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 are a full moon rising.

You are a bitter cold winter morning where I have to crawl out of bed, sleepy-eyed and still in a daze, to scrape the ice off my windshield in a hurry,
My pajama pants, wet at the bottoms from the snow,that now cling to my ankles, begging me to love them.

You are the question "why?" asked over and over again on repeat until the bathwater flooding my ears drowns you out.
If you tried so hard to leave this world,
Why'd you want so badly to stay with me?

When did it start to become all about you?
Because pretending to love you out of fear was like being forced to sit and repaint a table when I had already sat and watched the paint dry.

You never could repeat back to me my favorite color until I turned it in the face.
You said I never looked good in green.

And you never understood the weight words could hold until I told you not to call again.
And you must have realized then because it's been a year and I haven't heard from you.

If I'm being truthful,
Loving you was being seven years old and coming home after a long vacation to find out your goldfish had died.
It was missing your bus and having to walk ten blocks home in the pouring rain.
Being yours was when I realized who I was and realizing that wasn't who you wanted me to be.
And most importantly, it was realizing  that I was not yours after all.
                                                 I was mine.

You are a full moon rising,
But I don't howl at you anymore.

If you don't love me explain why your heart beats the same rhythm of my favorite song

If you don't love me explain why it takes so much of your effort to ***** the door hinges of your heart back on when I come around

If you don't love me explain the heat of your gaze I feel on me every time I look away

If you don't love me explain my phone lighting up in the middle of the night to inform me that you're six shots deep in your own regret

If you don't love me explain the raindrops dripping from your eyes when you speak about missing me and the ocean forming in my palms

If you don't love me explain the emptiness I know you feel inside when you see me smile and know it's not of your doing.

I was born January 30th, which might explain my stares that are as cold as a winter night. People assume that since I am five foot eight, I should be intimidating although I'm the furthest from it.
You see, I have this vice where I chew off my fingernails when I get nervous. I suppose it's because I've somehow convinced myself that if my fingernails become minimized, my anxiety would too.
I know it sounds absurd but I enjoy laughing really hard at poorly composed jokes for absolutely no good reason. And, although I don't allow myself to cry as often as I should, it reminds me that I've still got fixing to do.
My mind works like a treadmill. Things are always coming back to bite me no matter how far I run.
I'm still running.
I'm still learning how to whisper.
You see, when it comes to talking about myself, I shout! I'll talk to anyone who will listen. However, even though I seem to open up easily, I have a fear of people getting close enough to hear my heartbeat.
I have this odd fascination with nature. I assume it's because no matter how persistent I am, the trees never argue back. I don't like being alone but when it's just me around the flowers blooming, the wind blowing, and the bees buzzing, I can feel my heart growing fonder.
I've never liked the idea of the military but I have this purple heart. I got it from beating myself up over things I have no control over.
Hi, my name is Emily and I'm still trying to figure myself out.
My hobbies include over-thinking until I give myself a migraine, blurting out my life story, and trying to convince my mind that my heart is worth listening to.

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.

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.

It's not fair.

It's not fair that you can take advantage of my vulnerability for so long and expect to fix it all with an "I'm sorry."
As if "sorry" was the immediate cure for all mistakes mankind has ever made.

It's not fair that you get to move on with your life while I sit here wallowing in my sadness for two more years.
You expect me to be "friends" as if friendship could silently erase all of the touching, sweating, and tears you so long ago put me through.

It's not fair that you use the excuse "I was *****" to make up for the anger I now express; for the memories you've left me with of those nights still reside in the darkest parts of my brain.

It's not fair that I get to watch you feel up your new girlfriend in her car parked in front of my house. Because a new girlfriend and two lost virginities is the best way to get over a potential "friend."
Because you've made it clear that's all we ever were.

It't not fair that you ask me to delete the messages we exchanged discussing our past so she doesn't ever find out that you fell in love with a sad girl once.
Sadness is wrong but **** is wrong too, but not for us because we were just "friends."

It's not fair that you're in bed sleeping soundly while I sit here,
pulling smoke from a cigarette that burns the back of my throat, praying to a god I don't believe in,
trying to rid my mind of the one person who swore he wouldn't leave.
My one "friend" who never truly existed to anyone except myself.

I hope one day you can see, too, that this "friendship" was never truly there.

I find myself forgetting who I used to be
The darkness that once consumed me vanished
Like a burnt out candle
And I don't know if this flame will ever reignite
But the smoke still lingers here
It seeps into the walls, into my bedsheets
The memories don't give me headaches anymore
Nor does smoke burn my throat or pollute my lungs
And I'm trying not to let the consequences of my previous mistakes anchor me down any longer
It's hard to write poems that don't make people want to cry
Because for the last five years that's all I've done,
Is cry
And dread the following day that has yet to arrive
As if I know how I'll be feeling when I'm 54, 65, 80
As if I know what beautiful days the future holds
As if I know the glorious moments that await me
I don't
Because life is a ticking time bomb without a visible countdown
How could I be so vain as to determine how long this sadness will last?
How could I play God?
I won't

