at this moment in time,
i can't tell if being heartbroken
would numb me or
**** me
?

-a.lorraine

the feeling of peace and calmness
seems to come at an unavoidable price
like killing brain cells or losing an arbitrary piece of your memory like the
details to a scene in a good film or the exact measurement of cream in a recipe, but then you question why these things would matter on a deeper level than common small talk between occasional acquaintances who may never care to bring it up again. So you just continue to inhale that good ****.

-a.lorraine

she deserves a better version of you
not this diversion of you.
take her on an excursion with you
show her the conversion of you.

-a. lorraine

write for yourself
meaning
if you write for anyone but-
you will eventually
forget what your own voice
sounds like.

- a.lorraine

people will come and go in your life
like you’re a ******* grocery store.

you have many good things to offer.
they may take from you.
they may give to you.
they may simply move on
if you don’t have what they want.
you’ll be there when it’s convenient.
you’ll close when you feel like it.
but for the most part
you’re always open.
they might have not been around,
but you’ll be in the exact same place
they left you.

- a. lorraine

dear girl,

you don’t know it now,
you won’t believe it now,
but here’s the truth.

one day not long from today,
you will be loved by someone
who accepts you even on your
most unapproachable days.
and believe me, you will have plenty.

you might do everything
in your power to combat this
kind of unexpected life you’ll live.
you believe you do not deserve him,
but you’ll give up fighting.
like i said, he’ll love you on even
your most unapproachable days.
unconditional and deservingly.

sincerely,
an older you who’s still learning

You are walking through what seems to be a narrow hallway. Bodies stick to the walls, complacent with the space given, bumping shoulders, shaking hands, saying hi, saying goodbye.

You hold your school bag closer to your chest. There is a laptop in there-- pens and notebooks. Things you need. Things you cherish. And as time will not stretch, you make your way to class, do not worry, -- it will quickly pass.

The ceiling lights in the classroom are dull, dying, uninteresting. Bodies file in, breathing heavy, sighing heavy. As the florescence seems to keep you further away, it is dimming you as well, repressing, submitting-- only you cannot tell.

He speaks redundantly. Hands raise high-
do they even know what they are going to say?- you wonder this at every selection. He points to she and he and they. They who are chosen, loud and bold. He says "YES!- You are right ma'am. Let us begin to unfold."

When you look at me, what do you see?
I see a transparent body, outlined by bold black
ink, a distant reflection of me

You see nothing, yet you see me?
I see nothing but those behind you and those walking through
your outline, yet I see who you should be

If I were to disappear, what would you do?
I do not know considering, you are not there.
You are like air

If I am like air, can you feel me brush against your skin?
You are not as strong as the wind; you are like the air I breathe in

Why are you the only one who hears me?
I hear you because I am the mirror of your outline, I respond by showing you the truth of what you only choose to see

How do I fill myself in? Become visible and whole?
You find your true colors and escape into your soul

*A.L.W.

My heart intertwined and mangled
with the inner-workings of my organs.
Everything I knew about living became
justified as it was sure to be reality.
Someone, please pinch me.

I loved how, sometimes, there is
nothing that could be done.
On the surface, I accepted the abruptness,
but a fire ignited inside me and a roar
fought my chest and lungs.
What could feel worse than this other
than our own excruciating demise?

So, I pinched myself knowing that
numbness had already dispersed
itself under my skin drawing closer
to my marrow. I would soon feel nothing,
except the actuality my heart's death.

His eyes were the sky;
they were blue and wide.
When it rained they turned
gray and stained his irises
for days on end, then once
again his eyes would send
me into a breezy euphoric
cleanse. Once the sky returned
blue, the white flowers bloomed.
We were free from gloom.

A•L•W

The wind spoke to me last night.
He knocked on my window
and said—“let me love you,
Let me carry you to bed,
Lay you down, and caress you.”

He wrapped himself around my warm body,
Whispered in my ear the lyrics to
Old love songs and poetry.
Chills rushed down my spine and to my toes.
Alas, I felt it—the breeze, the peace,
The love he gave me.

I write to survive
and to state what's on my mind.

I do it to stay alive,
and digest what I find

in these forests who revive
me; they show me a sign

to keep going,
to keep pushing

--stay within these versatile lines,
write these words in real time.
Never erase or rewind.

