I am in a *******
I know what you’re thinking
‘Really? You? Standards must be sinking’
But you see
My lovers guard me, they are my protection
On my left is Anxiety
And on my right is Depression
They both think I am…smoking hot
Like I am something worth fighting over
Both claiming my thoughts as belonging to them each
As though everything I learn is all what they teach
Depression likes to mess with my body as well as my thoughts
Running its sharp and callous hands over the flesh of my limbs believing I get pleasure from its touch
While Anxiety gnaws at my wrists like a rubber band ping, ping, pinging
As though I don’t have better things to do like living.
Three is a crowd
And we have tried breaking up
But Anxiety is clingy
And even when I change the locks it still manages to nit-pick its way back inside
Depression is so addictive and likes to hug
Wraps its arms around me and even when I cover my ears
I still hear it whisper it look what you’ve done
D and A are similar in ways
They both like to put me down, tell me I’m not good enough
And then hold me until I believe they have me picked me up
And saved me from killing this part of the trilogy
I am the last part
I am so far unwritten
The last piece of the puzzle
That makes up the picture
Of a self-destructive girl
In the midst of something she can’t understand
She has a nice smile though and a good heart
But the lovers are not attracted to that
Though they don’t mind ripping them apart
Until her lips are too battered to smile anymore
The ***** that once pumped double time is so unsure
Of itself it finds it difficult to even try
You know what, **** it
I can do this
I will break up with them
They have done this to hundreds of people before
And they’ll do it again
This is not right
This is not how I should be treated
I am a strong independent woman
I will not be defeated.
To Anxiety and Depression, you’re not getting custody
Not of this mind and not of this body
I am not letting you through the gate anymore
I will buy stronger locks
And not let you in even if you politely knock
There is no home here for you
You go hand in hand
Like young naïve lovers
Straggling for attention
Even under the covers
I will not call you again
We once were lovers but you were never my friends.

I want to leave 100 post-it notes in the glove compartment of your car.
One.
I loved your smile first. That toothy grin, stretching lips wider than life, that wouldn’t stop talking. Fancy dress parties make you happy. High on sugar. High on life.
Seven.
I introduced you to some friends and they had highlighter pens at the ready to welcome you into the group. You laughed.
Sixteen.
You gave me your number but you didn’t realize those were the digits to unlock my soul too.
Twenty four.
My parents pick you up and you wear a jacket brighter than the sun and it makes me smile like the rays of summer. We go to the city.
Twenty nine.
She makes a fool out of me. I’m sorry she embarrassed you by telling you how I felt. It was not her place. I cried a lot that night. But your text was lovely and allowed me to sleep.
Thirty six.
I had given up on you but you were at the party and we took smiling pictures together and we made tea at two in the morning while they were all out of it. I
Thirty eight.
Think
Forty Three.
I
Forty Seven.
Love
Fifty.
You
Fifty five.
You are too much want I want and not enough of what I need.
Sixty two.
I ******* hate you.
Sixty three.
I lie to protect myself.
Seventy one.
You are drunk but I find the courage to talk about it. You tell me we are good friends. We hug.
Seventy seven.
You are not high on sugar anymore. E-E-Enough. Your childhood is over. You are a man.
Eighty three.
We go to the gallery and sit close on the tube. I want to kiss you.
Eighty eight.
You break the shower curtain so I shut the door on us and we try to fix it but you’re too out of it. You hit your head and laugh harder than I’ve ever heard you laugh before. We sit in the bathtub, legs hanging over. Hung-over.
Ninety.
We walk on damp grass and you talk about how weird it is to not see your parents at the dinner table together anymore. You can’t understand why it didn’t work.
Ninety one.
We drive back in your car, in the rain. Music plays. I want to hold your hand.
Ninety two.
You won’t ever listen to me. Please listen one day.
Ninety three.
I
Am
Breaking
Why
Can’t
You
See
It
Ninety four.
You’re not who I thought you were but I still care about you.
Ninety five.
I lend you a Stanley knife. When you carve into that paper, I feel the slice on my palms.
Ninety six.
I can’t save you. You wouldn’t let me if I tried.
Ninety seven.
I am merely a spectator watching you from the crowds. I hope you know I am cheering you on.
Ninety eight.
We are the right people
Ninety nine.
At the wrong time
One hundred.
But that is fate.
And nothing and nobody can deny fate. We will both grow old and I will regret not telling you all these things when my eyes were shining and my complexion smooth. But that it something I must live with, not you.
I want to leave 100 post-it notes in the glove compartment of your car so that when it’s late at night and you’ve stopped at some temporary neon shelter for fuel, you’ll reach over the empty passenger seat or your best friend’s knee and you’ll pull the handle to release 100 different reasons why I loved you.

my fingerprints are aching already,
with the unrecoverable concepts.
i want to kiss this moment,
taste the salts of passion pits upon
my swelling tongue.
it is all gone, and my eyelashes stick together
far too long.
arteries are filled with sugar and sad songs,
and i know i will never feel like this again.
hands to the clouds,
i’m alive for right now.

With length
a poem
loses strength?

Gadgets you buy
Tomorrow die,
Pity
So fast
Lose novelty.