I haven't slept in my own bed in four months.
My car hasn't been emptied in four months.
I sleep on unsuspecting couches of friends and say "Oh, I haven't seen you in a while. Do you mind if I stay tomorrow as well?"
40 different couches.
Some friends knew. Some friends didn't. Some friends didn't care.
My favorite visits were the ones where I felt like my friend's family temporarily adopted me.
They'd tell me that I could stay for as long as I needed.
They told me that there was an empty room and closet upstairs.
I told then that I didn't own any hangers.
That's when I left.
I lived with my grandparents for a while and was never home.
They kicked me out.
"It's not like you were ever here anyway," they said.
I was kicked out of my mom's and my grandmother's.
That's why I don't own hangers.

"I smell lavender," I stated to no one in particular as I slid the customer's credit card through the register.  The smell was so overpowering that it blocked out the familiar scent of espresso beans that lingered in the coffee shop.
"It's me," the customer replied.
Images of horrible, sleepless nights rushed through my mind.
The waterfalls of tears.
The heartache.
The letters I never sent.
The hours I spent pouring over my notes and books hoping I could save what was left of my GPA.
The fights with my family.
And I felt a strange comfort.
Comfort in that scent—for each horrible memory was accompanied by the soft scent of lavender.
It went with me everywhere.
It reminded me that I could fix whatever was broken.
If I was hurt, I would heal—eventually.
Anytime I felt stressed I doused myself in lavender.
It was my nicotine.
I was addicted to the smell of comfort.
"Oh," I smiled as I handed him his coffee, "I'll have to go pick some up soon."
It was time to remind myself that all things heal with time.

I found a place where we grovel in defeat.
We sit in our tears and blood from the hearts that were torn from out chests.
I'm here with an open hand.
A band aid.
A bucket to collect the razors.
Get up.
It's okay.
Just because red symbolizes courageous effort, you should not let your body keep bleeding. Keep the courage inside of you.

Leaning the bridge of my nose against yours will always be my favorite feeling.
Thinking about the weight of your hands in my hair and the soft whisper of your breath tickling my lips is the only thing that can relax me anymore.
I remember when we ran from my car to the house in the pouring rain, but you blocked me from the door so you could pick me up and kiss me like that scene from the Notebook.
I remember sneaking you inside so I could have something more than a blanket to keep me warm.
But that's all they are anymore—memories. Memories about a person I'm still in love with, but shouldn't be with, because I also remember nights you kept me up crying.
"I hate you."
"I wish I never loved you."
"I wish we never met."
"I wish I could forget you."
I remember the days you ignored my calls, ignored me as I stood in front of your door, begging you to let me in.
I remember the nights I stayed up late writing letters and poems, trying to figure out what the hell I was trying so hard to hold on to.
You were mine for two years. Two years out of my existence was spent loving you.
I know I probably ruined things when I tried to find comfort in tasting the lips of others. And I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry.
But you were still mine and I was still yours.

Do you remember anything like how I remember it?
Of course not.
You're color blind to what you don't want to see and deaf to words you'd rather not hear.
You say you're an open book, but those words on the pages never change.
The ending stays exactly the same, no matter the way you interpret it.
You're hard headed, stubborn, and yet you compare yourself to something as fragile as a glass doll.
How dare you.
How dare you for thinking that I will blame myself for your unhappiness.
Another human being can not control your happiness, but if you give them the power and means then they will.
They will destroy you and in turn destroy themselves.
There's a difference between harboring happiness and creating happiness within oneself.
Harbored happiness can not be replenished.