so I noticed that we both drink coffee.
just like anyone, we both like ours a certain way.
i like mine sweeter, with just the aftertaste of coffee there.
caramel, sugar, creamer.
i think about when i’ll have my next cup, and the idea of it alone makes me happy.
i don’t care what time of day i have it, i almost always have a cup.
i make time for my coffee.
it might be safe to say i think you like your coffee black.
you might add just the smallest touch to soften its bitter taste, but never too much.
sometimes i think you just pour it and carry on, as though it’s nothing important at all.
as though all it is, is just some quick fix.
like you just want to get it over with.
we drink it in two different ways.
i drink it slowly.
i note every flavor in every sip, i enjoy it.
i note the warmth it brings me.
i like it all hours of the day.
you drink it quickly.
quicker than me, at least.
you don’t care if it burns your tongue, or perhaps you’re used to the pain.
you accept it.
you never let it last, you move on to something else soon after.
i lay in your bed, watching your eyes as they skim the screen in front of you.
your mind is somewhere else.
i savor the moments you look my way, if even for a second, and smile at me.
i wonder if you even notice them.
i feel your laugh vibrate my bones, making the hair on my arms stand on end.
do i make you feel at all?
i reflect on it every time i drink my coffee.
i think about it with each and every sip, taking my time.
something tells me that you don’t do the same.
after all, it's just coffee.
but i put my all into this coffee.
i think you like your coffee black.

One.
When my mom found us asleep in my bed at 4am and screamed at you to 'Get the **** OUT of her house,' you texted me the very next morning and asked to see me as though it never even happened.

Two.
When my family went out of town without me for Thanksgiving, we stayed the whole day at your place and watched foreign movies and ate pasta.

Three.
On our first date, we sat in your car until 3am just... talking.

Four.
When my sister really wanted that new Pokemon game and my local Walmart sold out, you voluntarily drove almost 5 towns over just so she could get it because you knew I couldn't for her.

Five.
The first time we had ***, I cried. I still don't know why. You held me the whole time.

Six.
You woke me up with tickets to one of my favorite musicians of all time, for a tour I didn't even know about.

Seven.
When my dogs died, you stayed up with my the whole night as I cried. Both times.

Eight.
The first time you kissed me was at a gas pump at 10pm after I changed out of my blouse and into my hoodie.

Nine.
You took me to Buffalo Wild Wings even though you're a vegetarian. You even put up with my singing each 2008 Billboard Top 100 song as it played. I could tell you were embarrassed for me, but you laughed and kissed me anyway.

Ten.
When I told you I hadn't been to the art museum, you took me. When I told you I'd never been to Chipotle, you took me. When I told you I hadn't felt safe in years, you made me feel the safest I ever have.

Eleven.
After you kissed me the first time, you admitted the thing that "made" you kiss me was my purple-stained lips after I ate Superman ice cream while belting out songs terribly and sitting in the passenger seat of your car.

Twelve.
When I told you that you were a terrible tipper and I was a waitress, you immediately stopped tipping terribly.

Thirteen.
You left me a voicemail telling me you appreciated me, that you felt lucky to have me, and you claimed you didn't deserve me. While I disagree, I felt it. That was the first time I heard you say "I love you" before you had actually said the words "I love you."

1:42am
10/5/2015
i want to scream to the sky
the same sky that i told id love you forever
and you promised youd never leave
and scream with all the breath left in me
that i am terrible at keeping time
and you are terrible at keeping promises

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.

On the nights I accidentally sleep through the evening and wake when the sun’s long
gone,
I can’t help but think about how it feels like falling for you.
I say
this because it always shocks me, leaves me trying to figure out what’s going on.
It
gives me a loss of gravity, as though I’ve lost contact with the world for a while.
With
my being used to being alone, hearing your voice through my speakers brings
a
smile to my face. I can’t place the exact feelings. I have trouble wording it.
Shy
was never a word to describe me. But you’ve somehow shut me up, your
grin
alone catches my full attention. Whenever I talk to you, I feel grounded.
I
feel like gravity returns. That’s just it, I’m gravitated to you. Somehow, it’s
almost
like you’re the Earth itself. Perhaps I’m your stars, hoping you’ll make a
wish
on me. Take a chance on me. Perhaps, I’m even your moon. Maybe
you
look up at me when I’m hardly even here, a sliver. I do that a lot. I hate that I can’t be
saved
from rising and falling every night, because I worry you get tired of the cycle.
Me
and you together feels like a storm rolling in. The calm is long gone, the winds coming
from
the east coast, rolling through Wisconsin like a force only you could bring. By
myself,
I’d be intimidated. But knowing it’s you bearing the force brings no surprise. If
only
you knew your worth. I understand your fears, seeing as if I am the moon, and
you
are the Earth, I will inevitably leave your side for at least a while. But know I will
never
leave you. I revolve around you, and although I am not your sun, know that
even
when I’m gone, I am yours. Know that no matter what happens, I
**tried

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

You and I were a natural disaster.
How we acted came naturally,
Though as natural as a volcano.
There is beauty in destruction.
And darling, we blew up.
We crumbled, we burned,
And we took others down with us.

