I think what they forget to tell you when your parents decide they don't love each other anymore is that no matter how many times they swear they aren't broken the vacancy in their eyes will send a different tale and
"we'll pick up the pieces of this broken home" will ring with the consistency of metronomes.
When the dark shadow walks into your mothers room at night and she swears that it will brush up the shambles of ripped up hearts and dollar bills from rotting wood floors and perhaps "help get my head back where it belongs, and we won't have to go weeks with no hot water anymore!"
When they felt the clanking in their chest halt and waves of past due after past due after empty canisters used to drown past due lay about in my nursery after past due after the simultaneous flinch as hands brushed reaching for dishes in cold water after past due.
They never told me.
That when at a cross roads leading into oblivion came about my wonder of carnivals would turn into split homes, split cars, new moms, new dads, never speaking out when it happens within the strike of a lightening bolt that came down and electrocuted my world before I had any concept of what to do with it.
I was never informed that balloon animals would become "you're a spoiled ******* brat" and that fifteen years later the spoiled brat in me was just a little girl reaching out for her mothers hand to ask her for a second "what happened to dad?"
Just to ask her to take one moment to forget about evenings we spent lighting candles in place of light bulbs and keeping warm by the oven and to address
What they never told me.
Why they were moving in new bed sets while my so deemed "alternate life" sat on his couch drinking the same empty vessels from the long fights and the past dues and the empty cavities where hearts once lie.
Why I went from child to Cinderella and next thing you know I had two kids by eleven and you were out building his fortress while I rest my head on dungeon floors night after night after night.
When past due became brand new and next thing you know we're in a new world with a new life and I watched you lose sight of past due, of you.
And for a second did you ever stop and tell me that you'd end up with your will trapped within a tornado of "I'm speaking" and "You're clueless anyways" and that maybe you escaped the clutches of sleeping in back seats at the expense of yourself?
That maybe your only sacrifice would be my only sense of solace?
They. Did. Not. Tell. Me.
That I would be screaming into a void inches away from leaping out of my own skin at one final attempt to bare my still shattered, unknowing, uninformed heart stuck in the first fight of the last night that I saw my parents kiss.
That mister brand new would take the old you and throw it in this dumpster that held baby dolls and sundresses for not even long enough to rid them of their tags.
That maybe the ship has sailed.
They didn't tell me my own heart would be shredded on the floor of a divorce court.

I'll never forgive the spring time and the hope it would bring me,
Everything rising from the ashes of barren months that killed off all salvation and somehow, some way, finding its way to the surface once more.
I'll never forgive the spring time and how it felt like coming home,
How after months of anguish and clenched fists smashing on tile floors I felt the warmth of the sun radiating among my skin, among my scars, among my skin, among your touch.
I'll never forgive the spring time and how hearing branches crack on off-beaten trails covered in remains of broken limbs and harsh winds continues to make me wince,
Because leaping atop egg shells has the same ring to it as the rubble we dance upon.
I'll never forgive the spring time, and the way it came again, and again, like clockwork it came crawling out of snow drifts and found its way into my hair with bony fingers of skeletal promise. Touched my heart with verses sang through wind chimes, beautiful for a moment and forgotten again until the sun dial came round once more.
I'll never forgive the spring time and how it made its way out too soon. How comfortable always became unbearable and you couldn't stand the summer heat the same way you could an April afternoon. How flora only holds attention captive at first glance then never paid mind to again. How you only had to blow dandelions once to get your fix.
I'll never forgive the spring time, how its hope became my home. The routine of its essence, how your love is the most familiar spring I've known.
How I had always stopped to admire spring, but spring never admired me.
How I saw it rise and fall again, but now spring shall no longer be.

Had there been a time where idealizations were accepted among the walk of reality that lie before us it may all prove to be a bit more comforting.
Where the daunting banter of voices that sat atop my conscience were able to soothe the pain of grieving without true loss.
Heartache failed to be coupled with death.
A place where we could walk hand in hand with dark, empty vessels sent to sail with a destination that is but a passing fog and direction pinpointed out by wanderlust souls.
We lie with a marker of selfishness that runs so close to the bone- etching its edges into our flesh with such vigor that one could hardly ignore, yet it sits on the back burner.

