It’s 7pm,
Late-August,
Late 2000s,
Massachusetts.
I’m lying on the carpet.
My door is locked.
CDs are playing.
I am safe for now, but not for long.
My windows are open and the sound of crickets is competing with my ceiling fan.

The air is sickly sweet, and slightly smokey, and suffocating, in a way only late August can bring.
Like a death and a new beginning, colliding head on.
Bending and breaking everything in its path against their will.
You go where I make you go.
You move how I make you move.
You do not complain.

It is grief, and fear, and pure apathy.
Disconnection and misdirection.
Negotiation and disassociation.

I am the only person on earth.
No one else exists.
I do not cry out in pain.
No one is there to hear it.

One day I will finally turn back and look at her.
I can’t look back just yet.
I don’t want to see her.
I don’t want her to see me.
I don’t want them to see me.
When I finally escaped, I did not believe the first step.
I was running in place behind a closed door.
And now I’m miles away, out of danger, but I cannot stop running.
I cannot slow down.
I cannot look back.
One day I will turn back and look at her,
And I will take her with me.
And I will slow down for her.

Your reactions create factions like fractions,
When we can’t afford anymore division.

Where do you go when you’re too old for Neverland?
Trapped in a foreverland
Staring endlessly at a broken watch.

As a child I cried for inanimate objects,
Feeling haunted by buildings and plants.
I used to stare at the trees outside my window,
Wondering if they were more comfortable bare.
Solace in winter solstice.

Was it chemistry or nuclear physics?

I’d rather be heard and not seen.

It’s a dream
It’s a dream
It’s a dream
It’s a dream I have not seen.

The kind of person who always calls out the first rain drop.

Escaping fatality,
In reality,
On a technicality.

Feeling lost at the expense of being honest.
Paid six hundred dollars, tipped with a promise.

Transaction complete.
No receipt.

Or else I'll ****** the clouds.
And I'll do it at night, so the suns not there to witness.
The moon is too tired, so she'll just look away.
Not that she'd care.

Did you know she's evil?
The moon I mean.

She's calm, and dark, and seductive,
But it's all just a trap.

You know, she leads the sun to suicide every night.
And she watches.
Can't you see her over there, lying faint in the evening sky as he slowly fades off?

But he comes back every morning.
Unable to escape his torturous immortal fate.
So she just hides and plots her next attempt to lead the sun to his destruction yet again,

And maybe you to yours for the first time.

I am stuck in that moment right before a fall
Right before the glass shatters
Right before an impact hits
Right before jagged edges sink their teeth
Right before.

I am stuck.

It dawned on me that it's no where near dawn.

My train of thought fell off the tracks.
I burned that bridge before I even got to it.

I’m not quite sure what i should do.
I guess I’ll just lay here and wait for a storm
To pick me up and carry me away.
Maybe to the ocean?
We’ll sea.

If I’m drifting around, struggling to coast to a coast.
Will you send me a message in a bottle?
Not a map, just some encouraging words.

If you figure it out, please tell me before you tell everyone.
The weight of the world won’t wait.
An endless possibilty is a constraint.

There might be fire in my dragon eyes,
But it clouds my vision
With the smoke of an abandoned factory.
I’m seeing into the past
With restoration to when we thought this boom would last.
Success did not **** the life out of you,
You spit it out.
Ungrateful.

I said if you figured it out, please tell me before everyone.
That was supposed to be half the fun.
I’m not sure of the shore anymore.

It’s like the lights have gone out
I’m frantically trying to remember the exact position
Of everything that’s ever crossed paths with my existance.

This isn’t Pangea anymore.

Don’t you dare.
You knew **** well right where to find me.

I don’t have to hide in plain sight.

I can find all the right words when i have nothing to say.
I arrange them in boxes and push them aside.
When I know the truth, I feel that I’ve lost
Something bigger than words, at a much greater price.
You always have the right words, and I bet that feels so good.

It's definitely easier to be creative than constructive.
I can plant the seeds and draw the plans,
But nothing will ever come to fruition.
I'm not a woman of action,
I'm a woman of movement and superstition.

I would press fast forward right about now.
No need to see how this one plays out,
Just to see if it does actually play out.


Funny enough, I've pressed play too many times before I realized I cannot slow this back down.

I  can't seem to turn this potential energy into kinetic.
What do they call a speeding ticket when you're going too slow?
It's equally dramatic and pathetic.
I know it's not right, but I try not to think about you.
It's unfortunate the mind doesn't have more concrete limitations.

Endless self indulgence,
And selflessness with an end.
I can't bring myself to be productive,
What a production.
Too old to be old enough for this.
I'm sorry I'm not strong enough to be the villain.

