Suddenly everyone's telling me "drive safe" in place of "goodbye"
I wonder why all of these people are suddenly concerned
I want to know how they all think they know me
Why my deathbed is easy to picture for them
Since you left I've discovered that all men who seem to think they like me are only in it selfishly
Just another man looking for more than I have to give
I think I should be sorry but I'm not

I am a newspaper someone accidentally spilled their morning coffee on.
I am the empty beer can you found on the trail in the woods.
I am the brightest stars that die at the end of each night.
I am the drunken sob story from the uninvited girl in the bathroom.
I am the face you see in your dreams that you don't think you recognize.
I am the keys you accidentally locked in your car.
I am leather car seats on a 100 degree afternoon.
I am the overgrown pit stop on the side of a highway with a luxurious view.
Except you parked the car but never got out.
You just sat and cried.

I never imagined we'd spill the same cup but the floor feels a lot stickier than when I last walked here.
Your eyes are daggers that slice the tension in the air like a coffee cake.
I struggle to mold the events back into place in my mind and out of my mouth.
No more maybe so's.
No more wondering if part of you died inside too, or if that deceiving smile means more than what meets the eye.
I know you're the devil but you smell like the Lord.
And when you cry I feel defeated.
Once again.
The corkscrew tunnel my mouth creates as I try to find the words I rehearsed into the mirror every day before today.
I can remember clearly the indent of your veins through your skin and the car crash force you used to keep me in place.
Saying sorry is the same as saying you regret it and neither one will take away the weight my bones feel.
One time you asked me where I'd go if I could fly anywhere in the world.
The stars do not reach a place far enough away from this mess you've created.
This inescapable void is one of many you planted in the garden of of my memory.
The thought of your lips makes me nauseous.
And no, I don't hate you, I just can't look at you without seeing the joker card no one plays with.
Your eyes are the color ink used to write the letter F across my graded test.
Telling you how I feel for the first time in four years doesn't make the pain go away,
I'll still wait by my door for your car to pull away before leaving my house,
It doesn't make me comfortable feeling your arms grasped tight around me during a hug,
It just makes it a little easier to choke out a "hello" when I happen to run into you.
And I know,
I know I am not the only one.

this one girl I used to be friends with, she was so beautiful and never ever did she see it in herself. I used to look at her though, and I used to wish I looked just like her or had a personality as kind and sweet and determined as her. I used to want to be as free of a soul as her and sometimes, even as guarded. It made me sad a lot of the time because she was so depressed and mysterious to me; her life kinda ****** back when I had first met her. I remember we dropped acid together twice and I told her that if ever there was someone I didn’t want to lose, it was her. And then the following year we had a fall out and we don’t talk anymore. I guess people change and that should be okay but sometimes I still wonder about her and what she is doing now and how she spends her friday nights.

then there was this other friend, who I may have even considered myself closer with but in a different way. We used to sneak out of my house during sleepovers when we were younger and sit on the curb and share a cigarette. we’d talk about all the people we miss and how afraid we were of the future. I always felt like I hardly knew her even though she shared most of herself with me. the first time I saw her cry was terrifying to me, but I didn’t tell her that. I remember how pretty I thought she was. physically though. and physically alone. She had a lot birthmarks that made her intriguing and skinny legs with pretty knees. however, she was mean and usually very bitter. one time she told me “I hate people until they give me a reason to like them” and hearing that disappointed me. I tried the most to be her friend again after she walked away but it was no use.

another friend I had I was friends with since I was six. I knew her from pre school and we were inseparable. I could write paragraphs and paragraphs about how amazing that girl is. I could do the same about how bad I felt for her. she was a friend who I never thought I would lose and I remember we had the type of friendship where our parents used to sign us up to do the same sports (horseback riding, gymnastics). after we stopped being friends I heard she fell off the deep end and was doing a lot of drugs. I got back in touch with her recently however she never seemed interested in hanging out and some of my texts went unanswered so I gave up. when I think about her, I still see my 12 year old self, playing mermaids in her pool as if time had stood still. if any of the people I’m writing about read this post, I hope it’s her most of all. miss you.

You told me once that just because someone chooses to walk out of your life does not mean it doesn’t hurt them too. I have been holding hands with what used to be, wondering if this hurts you too. I always thought the distance you were creating between us was just your personality, or one of my many character flaws. Lately it feels like I have been trying to ***** in a light bulb but no matter how hard I try, the light won’t turn on. I have been hoping it was possible to “outgrow” my mother’s overly-emotional genes however whenever someone tells me to “take care” I want to fall into their lap and cry. People keep leaving and I’m starting to realize no one fits me quite right. Everyone seems to laugh before the punchline; exit before the applause. I don’t speak French but I’ve always thought “bon voyage” meant you’ll come back soon. Or maybe that’s just what I hoped it meant. It’s so hard for me to deal with disappearing faces. Maybe that’s why I always start conversations with “when I’m gone…”. The only way I feel comfortable talking about myself is in the past tense because I know that’s all I am to most people. I know that’s all I’ll become to the remaining few. So the next person ready to say “bon voyage,” I won’t have it. Instead, I’ll tell them “have a nice journey,” because I’m grown enough now to realize no one ever returns to a sinking ship.

When I think of healing, I think of the pain that comes with ripping a band aid off a scab.
The anticipation running through your body as you shut your eyes too hard and feel the blood in your eyelids swim rapidly down to the wound.
Healing, in a lighter sense, only occurs after an injury.
The dead flowers under the snow we thought nothing of as we dragged our sleds behind us through the winter evening.
They had three months to perfect their beauty.
They will go through the same healing process every spring.
I often think of myself as a flower under an untouched bed of snow.
A child, dragging his sled, nostalgic for the icy breeze slamming his face as he faces the bottom of the hill, steps on me.
He thinks nothing of it.
Possibly the dandelion we ignore among the rest as we dance with our lover through summer fields feel similar.
Ignorant because we as people don't assume the dandelion can feel like a wallflower.
Someone else will come along and pick the dandelion, and put him down.
And the healing process will begin again.
It may be the newspaper that someone spilled their morning coffee on or the hole in the wall after an angry drunken fight.
Don't worry.
The paper will meet the recycling bin and perhaps the new family who moved in will repair the wall.
The healing process doesn't end.
There is always beauty that comes from pain.

August 5, 2015
How long do I have to look at the sky before I see a shooting star? Do you know I would wish for you to come home.

August 6, 2015
Today it rained in my living room; the couches are soaked. Maybe the rain cloud is just following me around. I didn't want to stay in my room anymore, a place you once laid your head.

August 7, 2015
I've made myself a promise: not to call until I have written at least three poems worthy enough to be heard by you.

August 8, 2015
If I master the art of cooking french toast would you come back over and sleep until breakfast?

August 9, 2015
The box sitting across the room from me that I have packed all of your things in nicely laughs at me whenever I look at it.

August 10, 2015
I read your horoscope to see how you're doing.

August 11, 2015
It's 2 AM and poetry dances through my pen. Every line has something to do with your nose.

August 12, 2015
When will I be able to start writing about your chapped lips and tender kisses again? When can I make up short songs and sing them softly into your ear as you laugh. When can I write about something other than my heart deflating a little more every time I think of you kissing my knuckles.

August 13, 2015
When people ask me about you, my tongue forgets how to say your name.

August 14, 2015
Today is the day I would have wished us a happy twenty month anniversary. I would have told you "sorry," even if none of this ever happened.

August 15, 2015
I've been sleeping on the floor at the foot of my mom's bed. I still hear echoes of our laughter in my room and I hate to feel alone enough to think of when we were happy.