(A.L.W)

The Vanilla Bean Frappuccino,
who brings chills down my spine every time.
Sweet on the inside, cold-hearted on the outside,
Especially when he leaves me high and dry
in the morning unexpectedly.
He’ll remind me that I’m alive,
And make me feel Zen for a split second,
Then he splits in a second.
Or
The Caramel Macchiato,
Tall with a sophisticated smile
And unrealistically hazel eyes
That read “bello” around his irises.
With a shot of expression—
He’s never afraid to speak how he feels.
But that’s just the Italian in him.
Or
The Pumpkin Spice Latte,
The most popular guy.
He’ll warm me up when I’m cold;
And make me feel like I’m his only one,
He’ll tell me everything I want to hear,
Then he’ll disappear without a sign—
At least until the next year,
Only to continue the same cycle over again.
Or
The Cappuccino,
He’s got a strong mind
like those French roast blends
With a secret soft side.
He speaks with fluidity and is
As charismatic as the rest.
He’s a morning person nonetheless,
And won’t leave me loveless
In the sheets like Mr. Vanilla Bean sometimes does.
Or
The Teavana Chai Tea Latte
He sounds fancy, does he not?
He’s different to say the least,
Layered with many spices,
And from cinnamon trees,
He’s warm-hearted, yet feisty.
Gentle, yet fatuously energetic.
Soft spoken, yet bold,
He doesn’t have to do much
To have me sold to his trance.

Now for me to decide what I want
As more people file in, deliberating the same
Line up as I, but they have more to
Choose from.
Perhaps I should loosen up some, and go
With last one.

Sometimes—when it’s raining and when
the sun is barely peeking through
cumulonimbus clouds, the atmosphere feels right
and wrong at the same time.
it’s inexplicably comforting,
but ******* awful.

And I listen to popular songs from the 90’s—
British artists with sappy lyrics about a lost love, occasionally
of a growing love, and dreams of new beginnings.
they’re totally corny, but I like them.
I guess.

Maybe, I’m just being delusional-
hoping for you to fly back to me, or
perhaps descend from the rain clouds and
land in front of me, forgiving me.

I told you that I was done.
Regret ran through my veins instantaneously.
I told you that I loved you though, my chest felt
empty and cold where my heart used to be.

Monday, everything seemed perfect.
You looked at me with those chocolaty
brown eyes. And my soul latched onto yours
connecting on unimaginable levels of actualization
described by the lyrics of those 90’s love songs.

I’m lying awake right now,
it’s been a long day—things are starting to
fade along with daylight.
Things?
Things that made me love you that way I did.

Suddenly, the skies are as dark as they are
going to get for the night. The cold in my chest
drops temperature, the emptiness is subdued by
my restlessness and late night thoughts.
I just want to sleep tonight.

Sorry again for today, by the way.
I sound passive because I don’t know what
to do at this point and I’m thoughtlessly
writing about you every few minutes to
figure out how I’m going to make this up to you.
But for right now, I’ve lost you again.

Yesterday, I begged for you.
I knew I’d been childish—you were just done
I wasn’t sure how we even got to that point
Again, but I knew it wasn’t going to end well.
Again.
Because at the time,
I was done too.

Only if I’d not been such a ***** that day last week,
Perhaps we’d be on better terms.
Happy even?
I think so.
I would say so.

Until now, I had not given much thought
To how much I needed your love.
To me, it’s the best thing I’ve ever had.
You were the best thing.

I missed—
Never mind, it was time to let go.
I used to wish I’d never met you
but if I hadn’t,
I wouldn’t have assessed what I wanted or
what I needed.

But I wish you the best,
And to eventually find her.
Treat her better.
Love her better.

But not before I,
Because let’s be honest here:
I’m too sensitive—you said it yourself.
You were never mine; a year’s worth of time
Will make you realize that.
I still love you though,
I’m still here—don’t worry,
it’s strictly platonic.

But don’t forget I was always good to you.
I will always be good to you.
But I’m better to myself now.
And even though it still hurts a little—and
This moment presses ******* the wound
You left,
I don’t regret a **** thing.

Dear you,
My heart is loudly confused by you.
The only thing that makes sense are the
ordinary differences between night and day.
I’m solidifying from the inside to the outside.
Only evanescent recollections of us so vaguely remain.
Insensibility procreates itself within me.
I suppose I have you to thank for that.
I sit there for hours wondering:
Where did it all go wrong, huh?
And I wonder—
Why did it go wrong?
The clock finally strikes 6 P.M.—
The atmosphere changes with the roar of the wind,
And oil paints of the sky, yet
I’m stuck there fixed to my loudly-confused heart, the
Crackling glass, and the ******* apathy
Coding within my bloodstream.
So many things went wrong, yet
I thought we were right.
The general warmth of chemistry forming
Into one beautiful reaction.
What a shame that is.
I know I can never not love you.
Sincerely, me.