I can dish it out,
But I can't take it.
You can tell me how vile,
I already know that I am.

I can't see my self in this head space.
I need the constant rhythm, I need to keep time
But this clock doesn't have a second hand.

My "living in the now" is everyone else's nostalgia.
I always feel like I'm living two years in the past.
I guess that's how long it takes to absorb the impact
When the collision is head on.

When I was younger I was always told I was mature for my age.
Thank you, it's the abuse.
Thank you, it's the ****.
Thank you thank you, it's the trauma.

I'm not being honest,
I'm being truthful.

I'm trying, I promise
I promise, I'm trying.

Twisting and turning
And turning the tides.

I'm trying to run,
I can't run, but I can hide.

It's a rotten place to be.
Not knowing witch way is up or down, or left or correct.

I'm trying
I think.

I'm not sure where I am,
Where I'm supposed to be,
Or how long I'll be here.

The GPS is still recalculating
The engine won't turn over.
I have not reached my destination.
I am not in a safe location.

There is not a story that I should be writing.
There is no writing on the walls.
There is not a forth wall to be broken.
And if it's not broken, then I can't fix it.

I feel like a child unable to give up hope.
Come inside.
It will probably start to rain soon.
I know I'm not the best shelter.

It's not my place to tell the moon
When to rise
Whom to shine for
Or how to move the tides.

Just as it's not your pace to command that of me.

It’s the little things that are scaring me. About my OCD, my depression, my anxiety, my PTSD, my eating disorder. I feel like if I write this down it will make sense. That she will read it (even though I know she won’t).

There are things that I got past, left behind, and haven’t thought about in a while. Things that are coming back to me, and they feel like an uninvited guest that is overstaying their welcome. Someone I used to spend a lot of time with. But now I have no desire to see her.

No matter how many oils I diffuse, how many mason jars I buy, how many times a day I do yoga, how many bottles of organic apple cider vinegar, coconut oil, and raw honey I buy

She isn’t leaving.

She won’t let me listen to playlists on shuffle, it’s to chaotic for her. It makes her anxious when she doesn’t know what song is going to come on next. She cleans her ears with Qtips three times a day. Three Qtips each time.  She has to knock on something made of wood or paper 3 times every time she thinks a jinxing thought. If more than 30 seconds passes without doing so, she starts to panic. She can’t fall asleep without her queue filled, her clothes laid out, her bag packed and triple checked, the door lock checked three times, and lotion applied to her hands and feet three times. It makes me nervous and I want to help her.

She’s always tired. She does everything from her bed. It takes her 3 hours to prepare for a thirty minute trip to the grocery store. Another hour to prepare for a shower. She doesn’t care about anything. She goes to class, gets in bed, goes to work, gets in bed. I hate her. She’s so ******* lazy. She stares at her scars, and wishes she had more. She wishes they were deeper. She isn’t going to do anything about it, I assure you, but she can’t get it off her mind. The dog scratched her leg last week, and she’s become obsessed with the new scar. It’s sickening. I want to, but I can’t help her.

She is always calculating and recalculating things in her mind, money and time and schedules down to a T. Always crunching numbers. Calculating how much each minute of a college semester costs, and adjusting for every new factor that comes to mind. She can’t take it when anything throws things off by a single minute or cent. She can’t deal with changes in plans, or cancellations. Even if nothing is wrong. She’ll start over thinking, thoughts rapidly increasing their pace as they violently force their way through her brain. She has to ring her hands or pinch her thighs just to catch her breath. It’s painful to see, and I can’t help her.

She used to have small flashbacks during the day, easy to cope with, more like a day dream. And it’s been four years since they’ve been a regular thing. But now they keep her up at night as she tries to fall asleep. She’s in another place. She can feel it on her skin, she can hear it in her ears, she can smell it around her. She keeps getting lost in this world, and I can’t get her out of it. I can see her trying to fight back, but it takes her forever to shake them. She comes out of it, dissociated with her head spinning, and she has to turn the light on and stair at objects and count tiles or walk around to make sense of things again.  I feel like I’m watching her doing all of this and I can’t help her.

I buy all of this food and cook all these healthy meals, and she throws it all away. She just binge eats yogurt, boiled eggs, fast food and cereal. And I always hear her throwing up after. It makes me sick. She keeps putting boxes of multi grain cheerios in the shopping cart, and then putting them back on the shelf. Every week. She used to eat exactly 1 cup of that a day for about a year, and nothing else (at least nothing else that she doesn’t throw up). Don’t get me wrong, it was an amazing diet for her, but I can’t stand the sight of them anymore. I can’t help her.



