I'm starting
to notice
the
nicotine's
burn

I'm starting
to notice
that
it's the
only
warmth
I feel

Sometimes
I miss
you
and the
warmth
you brought then
and

Sometimes
I miss
summer
and the
endless
blissful nights

But
I'm starting
to notice
the
nicotine's
burn

and honestly
it's more
inviting
than I thought
and
I think
I'll let it
stay

Maroon, crimson, dark red.
Whatever color you want to call it,
it sits balled in front of me on my old bedside table.
You want it back because it has "sentimental value,"
your brother bought it for you before he went off to the military
and it cost him seventy dollars.

On the top shelf of my current bedside table,
at the back, hidden from light, from sight,
sits the ring you bought me that cost over two hundred dollars,
the ring that signified a promise that you swore you'd keep.
You asked if it bothered me to have, if it hurt,
and I told you that it didn't.
You said that I should keep it.
You say the hoodie has sentimental value but I sit here with a ring of mineral,
real diamond centered on its band,
coveted only by the box you presented it to me in when you tricked me into finding it,
when you told me you'd love me until the day that you died.
The ring that later represented not only our connection,
our relationship,
but our engagement that I hear you're denying ever happened.

You did not ask for the ring back.

You never said that it held "sentimental value,"
but your seventy dollar hoodie from the brother who has given you
fear to be touched by unprecedented betrayal,
does.

I cannot help but wonder how you are not bothered by an item that once held such meaning
no longer being in your possession.
I cannot help but wonder why you have not mentioned it.
I cannot help but wonder if you hear a certain artist in the car, or with friends,
and think of me but do not say anything in fear of making a scene.
I cannot help but wonder if you are still in love with me.

If a hoodie can hold such sentimental value and the ring you proposed to me with does not,
did the words
" I love you "
mean less than
" I'm trying to get over you "
when you said them within a week of one another?

Am I never meant to know?

I fear I am not privileged enough to know whether or not these words,
these things that have passed through my life were ever meant to mean
more than a cool March night of lying on the roof of your car,
staring at the constellations and wishing to be with you forever
when I saw the shooting stars.
I fear that I am no longer privileged to say no one knows you like I do.

You said you wanted your hoodie back,
and I told you that I found it.
You said you'd find my clothes as soon as possible
and I told you to take your time.
I told you not to push yourself too hard.
I didn't want you to hurt anymore.

I don't know what to do with your hoodie, though.
It's moving from my bed,
to dresser,
to bedside table
to bed
to dresser
to bedside table
and I wake and see it and think of you
and I wonder if I should put it on when I go for a walk
because it's warmer than anything else that I own,
but I don't,
because it has sentimental value.

I do not.

All I've been thinking about the last week is how you promised that
Under any circumstances, leaving was never an option.
Still, I'm glad you did, seeing as I never would have realized
That I was causing you such trauma.
I'm so sorry, because you never deserved anything like that.
Not from the person you loved.

Just so we're clear, I still love you,
Although I'm not sure if it's in the same way as before.
Maybe it's just the fact that our connection made us inseparable,
Even on our worst days.
Sometimes I wonder if I just love you as a person now.

Regardless, I wish the best for you and everything you do.
Every day has made me realize what mistakes I made.
In case of you reading this and  
Considering the promises we once made each other, I
Hope you can move on from them to someone better than I,
Or maybe even come back when I'm more mature.
Looking back, I'd just like to remind you;
Dear, you're lovely, and deserve the world... and that wasn't me.

The day that we met, I watched you press a cigarette to your lips and laugh.
I cringed.
How could a paper stick filled with nicotine leaves and other little ingredients
bring a satisfying, calm five minutes?
We talked about how you were trying to stop,
and how I’d never, ever smoke myself,
and how that was a good thing.
We laughed.

Six months later and I haven’t seen your face in over a week.
A month ago, we were lying in your bed talking about how we’d
always love one another and always have each other,
and you pulled out a cigarette.
You reiterated that it calmed you down but I just grimaced.
How could a paper stick filled with nicotine leaves and other little ingredients
bring a satisfying, calm five minutes?
I wanted to ask again, though I know how addiction works.

