Every SunDay
I sat acRoss from him
watching as he mIndlessly grabbed
for his black pen
out of his flannel shirt pockeT

Every Sunday
we walkEd to the
corner stoRe Across the street
from our small
picket Fence and grabbed
a Sunday paper from
the bottoM of the Stack.

Every SundaY
He wore his glasSes
instead of his contacts.
"It gives me better brain function"
he said Every Sunday

Every SUnday
he asked me the strangest
questions imaginable.
"WHats a 4 letter word
for 'In times past'"
to which I would respond
"once might fit,"
or whatever tHe answer
could be.

Every Sunday
we became an
invinCible team
a word fighting Duo

Every SuNday
we defeated the
greatest villain to
newspapers everywhere
the NY Times
Crossword

every sunday
i fell in love
more and more
a never-ending crossword.

i keep my depression locked in a box.
it's not a particularly large one,
or anything ornate
but a box nonetheless.
it's roughly the shade of a rain cloud
about to burst.
it has a vague beauty about it.
this box has the innocence of a small child
the mystery and danger
of Pandora's box.

the more i think about it
it's not just one box.
i have enough boxes,
to build a castle
much like one a toddler would build.
my depression,
my anxiety,
my fears,
my love.
boxes stacked,
neatly, rows.
they fit around eachother,
forming a larger box.

sometimes i wonder
if the state of the boxes
determines how i feel.
if the anxiety box is knocked to the left
am i more anxious?
if it falls off the tower,
am i going to lose it completely?

i keep all of my feelings in perfectly square boxes
each a different shade of rain cloud
all stacked neatly,
in order.

so much lead up
to those three simple words

then they become common
repeated over
and
over
only to become



meaningless

hi

beware of getting close to me.

we can be friends for a while,

and then i’ll get attached.

that’s when things get sour

i fall apart thinking about what you think about.

growing close to you is terrifying..

and i can’t quite go with it.

I’m sorry

i’m scared

i’m not good at this.

Can we forget that this existed?

I'm tired of just being
a pebble
in the sand
a stone
on the road
a chip
in the granite

I'm tired of just being
a life
studying the in's and out's
of failure
a life
yet to be lived
a life
waiting to be taken

I'm tired of waiting
on change
when the dollar
is already broken
when the coins
rattle to the floor
when the girl i see
in the mirror
isn't the girl i grew up with.

i am as constant as an open door,
twice broken down,
no lock to shelter the life i've raised

i am a harbour of selfish psyches,
who write lyrics on my walls
and sleep in tiled stalls,
drunk,
on the promise of an eternal home.

i am a church of unbelievers,
idly bowing their heads
to no statue in particular,
the low hum of an absent mind,
dried up of answers.

*i leave them blind.