The other day my mother told me
I should be a writer.
I did not have the heart to tell her
that I am everything but a writer.
I hear too much in silences.
I think oceans are often lonely,
and trees don't always want to let go.
More than half of my books
are less than halfway finished.
Someone once told me,
"You're too young to be so old",
but I didn't notice,
I was too busy losing things
I never had.
I'm not weak,
I'm just broken.
Most days are overwhelming;
I often think of not existing.
You should try it sometime,
it's peaceful knowing you don't
mean anything to anyone.
It's a shame sadness seeps
through fingertips, otherwise
one day I might write; even though
I am everything but a writer.

So what they don't stop by.
So what they don't hear your cries.
So what they don't read your story.
So what they don't believe in your glory.

So what, life goes on.
You have everything, everything in your grasp.
So move upon what is and what's to come.
Don't take it personal. Think about it this way. You have more today, than you did on yesterday.

So what, you have to begin again. Take your time. Leap over that wall. Because at the end, you win.

i swore to myself
that a flick of the tongue
would never shelter self-hatred
so deeply embedded into the patchwork of my being.

contagion is a sad **** thing
and cycles seem to be an endlessly contributing factor
those who hurt cannot become hurt
and so we place our self-pity at the top of our priorities
disregarding emotion so carefully hidden in the fragile mind of others.
however there are few who's torment is only self-projected

i am one
an anathema that exists in silence

my past has been placed in a box full of secrets
along with the evidence of my self-mutilation
is there a way to keep my eyes shut and my dignity revealed?
this world is numb, and the apathy must be getting to me
because i would rather not feel a **** thing
than to be plagued by misery
from myself and the ones i love
however, emotions are not choices
and humans cannot be reprogrammed

it seems the pleas and slurs i leave in place of words
are what my familiars take to heart
bodies speak such complex languages
and not everyone has the patience
or the attentiveness
to listen to anything other than a cry

and although i warn
and beg for warmth
i receive only glaciers
and memories of faces
overwritten with impassivity
what i would give
to reach into the darkest parts of my soul
and rip out this sorrow
that has clung itself to the shadows of my psyche

in the depths of my worst memories
there is a wish
a want
a need
to take this heart of mine
and throw it to wolves
to be destroyed but desensitized
in my heart
is all my pity
my lust
my anger
my sadness
and sunshine darkened and gutted
so very long ago

he held my hand tonight
we were ice skating
and he was about to fall
he held my hand
but it wasn't the same

it wasn't at all like the rush
i get
when holding hands with you
his fingers weren't warm
nor did they make me feel warm
they didn't interlock mine
like yours do
he didn't use them
to fix his hair
far too often
like i know you would have
they weren't callused
from pressing on frets
making beautiful music
with his guitar
and he was lacking a scar near the bone of his right wrist
his hands were neither sturdy nor familiar
and his voice did not soothe

he's not you

and that's
not okay
to me

you said goodbye
effortlessly
you explained
with even breaths
and walked
with even steps
out of my door
and out of my life
i shakily said
"goodbye"
and i smiled
and pretended
that i
would be okay
but it's been five months
and it's like the sun
ceased to attend morning
or the ocean
refused to make waves
and the earth
forgot
how to roll into big beautiful hills
and mountains
and i
forgot
how to wake up and smile
or walk home by myself
i learned
to spend my weekends alone
and put my head down when i saw you
with them
and her
i was no longer them
or her
with you
no longer a tree in the words
but a ****
among pavement
and that was life
without you

I want to tell you I could love you.
I could make you happy.
I could make you fall apart on the
bedroom floor,
helplessly and desperately proclaiming
that our love was more
than the nights of
raised arms and oceans of threatening depths.

But fifteen is an age when all of this
is just a dream,
a cliff where the jump is even more
dangerous than everyone says it to be.
Fifteen is the age when I believe,
that my hands have grown rough enough
to take yours
and maturity and age
have always been our similarity.
But fifteen is just another name for
"You're too young."

I cannot promise you that a wedding ring
would worth more than
the freedom to love the women
of taller heights and wider hips
for their lipstick is much darker
than the lip balm I use to
smoothen the dried skin.

For I do not know what it is like
to slide the glass between my fingers
and to taste the golden bubbles
freeze my teeth.

I do not know how to light a cigarette
or how to inhale the scent and death of rebellion.
I do not know how to let the ashes fall
unto the tray without burning my skin
and dirtying my nails.

I do not know how to make you want me,
how to dress and turn my curves
into mountains you wish to explore.
I do not know how to turn my tongue
into a weapon much deadlier
than the wind.
I do not know how to make you
feel beautiful.

So with all of the worlds streets, corners and
dimly lit bars,
I am nothing but a little pigtailed girl
with a lollipop in one hand and a poorly written
love note in the other.
And there you are,
as tall and as handsome as I've always seen
you as
with no time to look down,
only straight ahead.

But I guess, thats okay.
The heels would never have fit me anyway.