You can’t really explain it.
All I’m sure of is you always know you could quit one day.
What I don’t know is if you ever really wanted to.

I took a walk to clear my head of the memories of you last night,
to get some fresh air for the first time in over a week.
It was overall ironic because as I tried to forget you,
as I breathed in the fresh Wisconsin air,
I pulled out a cigarette.

I stared at the rolled paper between my fingers,
and I saw your face.
I could smell you through the air,
taste your lips,
and wondered if I could really replace that connection in my head,
if you really should be represented by impending death and
overwhelming scents that never really fade.
I wonder because I know at heart, you were never made of tar,
you’re just sticking to my mind longer than
you ever really intended,
it was just what you were made to do.
I know you were never made to remind others of death,
though I know you wanted to be a few times.
I know you’ve encountered it and
I know you think about it at least twice a week.
You’ve always reminded me more of a sun,
because you’ve always been bright in my mind,
you’ve always been something I looked forward to seeing,
something that warmed my heart just by stepping into my presence,
you remind me of a fresh gasp of breath,
and that’s why I put the cigarette to my lips.

That’s why I lit it.

That’s why I started smoking,
Not to think of you,
Not to try to remember your taste,
Your scent,
But because
if a cigarette became my ten minute escape,
it’d be my go-to,
and you wouldn’t be.
I could get the calm you experienced and not experience you,
I could feel something other than missing you.

When I snuffed out the ****,
I was actually smiling.
I felt free of you,
free of the holds your love brought to me.
For twenty minutes,
I felt complete happiness without thinking about you
for the first time since we met.

So that’s why next time we see one another,
when we do become friends again like we promised
each other that we would,

Next time we meet,
I’ll press a cigarette to my lips,
and I’ll laugh.
We’ll talk about how you were trying to stop,
and how I’d never, ever smoke myself,
and how that promise was temporary,
just like us.

Just like the cigarette.

I've been battling my empty heart
by leaving my stomach clean
Honestly it's feeling easier
than it's almost ever been

To be completely honest,
I've lost track of time since the moment you left.
At 7:34 I thought it was 8:00.
I thought today was the 20th.
You left four days ago and it feels
Like four minutes.

for the first time in my life
i was certain love existed
but as quickly as i fell for you
you proved me wrong

I see your tears in puddles,
I see your eyes in trees,
I hear your voice in the wind,
You follow me everywhere I go.
Although I feel a little lonely when you're not by my side,
I know you're always with me.
Just because I feel a little lonely doesn't mean I feel alone.

I see more of you
every day.

It's been 5 months since you passed,
and your sister acts like you.

Saturday night she came over,
and showed us all your favorite videos.
We laughed,
as did she,
and we realized that for the first time in years,
she was a little livelier than before.

That's when I realized the skip in her step
so closely resembled yours.
For a moment of seeing her near the bonfire,
I was awfully sure I saw you.
As these thoughts left my head
I swore I saw you above,
shooting star.

I pointed out the star,
she pointed out that it was dead.

Maybe she knew what I was thinking.
Maybe that's why she pointed that out.

Maybe you're watching her.
Maybe you're more proud than I remember.
Maybe you're glad she's finally past crying
at the mention of your name,
because you know we all had that.

I know she misses you, more than we.
She longs to go back.
She regrets all those fights
and sleepless nights,
and wishes she'd spent just one more hour,
or week,
pulling pranks.

Then maybe,
she'd have just a few more memories
of you,

her
brother.