I never liked writing about beautiful things like the way your voice echoes in my ears when you come over in the morning to wake me with soft kisses. Or how we used to hold hands at 3 AM trudging blindly through December's icy breeze and how worth it the bitter cold wind was just to spend some time alone with you. Or how in the spring time, when the ice and sleet melted away exhaustingly into the ground, flowers would sprout up following your every step. They, too, knew your beauty. You're a 'worth it' type of person.
You see, I never liked writing about beautiful things because I never really knew how. My mind was a grave someone dug up and pushed me in and I could never find  way to climb out. I would sit there, my body cold and full of rage and I would stain the walls with dark words. Destruction was the only form of creation I knew until your singsong voice lifted my heart so high I was dancing on the clouds.
You see, I never liked writing about beautiful things but you have features that every artist looks for in a muse. Your voice sounds like my favorite poem and if our love was a treadmill and the only way to keep it alive was to run, I'd never stop, even when my legs become heavy and shaky.
I never liked writing about beautiful things but I know how you whisper 'I love you' in a sleep daze and I adore your mouth when you lean to kiss me in a sleepy daze. You are beautiful when you are innocent. You are the only beautiful thing I've ever written about. And I will not be afraid of you or your scars as I know you don't fear mine. I will write a dictionary of all the words I've ever thought to describe you. I will write a novel about the scar under your eye. I will write poem after poem telling you, telling the world, that you are beautiful and I am not afraid to write beautiful words anymore. I will make sure to hold you on your bad days, my arms will bandage. I will take every photo you dislike of yourself and tape them to my mirror to show you I think you're incredible. I will brush every fallen eyelash off your cheek, wipe your mouth when it's ***** with crumbs, assume the role of caretaker when you're sick. I will do beautiful things for you because I can.
I will love you like I was never broken.

If there is nothing to write about I'll write about the scars across your face.
The way someone wrapped you like a birthday present and tied the ribbon so tight it left creases.
I'll wonder about the look on her face when she opened you up on her special day and decided you were not the gift she wanted.
The brass knuckle bruises that decided they wanted to stay forever under your eye, poisoning your reflexes whenever someone touched you there.
The washing machine and the corner table too.
The way she left you,
Or didn't.
If there is nothing to talk about I'll talk about the snow covered Subaru
The stigma of doughnuts- and the coffee much too hot.
I'll learn the patterns of your hands, the way they move when the windows let off steam, and the pace the wheel turns.
Nothing about the way we breathe is casual.

I am so sad, and so lost. And nobody cares.
I have friends who manipulate my situation and try every single way to convince me to believe what they think is right.
I have a guilty conscience and a thirst for consistency in something- anything.
I am a newspaper that someone accidentally spilled their morning coffee on.
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 cried.

Tell me I look beautiful,
But I'd look better if the tears that ran down my cheeks ended up dripping into a river somewhere.
If they disguised themselves as part of nature,
if my sadness became invisible,
It wouldn't make you sad, too.
And all I want is to make you happy.

Every time I read the bible I feel the angels spitting on me from above.
Reassure me that that's just how you know my mind works-
That I have a funny way of looking at things and it's not always positive.
That sometimes,
When I'm alone with you,
Those tears don't fall into rivers but instead stain your t-shirt.
Remind me that you never know why and it's too much of a hassle to ask.

You wish I could be happy although I just don't like to read my poetry aloud!
Why don't I like to read my poetry aloud?
"It's amazing!
However
You just have to put more emphasis on the stanzas where you talk about
suicide.

There are things I haven't said in fear of what those words might feel like to say them out loud.
But you already know I rehearse my sentences repeatedly in my head until the words taste raw and become meaningless by the time I'm ready to finally speak.

Why don't I speak!"

Don't I know how rude it is to not say hello to the crossing guard?
But it's alright.
You tell me you *forgive me.

Isn't it ironic that the air conditioner only works when I'm driving,
Not when we sit in silence,
Sweating over the tension.
Wondering what words are going to come next and which one of us are going to speak them.
And it only starts to rain when you try to leave.

You tell me it's okay that I don't like thunderstorms but please, tell you again why?

Tell you again, when's my birthday?
Tell you again, is that what we were supposed to do tonight?
Tell you again, please, because you forgot time and time again.

But I know you have a delicate mind,
A fragile heart,
And I know there's a beast that lives behind those glimmering brown eyes.

I'd love to be the one to tame it.

However,
This is not a love poem.
And I'm not the one.
Am I?

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 had once laid your head.

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.

You advised me to never grow old but what happens when my bones already ache like I'm 90?
You told me to treat my family with well and to love all as I aspire to be loved but what do I do when my hands can't do anything except break hearts and shatter minds?
You told me that God resides not only in the sky above us, but in our hearts, within us. But the bible says he's there only if you let him in and he's been knocking but I've lost the key.
Your morals may not fit me,
Your memories may not all be shared with me,
Your mind may not always think highly of me,
But I know your love is with me always as mine is with you.
If there is a gracious God I know he will make you queen in a palace of peace and forgiveness,
Things you've always given me.

