Language is powerful, it evokes emotion in just a few sentences, words, letters, and I've decided the most heart breaking five words are "I'm scared to be alone"

You didn't  have to say anything more, I knew that those five words meant you needed me to make sure you didn't  take ten or twenty or thirty more anti depressants than prescribed, make sure the knives, blades, pencil sharpeners, and anything else you could hurt your self with were hidden, I knew you needed someone  there to talk to, who could point out the speck of light at the end of the tunnel, no matter how small it may have been.



Language is powerful, it evokes emotion in just a few sentences, words, letters, and I've decided the most heartbreaking four words are "I'm used to it."

When you have been in so much pain for so long that you have stopped noticing how much it hurts to breathe,  you forgot what good days feel like, you can't tell where pain ends and human begins, that is when you are most likely to give up trying to win the battle.

One of my closest friends told me how much they wanted to die,  how ****** life had become and how much they are now used to feeling this way, and it felt the way it sounds when glass breaks to hear them say that.

Language is powerful, it evokes emotion in just a few sentences, words, letters, and I've decide the most heart breaking three words are
"I’m already broken."

I believe that no matter how messed up you may be you are never broken, just sprained, just twisted, that the pain of breaking a bone and the pain of a broken mind are different but the same because both can get better. But when someone is in so much pain they are convinced they finally broke, finally shattered, when they think there are too many piece to  ever be whole again, you know they are in deep. And you know that this could be the day they stop trying to piece themselves back together.


Language is powerful, it evokes emotion in just a few sentences, words, letters, and I've decided the most heartbreaking 2 words are "the end"

I've never been very good at ending things.

I have a notebook full of unfinished poems, just a beginning, middle, and no end.

So when someone reaches the end of their story, or when they decide to close the book, when someone decides their story isn't worth seeing it through to the real end, that is when the heart stops pumping life and starts pumping poison through their veins. When the lungs lose the ability to inhale anything but seconds hand smoke. When the mind stops thing of life and starts thinking only of death.

Language is powerful, it evokes emotion in just a few sentences, words, letters, and I've decided the most devastating  word is goodbye.

Random dates.
Random times.
Useless words.
Stupid rhymes.

It's not cool being
less than you can be
so I urge you--
urge you--
to be happy.

Because there was a man
who was a clown
and he danced for the children
as they were being lead
to the gas chamber.
And it was 1943.
And it was
**** Controlled Germany.

The clown wept,
each time the lever
was pulled
and when the children
became silent.

To stop crying,
he told himself
that existence
is just random dates
and random times.
There was no meaning
in reason
and no order
in lines.

All he could do
was all he did know,
and that was to give
happiness
before they'd go.

When the girl, I loved, died,
I locked myself in her room
while her parents were in Arizona.

I went through her things
and found
**** photos;
A few where she seemed
ashamed
and a few where she
liked her body.
She had a gummy smile
and in others
she looked down at her *******
while having a blank expression.

I found empty
alcohol bottles.
Cheap bottles of wine
and a bottle of red,
stuffed with tissue paper.

Under her dresser
I found an unopened
letter she intended to
give the boyfriend before me,
where she admitted
to being ***** as a teenager
and how she hoped
it wasn't too much
baggage.

I threw out the photos
and
alcohol bottles,
but not the letter.

I don't know why but I kept it.
I occasionally read it,
because it's her,
and I love her.

I told my friend
and he called me a
Halomaker,
because I made sure
she was remembered
as an angel.

She looked at me and said,
"You should **** me
before you love me."
And so I did.

Her hands covered her *******
and she said,
"I want you to guess which breast
my father touched first."
And so I did.

The bones in her hands shifted
as she fixed her hair into a ponytail.
"You're going to promise me that
you're not going to try to fix me.
You're going to promise me, okay?"
And so I did.

Her lips would start bleeding
because when she lied
she chewed her lips.
She said, "I think today
will be the last day I live."
And I asked her for one more.