I'm seventeen.
I have scars lining my ribs, my thighs, my arms and my mind.
I either count my calories or blur them altogether; 500 a day or 4000 a day.
I am not an athlete.
I have no illnesses.
I've never been diagnosed.
I've simply been attempting to be the woman I've been demanded I be.
I'm failing, miserably.
Right now:
My mom is unconscious, failing to drown herself in alcohol.
My sister has locked herself in her room, isolating.
My dad is telling my neighbors their views are wrong,
And I am lying in bed, binge eating.
I'm seventeen.
This poem really does not have a beat.
This poem is a flow,
steadier than my self esteem.
Mirrors lie and pictures steal.
TV taunts and horror is real,
I'm seventeen and
I've tried to die,
I've learned to lie
To family.
I'm no stranger to the sisters death and night.
Death;
gives and takes, reaping the soil with the bodies of the ill
bodied,
minded,
hearted.
Night;
darkens the world, honing in on those I was promised I could turn to,
reminding them I am no refuge, I am ill
bodied,
minded,
hearted.
I'm seventeen and
My hands shake at the thought of losing my balance,
Ironic seeing as I won't even be standing
But the thought of disappointing you
Throws me down without hesitation.
I'm seventeen.

****.
I'm seventeen.

Who are you to stare at me?
Who are you to give me such harsh words?
Who are you?
Why do you do these things to me?
Why do you compare me to others?
Why do you insist I am never enough to you?
When did I do something to deserve this?
When did I begin to eat too much?
When did I begin to wrong you?
Why am I getting wider?
Why haven't you stopped me from binging?
Why haven't I been purging?
Who is Mia?

Where has she been?

What is she known for?

When did she come?

Why did she choose me?

How have I been so blind?

This was never meant to hurt you.
It was a simple miscommunication,
a stumble of words.
"Words" can be so easily misspelled to say "swords,"
and swords can impale.
I suppose words can, too.

57 minutes.
It’ll be your birthday
in fifty-seven minutes.
I’m sitting in my bed, in the pitch black,
remembering your laugh that is still
so fresh in my brain.
If one could look inside my head,
they, too, would be in awe that you
have already been gone
over three months.

19 years.
You were almost
Nineteen years old.
Things still feel surreal,
as though you’re
to come home momentarily,
laughing alongside us
at how much we worried.
No.
I know you can’t,
no matter how much I wish it were so.

104 days.
I heard you had died
One hundred four days ago.
I was in the girls’ bathroom at school,
and was told you had passed.
I hit the floor so hard,
I bruised my knees.
I was hysterical,
yet pulled myself together
and went to class.
My teacher kicked me out of her room that day,
she said I was causing a distraction
because I was crying so hard.
I left without a word.
She found out the next hour.
She cried, too.

0.
Zero minutes, zero hours, zero days,
months, years, decades,
zero is your magic number;
you are never coming back.
I think about you every day.
I wonder how it got this way.
I wonder what the universe thought
that made it decide
it was time for you to go.
I try not to dwell,
but still see your face.
Whether I’m in Walmart,
the mall,
or even in school,
I still see your face.
Zero percent of the time, it’s you.

February 16th, 2013.
"Hopefully, this time I can sleep."

When your hands leave mine in the late hours of the night,
I feel your touch, the scar on your palm, imprinting itself to mine,
My hands shake with the lust to hold yours.
When you leave my side,
My bundle of blankets,
The cold that fills your place
Never seemed so chilling until now.
When you stand ten feet from me,
Grinning like a fool,
I do not realize
That I am returning this gesture,
With rosy cheeks and a thudding heart
Thudding so hard I begin to wonder
If I've a medical issue I need to address with my doctor
Lovesick is a term I've only connected to heartbreak
But I feel my blood run smoother,
My breaths quicken,
My hands shake.
I do not know if it is your gaze sending chills down my spine,
Or your breath on my neck,
But all I can confirm is
You have an affect on me.
You're infecting me with a drug and my addiction is growing.
Need not worry, I've healthy addictions,
Despite the contradictions,
And you, my dear, are one.

December air is rather thin, chilling.
Usually, as am I around this time of year.
Somehow between endless car rides or sitting in parking lots,
something about you keeps me warm.
A promise never really meant as much
as it did when it slipped over your lips,
a hug never made me feel so protected.
You have pulled me out of this snow.
Not only this, but you have given me a hiding place.
A haven.
The thick scent of cigarettes fills the gaps
between our words,
alongside a form of comfort and communication
I never thought I'd have again.
It drifts through the air like a summer breeze,
making itself known in presence.
Making itself welcome.
For once in my life, I am not afraid of the snow.
For once in my life, I do not dread the kiss of frost
which greets me when I walk through the door.
For once in my life, I'm safe.
I have fears that you will not stay.
I don't want you to push me away.
I want to give you a reason to get up come morn,
aside from repetitive routines of
work,
eat,
sleep,
I do not want to be a routine.

