we're all standing on the edge of reality,
millimeters from the precarious cliff of horrible,
beautiful truth.
the glow of our iPhones, tablets, flat screen TVs, etc
illuminating our placid faces.
ignorance is bliss, they say.
wake up!
wake up,
and turn off your alarm,
and flip on the news;
start your coffee brewer.
we depend on the technology.
we live in the the technology.
we live in a computer.
you are not real
and neither am i
but we aren't dead either.
if we can think,
we can exist,
right?

what do you do when you want something to happen so badly
that it makes your lungs heavy and your heart flutter?
what if you know it will never happen?*
take your time.
come to terms with the fact that it isn't realistic to hope for something that won't happen.
understand that it isn't the end of the world;
the earth will spin on and orbit the sun even if your heart is breaking,
even if it has gone off like a hand grenade inside you and the shrapnel has punctured your lungs.
be your own hero.
lay yourself down and with steady,
careful hands,
extract the jagged pieces from your damaged body and lay them in the sun.
let them sit until they have absorbed all the heat you can stand,
then cup the pieces in your hands.
close your eyes.
savor the feeling that comes from knowing that you can heal your own heart without help.
you'll need to remember how it's done -
this won't be the last time.
when you're ready, swallow your mended heart whole,
so that it rests in your stomach instead of your chest.
this way it won't be so easy to find next time.
now you need to learn to breathe easy again.
your lungs are healing.
they'll be stronger than ever now;
after all,
breathing underwater for so long makes it easier to breathe when you're standing,
whole,
on the shore.

i used to
like to think of myself
as a tree.

maybe
a weeping willow
or
a crooked pine.

but now
i have grown tall
and strong
and my bark has grown thick
and my roots have taken hold.

i am no longer
weeping
or crooked.

i am as strong
as the strongest oak.

and this is the first time
i've thought of you
in two months.

to think we were best friends this morning
and now,
i bite the back of my hand
to keep from screaming obscenities
into your ugly face.

you sit on your pedestal,
immersed in yourself,
and accuse me of immaturity
when i walk away
when you say
"i don't care
about you."

you think
that i act this way
because i am
"insecure"
"pathetic"
"sensitive"
but really,
darling,
it's because
i have realized that
i
  deserve
     better
         than
                          this.

i am drowning
another blank face
unrecognized and vacant
passing in the hall
in the empty eyes

bleeding out sleep
stress headaches
dehydration cramps
anxiety stomachaches
keeping me awake
through invisible sores

the teachers eyes
indifferent and glazed
too tired to care
why are we so tired
cut me through and through

there is something beautiful
about rushed,
shallow breathing;
sweat-sticky hair;
and salty fingerprints.

i like to think i leave
pieces of myself
that i no longer need
in the scattered sunlight
of my early morning runs.

on and on
from the moment i wake
till the moment i sleep,
i will be by your side
just you try and stop me.
i'll be waiting in line
just to see
if you care.


did you want me to change?
well,
I changed for good.
and I want you to know
that you'll always get your way.

i spend
the e n t i r e year
lusting
and
craving
for summer

but by the time
it arrives
i find that
i really don't
care for the heat
or the sweat
or the smothering humidity.

and so
i lust
and crave
for autumn's grace
and the death of
warmth
so that i may
feel alive
again.

they say "'team' is a four letter word
for 'family'"
and i can't help
but agree
because every time i turn to look
at these lovely people
every time i laugh till my stomach aches
at ridiculous jokes
i know that they
are a part of me
that i never want to give up.

I think of you often
i hardly remember you, so i suppose i’m not really thinking of you

maybe it’s more like i’m thinking of the idea of you
you’re a foggy landscape in the back of my consciousness

your name is a taste that comes only in the fleeting space between dreams
my mind has lost the ability to pronounce its syllables

looking back on “us” is sort of like looking at something right under your nose with the wrong end of a telescope
the image is distorted and far too magnified to see
any semblance of a bigger picture

to this day i still wonder what exactly it could have been
what we could have been
had we changed our views

i dreamt of the most beautiful sunrise
i have ever seen
and that is how i know
i'm okay now

i think that
as long as i know you
possibly longer
you will cling to the innermost
recesses of my mind
to the notches in my spine
to the cavities behind my eyes
and the creases of my elbows

but i
i will only leave traces
of myself
on the soles of your shoes.

Dear friend,
please hold this
where nobody can see it
and hold it gently
or I fear it may break.
you see,
I am not equipped
with the lucky ability
to think before
I fall.
Please,
keep it safe,
and return it to me
when it has learned
to listen;
when my brain has learned
to scream "NO!"
rather than whisper
"Maybe?".

I've been alone for so long.
Does this muscle still work?
Is my heart still beating?
The true question,
I think,
is: will someone help me
figure it out?

there are no pretty words
or metaphors strong enough
to do justice
the betrayal
the utter destruction of a friendship
which i have just experienced.
i feel alone in this misery.

it's 6:12 in the evening
and i have just arrived home
after a long day of listening
and seething
(and crying)
and drowning
in a sea of oppression brought
upon me not by my choice
but by my mere birth
while those around me argue
that i can't be drowning
because they don't know what
water looks like

vulnerability is something i have always struggled with.
to give another person the ability to read my mind, to pity me;
it's something i tend to regret.
so when i opened up to you,
and you blew me off as though what
i said was meaningless,
like you'd heard it all before,
i hated you.
i had handed you the ability to sew shut my insecurities,
but you brushed me aside with such force that the gaping hole just
opened wider and i
have no one
left to
trust.
so i am forced to turn in on myself
and with fumbling, numb fingers,
i sew myself shut
from the inside.

i could fill endless pages with descriptions of places
and feelings that overwhelm me
but the idea of a continuing plot
always escapes me

i think that even if i
drank all of you in
while i had the chance
i would still fear
death
by dehydration.