Come with me, my love, dance in my graveyard of pasts.
Take in the sights of freshly filled earth that mold itself beneath our feet as we take a gander at what was.
Here lies the spring evening under the sycamore, young hearts screaming with excitement, the way the wind intertwined among-
The nearly bare branches of autumn rest peacefully with the skin coat worn as a declaration of verses that died between clenched teeth and sealed lips.
This is the laughter worms now feed on.
Here are the fingertips and silk braced locks buried alongside one another but never to touch again.
Pay mind to the faces piling up adjacent to the stone wall, laugh lines rotting by the rise and fall of moonlight.

What a spectacle of self, is it not, dear?
We can witness blue fade to black, closing the light on this scene.
Sit here and rot beneath the sycamore tree.
Clench our hearts between our teeth and swallow messenger bottles along with them.
Never to walk in unison but let one dissipate aside the other.
Let our memories of memorized bone structure fall before our very eyes- wouldn't it be grand?

Induct this into the cemetery of past and do away with the make up of oneself.
We will let this idealization fall cold,
Watch rigor mortis seep in with such mesmeric fashion.
Tuck it away before pre-thought memories taint themselves with reality.
Lower it down under into the ever so charming embrace of wood and soil, mites and fungus.
Clean our hands of touch ever so sacred.
Let it bleed out, darling. Let it decay.
Anyway- how will we remember this when its done away with today?

Let the grieving sink in, just to coddle remembrance of nothingness.
Embrace the black holes swallowing pieces of us.
Dance among the treetops and feel the wind, when our memory dies we can truly begin.
And again,
And again.

You lay next to me as a ghost did their lover in the darkest of nights
Yet you were but a ghost
I heard you breathing,
But breathing does not necessarily mean you're alive.
I felt you move,
But that didn't mean you were necessarily there.
What was once electric had now become stale,
Cold,
Stagnant,
Static.



You were in my presence without being present.
That's when loving you became but a chore.
I sat feeling alone, with you by my side, wondering "where's the one that I adore?"
Those nights are when I began to realize you were never really there,
Yet I continued to wear my heart as if a cross to bare.
And in those nights I realized, you were never really mine.
Just a constant lingering absence, set to waste my time.
You were so cold and unassuming, yet charming as can be,
However when nightfall upon us and the moon shine bright, the one left empty was me.
That's when the curtain began to close on us, our hearts taking out final bow.
For the same emptiness I felt deeply then, is the nothingness I feel towards you now.

Voices rang in her head as if trying to communicate that something had been lacking for such a substantial time that she no longer saw it as lacking but as the normality that it served in her life.
She became accustomed to the constant lacking of sustainability that it served as nothing but a blanket of sheer comfort to her being.
Uncertainty was the one certain correlation between holding on and feeling fulfillment because it was the only common trait anyone had ever presented at the doorstep of truth she held so dearly to her heart.
She became fixed on it - searching for the ability to communicate emotion and more so the constant question of whether or not her invested time had been to them what it was to her ever longing, love struck, wanderlust soul.
Was she a fool or was she holding onto the parts of those around her that even they failed to recognize exist?
Foolish or foreseeing?
She had yet to decipher the difference and had but the slightest clue as to if she ever would, and that served as comfort to her misguided heart.

Her color diminished second by second until all that was left was but an empty abyss.
A sense of such enormity that caused everyone around her to wonder what exactly was she made up of.
Was it secrets or portions of herself that she lay out on a table for everyone to read?
Had we been witnessing her story this entire time or was there more behind the surface that she intended us to decipher for our own well being?
Is she our dictator of soul or have we constructed her into the answers in which we as humans are constantly searching and never receiving.
For what are our determinants but our own minds in a world ravaged by constant input?

You descended into my soul so effortlessly, like dark blue dissipate into the muted periwinkle sky that kiss the hilltops of dew covered mornings.
Had there been but no measurement of the graceful manner in which your touch take a turn from skin to grasping onto organs locked behind the stern walls this may not be so difficult to comprehend.
Yet for the first time, the notion of numbers on a clock became irrelevant and I saw this beginning in gradients and neon bursts of color that illuminate all in its path.
For what can we track the depth of which we dive into oceans- with a ticking minute hand or the depth in which the opacity of our surroundings grow?
I caught you at midnight, I drowned in your essence like 500 kilometers below sea level, I admire you most at sun break, and I love you, how I love you, like the most effortless periwinkle blue.

