Distance.
Eight letters that stretch
the fifty miles
to you
and back.
I'll run.

A hundred texts,
a dozen phone calls,
a cluster of shared laughs,
can never replace
a welcome-home hug.
I'll run.

I dream about that day.
I'll see your smile
a hundred feet in front of me.
Time doesn't slow,
but speeds up until
we embrace.
I'll run.

Distance can eat the heart.
Leave lies in the soul.
Force us apart.
When that day comes...
I'll run.

I actually like
Black and White
Tangerine dreams
are so Yesterday

White pages, Black dreams
silent words scream

Describe the word Blue
without it coming to play...

It's something born,
denied its first breath
It's skin from cold water
It's the first blush of Death.
It's the cloudless sky
that mocks the tears
in my heart.
It's the only colour
in my Rainbow
when the tears depart.
It's the colour of ice
that floats in my drink
which resides at my elbow
drowning my ability to think.
It's the colour of flame
that blazed beyond heat.
It's the reason I'm blind.
It's the colour of my feet
that walked through the snow
following your glow
to lose the path
with no retreat.
It's the colour of my mind

I repeat

I like Black and White
the colours of Nothing
Ink blots on paper,
a pinch of Blue,
and the murky Grey
becomes something
I once knew.

i. i've spent all of this time running,
and suddenly you're right in front of
me and it feels as though i've rushed
straight into a brick wall of compassion
and selflessness and it makes me feel
twice as selfish because i do not need
you right now

ii. i've always worn war paint instead
of blush and i never wear a helmet
because i'm too headstrong and my
heart has been clad with an iron lock
and it's so cliche but i swallowed the key —
not because i was afraid of letting people
in but because i was afraid to need
somebody

iii. i get nightmares every tuesday about
the time you rested your hand on my cheek
and stared at me and every sunday i am
reminded of how it felt to be trapped between
you and your mangled cotton bed sheets
and mondays are the worst because i can
only think of the saturday that i told you
i hated you and i can still smell the sadness
in your eyes

iv. it's been three hundred and thirteen days
but i deleted your number and forgot your
middle name and i moved away because you
still remembered that white roses were my
favorite and i know you think that this was easy
for me but i was only trying to make you
understand something that you could never
wrap your head around

v. this is my civil war
(you cannot save me from
myself)

I died back in '85
but I was told my whole life
I was alive

the mattress I sleep on
is stained with my tears
multiplied with the years
of emotional trauma and fear
fear of dying alone

I pour my heart into different bowls
add some water and mix it with a brush
then sling it onto the blank walls
of the asylum
I built inside of myself
where I go to forget
that I have died before
and this is hell

the colors bent with the corners of the room
a different part of myself is in bloom
I'm redecorating my mind
as an abstract collage of everything I've learned so far
in my short amount of time

I entered back in '85
and it took twenty eight years to realize
that I have been dead this entire time

In your eyes,

     it doesn't matter who I am.
          who I think I am.
               who the world thinks I am.

All you see is who you think I am.

A blundering fool
     constantly failing to meet expectations.
An incompetent child
          perpetually running in circles.
An insolent girl
               who is bound to crash and burn.

But you know what?
     Think what you'd like.
          I'm done trying to be the person you're looking for.



                                                         ­                                     Or so I tell myself.