I just want to help her move on. Get out of this place. I don’t want to see her anymore. We’ve been friends since I was a kid. Her family is friends with my family. Some of my friends have friends like her, and some have no idea what I mean if I mention her. She doesn’t like to be around anyone, and no on likes to be around her. So I hide her. I can’t shake her. I can’t help her. I get her out of bed every day. I brush her teeth and help her to the shower. I get her out of the house most days. I help her write her emails, do her course work, make her coffee, and clean he room. But it’s too much. She’s a mess and I can’t help her.

I can't help her.

It was short and concise,
Actually a haiku.
It reached out
And it wrapped itself around my brain,
Like someone wrapping their arms around my waist.
And it tried to squeeze the life out of me,
Like a snake or some sort of predator.
I don't know if I'm stepping in the right direction,
And I don't know who will be there following me when I turn around.
And I think I'm traveling blind,
Because I can't see anyone walking in front of me.
I'm not sure what I'm getting at here.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.

"You know what the sun looks like?"

"No, What?"

"Like he slit his wrists in a bathtub and the blood is all over the water."

"That's gross, Kaye."

"And the moon is just watching. She's just watching him die. She must have driven him to it."


I was driving to work
And this quote invaded my mind
Along with an image of you sitting on the beach.

I haven't thought about you in a while.
Now I cannot decide
Which one of us is the sun,
And which one of us is the moon.

It's not enough.

I'm not sure if it's all just contrived,
But I'm trying.
I no longer care about pride,
But I guess I'm lying.

It's not easy to sit here,
And force the inside of my mind
To flood out of my fingertips.
But I'm trying.

I'd say it's complicated,
But I guess I'm lying.

1.) Out of the one thousand and ninety-nine days that you were mine, I only regret three of them. The day Brian ***** me on that pool table, the day your dad moved back to Italy and I didn't come over, and the day you put yourself into this hellish suicide coma.
2.) If truth or dare turned two little girls into temporary lesbians, than so be it. Honestly, nothing ever tasted sweeter than you on that night on the bathroom counter at Tim's.
3.) I will grow up to be incredibly cultured all because of you. I learned to look outside the social norm after our late night dates on the roof. Getting high in your lap as you read me poetry, and played me Damien Rice's The Professor & La Fille Danse on repeat was more than enough.
4.) I always thought you were tradition and I was your French Revolution. But now I'm seeing that I was the revolution, and you were the revelation.
5.) You could not sing a single god ****** note. But the only thing I want to hear is your squeaky voice serenading me with our song right now. I promise I won't be annoyed, just finish chorus with me one more  ******* time.
6.) I would have helped you get to your father. I would have helped you. I would have set your mother on fire to avoid this.
7.) I threw up when I got sams phone call about what you had done. And then I screamed at him for an hour.
8.) I won't ask how could you do this to me, because right now I want to do it to you.
9.) Thank you for punching Brian, and I'm sorry you got fired, and I'm sorry your dad left, and I'm sorry your mom hit you, and I'm sorry that I could not kidnap you and bring you to our own private island in the middle of no wear.
10.) You showed me what star you'd become when you died, and told me that if I wished on it you would do your best. I know absolutely nothing about astrology and constellations. But your star is the one thing I find faster than the moon in every night sky.
11.) The last sip of every bottle of ***** I will ever have, will always taste like the last kiss we shared.

No matter how much I am moving,
I feel as though I am standing completely still.
I do not know which I am imagining,
And which is the truth.
What I want is either deafening noise or deafening silence.
They both terrify me so I do not know which is worse,
But I already feel the infinite volume of one.

I've been seeing in black in white,
I've been living in stolen houses,
I've been drinking forgotten liquor.



Let me out.
Let me out.
Let me out.
Let me in.

I'm rotten I know.


Cleopatra.
Broken AC.
Hornets without a nest.
What a mess.
Mint chocolate chip ice cream.
Wet hair and blank stairs.


Simultaneously too bitter and too sweet.

It's late enough that it's quiet
But not enough that is silent,
And I hate that.
The dogs are lying at my feet.
They feel like gargoyles,
But maybe more menacing.
I'm just waiting for midnight to roll around,
So that I can steal my silent hours.
Sleep is not the only way to recharge.
I guess the song in the title doesn't really fit the poem,
But maybe it's fitting my mood?

See you later alligator.

Caterpillars drowning in the rain.
Not your typical sundance romance situation.
Financial calculators,
Homemade ice cream cake,
Oil change 3 months overdue,
One of those museums made up of an old town where people dress is 19th century clothing,
***** martinis.