I calculated life in days and not months or years for the fact that the important of otherwise minuscule sounding matters would sound as if it were grand. I reached for substantial representation as a reflection of the scale of enormity otherwise considerably short run instances have upheld in the 7,412 days since I was placed here.

7,412 days was enough to develop myself into the individual that I have never thought I had become. I am becoming the final forms of myself for the world to witness. I am beginning to blossom- though shriveling along the way- I am becoming beauteous and complete.
7,412 days has left me aware enough to know that
5,480 days ago I learned what loss was.
It was 5,480 days ago that I realized our minds **** more viciously than any plague lashed upon man.
5,480 days since coming to the conclusion that we are but temporary morsels of flesh on an ever-evolving plane of half-assed existing.
5,480 days since I realized that the enemy is not what we create in our heads as so it be the actions that have led us to create those idealizations.
It was 829 days later that leaving became a common occurrence in this calculated decline of my own innocence.
60 - some odd days thereafter I was led to believe it was my fault. It took another
730 days to realize that the weight of losing those close was that of had ripping my organs out with my bare hands.
898 days later I entered a
789 day torture chamber that had stripped me of every last pure portion of my existence. I wandered aimlessly with a bullet infused heart and the tattered and torn paper exterior that had served as a canvas to display the scars in which I had left to collect.
It was but 864 days until I had the slightest indication that this broken soul was of importance to anyone. I learned that believing this weight I had carried was not any fault of mine, but infractions committed by those who had set their own inner demons upon me as if they were handheld grenades and my mind was enemy territory.
It took a 40 day journey to find that for the first time I was given a sense of belonging and learned that sometimes it took coexisting souls to make sense of what our individual purpose had been all along.
I jumped aboard a 1,351 ship that had led me to places I had never ventured. I experienced rough seas only to be followed by fresh spring meadows. I had sat in the rain to appreciate how comforting the sun was as it kissed my skin ever so delicately. I had been to battle for a cause I was never sure would thank me, but when I found that it did I would have endured the fight ten times over for the bliss in which companionship contained.
4 days ago I learned that laying your entire soul out for another could still end in nothingness. The most beautiful presences can be reduced to but a deafening silence, a halting defeat.
Today is day 1 of knowing fairy tales are but compilation of half-truths.
Maybe codependency is but another word for makeshift.
I am disposable, but my soul is not.

I am as infinite as I allow myself to be.

My insides swelled begging their casing to break. 

To be set free from the confines they had been expected to find comfort within- to sit with contentment for all eternity, to accept the known with no knowledge of what was outside of their ingrained idealization of a humble abode.

They throbbed, slight at first then gaining vigor as my vitals cried out so sweetly to acquire some sort of insight as to what lie beyond such a feeble body.
Rip me open from head to foot, expose the very reason for physical existence and destroy it. I want to feel my heart on the floor.
Drop my stomach from fifty stories if it means that of a slight fluster of butterflies will evolve into a spontaneous combustion of excitement along with blood-stained pavement for my proclamation of wide eyed wonder, and the butterflies.


Give my hands to those in need.
Sever them with the grace of which graciousness should be felt and hand these hands to the masses reaching for something, someone, to allow those who have fallen to rise above adversity. 

Lend a hand! Lend a hand! For I only have two.

Throw my eyes in places that uplift your soul.

Play the harpsichord of my vocal chords when in need of an extra push.

Keep my lungs, for you were my breath of fresh air.

Lay my skin atop rose petals and let it dissolve.

Throw me to beauty until I’ve become nothing at all.

Allow me to live without limits until I am all gone, for how can one truly experience all that is lovely without turning to it completely.

I want to be of use, you see.

Far from what existing as one conjoined body is set to allow me.


Cut me up into a million parts, spread me far and wide.

Then look to all the humbled souls, as if I haven’t died.