I know some things are better left unsaid but I'm having a difficult time cutting the transparent rope that tied my heart to yours.
I keep thinking: Should I call? Should I write? If I show up at your doorstep with a handful of feelings would it somehow make you want me again? I never knew that a heartbreak was something you could physically feel. I find myself curled up in bed with both hands over my heart as if I'd been shot. Because I know the arguments felt we were digging broken glass out of our palm lines but I've never known a pain  like this. A pain so surreal I can feel it everywhere; it stings my heart, it sends throbs throughout my entire body, it pains my mind.
I dream of you every night. In my head we're dancing through open fields full of sunflowers. The sun reflecting our smiles, so bright and miraculous. That's how I know, deep in my core that I was happy with you. I've never known a love so magnificent it lights up a room full of nameless people. I've never loved a man so fully, to where every inch of my body screams his name.
Our hearts are connected in the most beautiful way: an invisible string. It can wrap around trees, buildings, and stretch across oceans and that string can never be broken or severed. Because the love two soul mates have is endless. They remain connected no matter the circumstances and their love lingers on

Beginning

The diaper rash
Scratching the eczema until it bled
Ruby Red Sea trickling from my nostrils
Mom and I on a mission for the bottom of the stairs
Baby's first autographed cast!
Upside down on the couch,
Laughing


Preteen

Awareness of death
Love letter with a thirst for embarrassment
Ruby Red Sea trickling from my forearm,
My thighs
Playing ***** in the park; wanting to forfeit
Makeshift waterslide,
Bruised


Teen

First attempt to meet God
Ambulance
Throwing beer cans at cars from the hilltop
Lucy, Mary, and Molly
Discovering self confidence
First love,
Six losses
What does it take to be a friend?


Young Adult

The difference between effort and ability
Self acceptance
Getting familiar with 4am
Summertime snow
Money hungry,
No, starving

I am fragile,
Yet I have known a sturdy heart.
And because I've had to carefully piece my heart back together in order to love you,
I know I am mendable.
At first, I was near positive I had only magnified your love for me because of my insecurities
But now I am everything except apprehensive.
My love feeds on your love
And that is how I know it exists.
This is how I know love exists:
Because one dark sky,
3,000 stars,
88 magnificent constellations,
and an extremely uncomfortable park bench told me so.
That night I walked barefoot through the tall grass until the feel of your warm breath on my neck lifted my heart so high I swore I might never find the ground.
And since that night,
I still never have.

One
If I could, I would rip every last piece of you out of my memory.
You're the reason she smiles,
You're the reason I rarely do.

Two
Nail my hands to a cross and pierce my side with one good reason why I should ever speak to you again.

Three
I washed my hands in forever,
You kissed me with poison on your tongue.

Four
I was always good to you.

Five
I hope your girlfriend breaks you down until you finally feel bad for someone besides yourself.

Six
You only loved it because you knew you had power.

Seven
I was afraid to say no.

Eight
The only part of my body you deserved was my fist.

Nine
You cannot use your sadness as an excuse to touch me, kiss me, and undress me. Go find a doctor, a therapist, your parents.

Ten
It's been three years and you still haunt my dreams.
You still crawl through my rib cage,
You still make me sick.

Eleven
You left tapeworms where my heart should be.

Twelve
None of this matters anymore.

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.

"Why don't you call?"
The only thing I fear is the dial tone of rejection so I never pick up the phone
And fifty feet below the Benjamin franklin bridge when the rocks give way and I survive
I know I must matter to somebody I just wish wanted it to be you

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

When I say don't call me again, it means call. When I say don't call me again, it means my head hurts from staring for so long at my phone waiting for it to ring. That my back pocket has the vibrations memorized so well that my heart keeps making me believe it's ringing. When my friend feels in competition with an iPhone I have to reassure her that I'm not ignoring her on purpose, it's just that your voice gives me oxygen and your laughter gives me the motivation to breathe. And I know leaving your location on for me to obsessively check was no accident, you just wanted me to know you got home safe. You just wanted to say "hey, I'm alive,  and I'm so sorry for what happened an hour ago, but I'm alive." Because you don't know that when I say don't call me again, it really means that even though you're not really sorry, I forgive you. And even though you left, your side of the bed is open for you in case you turned the car around. And even though we're both angry, I'd kiss your forehead, like if when I do you will remember the first night you told me I was special. The night you told me that nothing about the way we breathe with each other is casual. And even though you're going to sleep a state away, I know I'd be able to feel your heartbeat through the phone line. As if distance ever stood a chance. So when I say don't call me again, it means a lot of things. It means I'm angry and I'm hurt but I want to see if I'm your sun. I want to see if your world wouldn't be as warm without my smile. I want to see if I'm your cherry on top, if I'm the sugar in your tea, your cigarette break after a long work day, the bonus in your paycheck. I wanted to see if I was worth wasting gas for, the minutes on your clock for, if I was worth the stubbed toes. And yeah, I know, why stub your toes when you could just wear socks and sneakers but let me tell you if you asked me for water I'd bring you the whole **** sea. So when I say don't call me again, what it really means is I hope you answer when it rings.

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.