I wanted to write a poem
And name it
"Baby Carrots"

I was going to write about
how your favorite band
was Pink Floyd,
and how I see your face
in the surface of the swimming pool
behind your house.

I was going to write about
the bus seats
with burn marks
and scratches in the vinyl
that you left in the backs.

I was going to write about
your faded red hair and
how everyone laughed,
including you.

I was going to write about
your funeral.

I was going to write about
your bedroom door
and how when I look at it
I think,
that for maybe a second,
you're sitting in there,
fixing a computer.

I was going to write about
the empty space
in the room
when everyone's together
aside from you.

I decided to let you rest.
You need your sleep.
I hope some day,
if there is some world after all of this,
I see you again.

Just in case I don't,

I wanted to write a poem.

"What are you so sad about?" My father asks me, sitting in the driver’s seat of his 30,000 dollar truck.
I sigh and look out the window. “I don’t know.” I reply, rather snottily.
He continues to rant about how I have so many things going for me,
Yet I see nothing.
He points out my talent in acting,
I point out my lack there of.
He points out my pretty face,
I point out how it has no effect in the lack of people I have to depend on.
He points out my drawing and art “skills”,
I point out my sister’s countless awards while I have none.
Reasons to be sad aren't always material.
Reasons to be sad shouldn't be small and trivial things,
But when I wake up and can’t fix my hair just the right way,
I get self-conscious about my entire appearance and mope about it all day.
Call me a ***** if you will.
But I know I am weak, and these days, I am wearing thin.
Like my pencil to paper as I scribble down another forty lines of a poem I will never read aloud.
All of my friends have their own problems, yes.
We all have problems of our own.
But for some reason, whenever I help someone else with theirs,
I feel worse about myself.
Perhaps I’m simply that pathetic, or perhaps I’m ungrateful like my father insists.
At least I do not claim “cars are not replaceable, people are.”
So when my sister cries about a friend from the internet that has killed them self, do not whine when she refuses to confront you after you have told her they were not a real friend.
When my sister asks you not to approach her in the store as you yell relentlessly about things that should not even matter,
Such as the sock she left in the hallway after bringing her laundry to her room,
Do not retaliate with a fist.

When I leave the house,
Yes, house, not home,
The first thing I think about is whether or not my sister will be safe in the same house as you.
Especially when the last time she was there and I was not,
She earned a scar for something she never did.

There is no end, only continual progress.
To push us forward with the current.
To lose us in the stream.
The flow will envelope you, it will drown you in its ups and downs.
You will feel your lungs fill until you cannot breathe.
This is not achieving, this is not winning.
This is progressing, this is surviving.
You are gasping for the air that is escaping your lungs,
it looks for security, for safety,
because it knows you are not.

Between the icy roads January brings and
how cold I am in this lonely bed,
I worry that if you crash the car,
I won't be able to tell whether it's
missing you that numbs me
or the breeze I feel when
I find myself standing over your grave.
Love comes in different ways to everyone.
Your presence warms my heart more than
anything ever has before,
and I fear that once you disappear,
so will the warmth that keeps me from freezing.
The chills I get when your fingers graze my back
are not shivers from the cold.
They're simply bliss
enveloping me in the moment
where I am certain I am only yours,
and nothing else matters.
Not the ice.
Not the snow.
Not the clouds overhead.
You're summer in my endless winter,
Eyes as green as pines,
Hair kissed by the sun,
Freckles dotting your face like bees to roses,
You're as warm as the breeze.
The ice is melting.
The snow has turned to a late spring drizzle
as a form of proof that you are not going to dissipate
or follow the weather patterns that have existed so long
here in the terrain that is my mind.
Instead, you lit a match.
The fire grew, warming the lands,
bringing life to the world I never thought I'd see again-
happiness.
You made me fall.
I am not breaking ice
and I am not succumbing to the cold,
Because you are easing me into the sea
And helping me swim.

