shoot you. You weren’t the first person to over-sexualize this body but you were the first person this plump, over-sexualized body loved. My therapist tells me that trying to remember the good times will help remove this lump from my throat but I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. I don’t want to remember the time we danced on the roof as the sun was setting and I laughed so hard about what a cliché that was that I almost fell, I don’t want to remember the time we laid side by side in your room with the lights off and listened to music, I don’t want to remember the night I broke, when you pressed your forehead against mine and swore we would be okay. I don’t want to remember how it felt to love you. I loved you so fully I don’t think I will ever be able to love like that again. I killed myself for you. I guess I’m bitter, I guess I’m broken. I guess I’ll never be the same, but I’m still really glad we broke up. Because for every ounce of love I had for you there was a gallon of fear, and love isn’t supposed to hurt. Love isn’t supposed to be black and blue, and that is the only “love” you know. So yeah, I’m glad you left. I’m glad you ****** her. I’m glad I kissed him. I’m glad we got away from each other before we went too far, I’m glad we got out before it killed us both.