Dry blood sat on her inner lips
as she kissed me good morning.
Her voice softly cooed,
"I hope that isn't the last time
I kiss you."
And I asked her for one more.

She bled,
"All you write about are girls.
You never write about me.
All you write about are faces
without souls. What about my soul?
Are you going to
******* write about my soul?
Are you going to write another poem?"
And I asked her for one more.

Looking at me,
she ran her fingers
down her hips,
across scars,
and said,
"Too many men look at me
and see what they want to.
They look at me and see
broken picture frames
that they can repair
and put our faces into."

Our hands met
and our fingers grasped
at the pieces of ourselves
that were deeper than faces.
But it was only me
as she whispered,
"Stop,"
licked my cheek
to my ear,
finishing,
"Don't fall in love
with what you
think you see.
Just **** me."

And so I did.
And so I asked her for one more.

Her voice is strained.
Her skin is fair.
Her ******* lay on the countertop.
I **** her until my thoughts stop.

She rejects the notion of love for all,
as she leans against my kitchen wall,
with a cigarette and an unbuttoned blouse-
she wants to be homeless in my house.

She keeps me in her necklace's locket,
and I keep her in the wallet in my pocket.
Her toes kiss the linoleum,
she walks like she's made of helium.

She mumbles that I taste like mint chocolate chip,
as she rubs against my hip.
Her breath smells like Malboro Lights,
and I hope she decides to stay the night.

Milky Ways and Vanilla Cakes,
she likes the way my body shakes,
as we lay and eat our troubles away.
Hurried words slow the day.

She asks me about my stretch marks and scars,
and if I've ever been hit by a car.
And I say no, but I've been hit by love before,
and it feels like getting your hand caught in a door.

Hurried smiles and bathroom stalls,
she likes the way my family never calls.
The words escape between her plump lips,
as my hand travels between her hips.

We move until we forget
that the world is moving faster.

When I say to my family, I don't mean the ones that raised me, I mean the ones that saved me.

When I say this is for my family I mean the one that raised me from the ashes of my past, the one that took the broken pieces of a girl and made her a mosaic, and showed her that even though her pieces don't fit she can still be beautiful.

When I say family I don't mean flesh and blood I mean heart and soul.

So, to my family, Thank You.

You have shown me what it's like to be loved, what it feels like to have someone there when you need them the most.

Thank you to the friend who stayed up messaging with me one Facebook, the one that reminded me that progress is progress and relapse happens  and that messing up is okay.

I now know how it feels to know that someone will be there when I fall

Thank you to the friends who were there for me and ***** you to the ones who weren't

Thank you to the abusive friend who hates how much I dye my hair, for making me strong.

There aren't enough words in the english language to express how much I love you all, and even if there are enough words I can't seem to find them. So I will just say I love you, thank you for inspiring me and making me strong.

Ohana means family, but Hoaloha means friends and to me those are the same thing because the both mean no one gets left behind, even the awkward girl who makes bad puns.

I have been having trouble trying to sleep lately and I wonder if it's because I'm scared for tomorrow, or if I just don't want to let go of today.

My dad dug his foot into my back like a shovel breaking soil.
If I do enough push ups, can I put a smile on your face.
If I move the earth for you, will meteors stop me.

I carried sparklers in my hands while cannon-kisses erupted in the sky,
and my cousin swore that I'd hurt myself.
But I explained to him that history repeats itself,
and that my hurt is unavoidable.

Like the hug of a grieving grandmother,
and the staring off into space,
as her tears stain my white oxford lie.
There's no way to get out of this place.
Finding new ways to live in death.

I don't want to be cool. I don't want to be cool.

And her fingers left a ******* on my back.
And my mouth melted onto hers.
I love her until my eyes **** in sleep.
And it's deep. And it's deep.

The swirl of the ceiling sank down
like a child being drowned by his mother.
And I missed my brother, and I missed it all.

I don't want to be cool. I don't want to be cool.
No, not anymore.