For once,
I would not mind if the water swallowed me.
The ocean's warmer than I ever imagined,
And I wouldn't mind drowning in you.

An artist has a busy mind.
Whether it be lines of a poem
or lines of a play.
One may argue that literature cannot be art,
But I will look at the accuser and ask him to count the callouses on my hands
he’ll ask what for,
what they are from,
and as I count them I’ll tell him,
"From crawling out of my own little hell."
Of course, he’ll scoff and leave, but who is he to blame?
Poets are emotional.
Others fear to feel.
Which, in retrospect, is very ironic when you think about it, because technically, they are still feeling.

My mind is like rush hour all hours of the day,
Because there is so much left to think about,
So little time to enact,
So little time to involve yourself in the thoughts.
Things occupy my mind often and when I sit alone on a park bench,
I see a collection of cars screeching against the pavement toward me,
or hear a phone call that tells me my mother,
my father,
my sister,
my brother,
is or are dead when all of the above are very much alive.

No, my mind does not silence,
It is persuasive and deceiving and it never fails to fail me,
Yet I’m trapped inside, because it’s all I've got.
When people ask if I’m alright, I respond with
"I’m fine! I’m perfectly OK!"
Because this is how my mind has been since I could count to ten,
and I cannot seem to picture it being any other way.

Normality is boring, but normality is accepted.
Being expressive is not.
So I’m told I’m too emotional when I speak in a crowded room,
I do not argue, though I still wonder how
An obnoxious burst of laughter is far too expressive.
They say the saddest people laugh the loudest
Because they are most vulnerable and susceptible to a comedian’s antics,
Especially considering they've muted their own expression to the point of near insanity,
Smiling and suicidal,
Laughing but decaying and cracking drastically with each and every chuckle,
Ironic like an abandoned amusement park-
A dying happy place.
People say that “the saddest people have the brightest eyes,”
And the most common compliment I get is
“*******- I love your eyes!”

I do not try to be obnoxious.
The words slip, and the volume cracks up,
And my mind continues running when I am standing still.
I am trying to figure out why I cannot catch my breath,
When I am not even moving.

I wish I could be normal,
I wish I wasn't so ****** up and broken
But you can’t just take a totaled car,
hand someone the keys and say,
"Take her for a spin!"
Because it will forever feel useless and it will not function.
Therefore, neither will I.

Writing helps in easing the plethora of trains speeding through my mind,
Trains of thought just chugging along,
But it only slows them down, if only for a while.

As an inexperienced conductor,
When someone asks me if I’m “BUSY,”
I can never answer them “no” honestly,

Because an artist has a busy mind.

I often find my self worth fading.
I mean less and less every day.
Everyone around me seems to be so lovely,
All of the people I talk to,
The strangers on the street.
But as I sit here and wonder how to start conversation,
My mind floats away,
Mercilessly taunting me,
Just out of reach.

I feel as though I once meant more to you than I ever will again.

I feel as though I once meant more to everyone than I do now.

I often find my self worth fading.

When you first look her in the eyes and admire the way they shine in the moonlight,
look deeper than the iris and drown in her pupil
as it is dark and it is deep, and it is similar to that of the Marianas trench itself.
When you get deep inside her brain, you will see the monsters that man cannot at first glance.
It gets so somber that your heart will get heavy and your palms will sweat,
you will repeatedly want to turn and you will want to run away,
but don’t.
Because these thoughts are not demons after you,
they are attacking her relentlessly and while she does not need a hero,
a helping hand won’t hurt.
She is not helpless, but she is also not safe
and she is afraid, and she is hiding from them.
So when she flinches away from your touch,
be gentle.
Like the breeze she feels when she opens her window on a late August night to feel something other than the stillness of her room
and to remind herself she is not just imagining her existence.
Remember that she has been through her share of nightmares like you, and while some may not be as bad, they are incredibly real to her.
Remember that she needs someone to love just as much as you.
Do not think this is a demand you love her when she has no one else,
just open your mind and your heart because that skinny girl with tired eyes is one of the most beautiful you’ll ever meet
and you will remember her for years to come.
Please, be gentle for she is fragile.
She is cracked, but has been dropped and broken so many times, the pain is not as bad,
the hurt is not such a surprise.
Do not let her be surprised if you stay when she expects you to go, because she will,
she will assume, she will get weak and she will picture you leaving when she needs you most
or she will try to push you away,
but remember her smile and remember her face because every actress is told they have so much to love but that does not mean they are all in bliss.
You’re the polish on her scuffed up shoes,
you’re the sun peeking through her blinds on a cool summer morning,
you’re the reminder that it will all be okay,
So long as you don’t run.
When you meet a girl
with shaky hands and a faint heart,
remember that she can get stronger again.
You are not her crutches, but you are support.
Do not think her life depends on you, because it doesn't.
Never put that on yourself.
You are not a superhero, but you can be her helping hand
If you remember
that it’s alright to stay.