Please help me iron out the irony.
It can't all be vinyl records, tea shops, and other hipster *******.
What are you even doing.
Tick tock golden boy.

I am an ***** donor.
Though I'm sure if anyone would want
My heart,
My liver,
Or my lungs.

They are all failing at their jobs.

Ocean water tears.
Fast food french fries.
Abnormal Psychology.
Reset to Default.
Mike's harder black cherry lemonade.
Hotel mini bars.

Chaotic neutral lighthouse sirens.
The spirits of sailors lost returning from sea.
Ethereal beings and what not.
Insert sappy and haunting intro here.

It's 1941 and we are writing love letters,
Tucking them into a big oak tree
To retrieve on our way to and from school.
Cherry cokes and late night smoke breaks.

My downstairs neighbors are fighting,
And I'm watching snow land on the ocean.
I don't feel special.
Uncharted waters and peeling wallpaper.


"Vinyl is better baby,
Trust me,
You must have lost your edge."

Drop Dead

Television static nightmares.
Drowning in serotonin.
Melodramatics and acrobatics.
Punctured lungs and monkey bars.

I hate the sun.
I like the rain.
I am the rain.

I am cold,
I am needed
And I'm often times annoying.

I love singing in the rain.
I love walking in the rain.
I love driving in the rain.
I am calm.
The rain is calm.

I follow the rain.
I hate climbing hills and paths.
I am always going down,
Sometimes trickling along,
Sometimes I am a force that takes the surrounding earth by storm.

Everything seems brighter after it rains.
Greener greens and grayer grays.

I hate the sun,
And I feel like  you would have loved it.
My beautiful boy.
And I'm sorry that you never got to see it.
I wish I could have carried you to it.
I'm sorry you only got to feel my rain.
I hope it was enough for you.

How come every night with you
Feels like a one night stand?

Way to take a trip down the rabbit hole.
It's not all twists and turns and ups and downs.
Sometimes you have to lay still.
Sometimes things will be stagnant for a while.
Not everything is fluid and floating and moving and changing.
I think you can take five ******* minutes,
And breath.

I'm not interested in separating
Fiction from reality.
I'm into wanting what others have,
Living in excess,
Walking under water.

I'm purely aesthetic.

It's unsettling.
The shape and form and texture.
The way that you have manifested yourself.
From a light lilac sky
To a deep purple abyss.
It's still purple,
But.....

I feel so domestic.
I'm honestly craving that 40s housewife life.
Cooking and cleaning all day,
Modest lipstick and pincurls.
Constantly barefoot and pregnant,
Floral dresses and pearls.

I hope he's wearing protection
As he ***** you over.

Hypocrites,
Loud trucks backfiring,
And poor choices.
I thought by the time you hit this age,
You would have ended your rebellious teen stage.
But I guess it's a permanent personality trait.

My stomach is so tight
If there were any butterflies in there,
They're probably dead now.

The room is spinning
Spinning and bobbing and weaving,
Weaving webs and stories and lies.

Don't threaten me.

Have you ever reached out to touch something,
That is simply not within your reach?
I feel so stupid,
Lying on my back,
Looking at a ceiling that used to feel taller.
Which is weird because as a matter of fact,
It now seems lower than when I was smaller.

I'm not saying it's a metaphor,
But I had asked the universe for a sign.

I can just hear your stupid voice in the back of my head.
Saying some stupid joke or a play on words.
"Be careful my dear,
Objects aren't always closer than they appear."

My floral dress,
The pink and grey one with the collar,
Is hanging from the clothes line.

Your ***** martini,
Shaken not stirred,
Is creating a ring on the coffee table.

I was expecting
*** on a bearskin rug in front of the fireplace
Kind off magic.

But you're late again.
Imagery doesn't matter when you're this ****** up.

I remember you once told me,
Right after I had dyed my hair blonde,
That you liked me better as a brunette.
I don't know why I'm thinking about that now.

I can get drinks for free,
I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue,
I can ****** without touching any part of my body,
I can destroy lives and break hearts.


But one time you told me that you like me better as a brunette.

I feel like I'm living in a house
That has already been packed up.
Displaced things.
Confusing mazes.
Unlabeled boxes,
But never unable to find the *****.

I'm too powerful to be open.
It's not secrets,
It's survival.

Loud repetitive noises drive me crazy.
Also the feeling of dry sand between my toes.
That and the last sip of any bottle of alcohol
Are what remind me of you.
It's not my mind that catches on first.
It's my skin and my ears and the very back of my tongue.

You're somehow still hiding there.