I’m scared, too.

When we first met
I was the cold breeze on the summer day, or a new used car that you couldn’t wait to drive
Uncomfortable at first, but kind of nice when it you got used to it
But, instead of waiting for the chills to go away, you embraced me
You took my hand and smiled at me
Reassuring me that everything was going to be okay
You promised me that you would never walk away
So, I took your hand, and I smiled back
I thought I was finally sound
I believed you would take the pain away
I remember every memory you left me with
From the sketches you would imprint on my back with your nails as I shouted your name
To the screams of regret you repeated like a ringtone as they rolled off your tongue
Every time you said my name
It was a form of art
Like your bass drum and guitar
Like your voice in the choir
Your trumpet wailing on high
But the paint was wearing thin on this masterpiece
and I was no longer your muse

As my late night drives got shorter and the air got crisp
So did our conversations
and So did our kisses
You got sad
I realized you were more broken than I, but I had no idea what to do
I was a car missing seat belts, and you got in
Every worry from before we met flooded into my head
I was sure I could hand the wheel to you
And you took it
But when I told you I couldn’t drive,
you forgot to tell me
neither could you


Your best friend was your ex
now she was gay, it was okay
She would “never swing that way”
again
Is that why you left the theatre in the middle of my very first play?
I waited for a praise, for you to take my hand at the end
Give me a rose and kiss my lips
If only I’d known that she took those instead

Here I was, along for the ride
Speeding down that highway with my hair in the wind,
I put myself in your hands
But they got shaky
You asked me to drive for a bit
Of course I was scared
I still hadn’t learned
But it was you
No wouldn’t fly

While you sat back
And grabbed that wheel, knuckles white
I bit my lip until I tasted blood
I went in head first and I hit the gas,
Telling myself

"Everything is gonna be okay"

then I saw the tree
Blocking the path
We were both getting bad

I was left at the wheel again,
I was shaky, short breaths

You were the elongated sigh
As you jumped out the door

And I crashed

On a cold winter night, a rusty old car you couldn’t wait to get rid of
Uncomfortable, and you couldn’t get used to it
When we first met

You promised you would never walk away

You were right

You ran

Once, I read about a theme park
The roller coasters reached the bottoms of the clouds and
the speeds broke the sound barrier
Children went there daily
They laughed and they screamed and they smiled from dawn until dusk
They won prizes
and they were very much alive

I went to look up that theme park last month
The rides had all shut down
And they were completely still
Nobody had touched it in years
The streets of this city that were once full of life
Were dull and motionless
The windows were broken
The prizes were gone
The bright lights of all colors
were now empty shattered bulbs

The only emotion was empty
All of the happiness and joy
And the laughter and life
Was completely gone
I think of this often
How one place can hold such life one day
and the next be as good as dead?

I saw myself in this corpse
My body, decaying
The joy I would feel and the dancing and laughter has
now all turned to a blank slate of gray
My mind had shut it all away and I am nothing
I once held better days
But now I am a broken roller coaster
Abandoned and corroded
Because I once got so high
And I once moved so fast

But now I am frozen in my place, hidden away

Forgotten like an erased word off a paper

Once, I read about a theme park

And all I learned was I am empty too