The aftermath still isn't pretty,
But life is rebuilding around us.
It's avoiding the rough spots,
Still cooling off.
It's hard.
It's rocky.
It'll all come together soon, though.

I was magma, unstable, explosive.
You were the rock, the result of previous disasters.
You were simply trying to grow.
I was simply out of control.

You and I were a natural disaster.
And just like most eruptions,
We erupted when it was least expected.
Maybe now, I can cool.
I can stabilize and reform.
You can finally get the stability you need,
From a source less risky than I.

There is beauty in destruction.

It was the first time we'd seen each other
since we broke up.
We were sitting on a picnic table bench
at the last place we went on a date ,
crying our eyes out.
You saw the tears in my eyes
and you choked on yours.
"What are we?" You laughed through the tears.
"A mindfuck. A glorious, incredible mindfuck."
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood,
and you pulled me into your arms.
You didn't let me go until I stopped crying.
"I never knew there was a such thing as an intimate hug," you announced.
I laughed.
You pulled back and put your forehead to mine,
and I didn't kiss you.
I stopped myself.
"Are we thinking the same thing right now?"
You chuckled, voice wavering.
I responded, "Yes."
That was the first time I didn't tell you I loved you when I felt it.
I wish I did.

You worry that you wouldn't be able to give me the world,
when in reality there's not much to give me but your all;
giving me all of you is giving me the world.
I'm not saying you've nothing to offer.
I'm just saying that you don't have to try to give me anything;
breathing your air is privilege enough.
You've not stopped being my world since the day you left.
It worries me, because the only reason I'm certain, is I don't doubt us.
I only pray I can become your world again.
I'm homesick, I feel as though I've been lost in the stars.
Maybe that's why you said you see them in my eyes.
It's the filter that so finely differentiated you and I.
I've always had my head in the clouds, and I worry that the weights on your shoulders prevent you from seeing things from my perspective.
I told you from day one;
you make my heart feel like it's floating.
I just haven't come down yet.

the gallon of arizona green tea that you only drank a fraction of.
the salt and pepper potato chips you meant to eat, but only did so in the dream i had last night.
the unmade bed that was still unmade when you flew back home, the one i still cannot bring myself to make.
the dyed green hairs i keep finding around the house.
the way you always pronounced 'mosquito' as 'mosk-it-toe' on purpose, and how you pronounced my cat's name 'sullumun' instead of 'solomon' on accident.
the partially closed closet door from the morning i drove you to the airport.
the faint smell of your sweat on my pillow left because of your hyperhidrosis.
the flannel you wore and the longsleeve shirt you doused in your aftershave, that is three sizes too big for me to realistically wear.
the empty taco bell cups in my car from your fourth day here.
the empty shopping bags from our impromptu mall trip.
the polaroids you really wanted to keep, but we couldn't find when you packed.
the pieces of you that you never meant for me to keep that i keep piecing together as though, like an alchemist, i could make you appear again though i cannot, and you are not here, you are gone.

i long for the mornings i stir and hear those even breaths rolling over soft lips,
when we are lazily tangled up in one another
where i brush the hairs away from your eyes, though closed,
and count the faint freckles dotting your nose
for the moments of intimacy,
like the first few mornings that i whispered i love you,
countless times before i ever really told you i loved you
where i stare at those mocha eyes opening when you wake,
only for you to smile warmly and pull me closer
the intimacy of the sun peeking through the window,
and the security of your arms holding me tightly
you are my morning cup of coffee
you are just what i need to make it through the day
a week from now i’ll be by your side once more
i will trace your jawline as though i am preparing my mug,
wrap you in sheets of memory
drink in the sight of you in morning light
and take you for all that you offer

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.

"You're always moving forward.
Just sometimes, the road gets bumpy as ****."
The road may get bumpy,
but I'm ever so clumsy.
Give me a spotter
otherwise I may break
something along the way.
I'm not saying I need to be saved,
I just need someone
to make sure I'm okay.

My dad would always warn me to be careful when falling in love;
I fall too quickly for my own good.

So on the days leading up to the moment you arrived,
I made sure I steadied my footing,
readying myself for the moment I would.
I could tell I was going to.
I wanted to be prepared.

But as I stood in that airport, my knees were already trembling.
It seemed as though the moment I saw you coming down that escalator,
I lost my footing.
All of a sudden everything around me had disappeared.
All at once, I was falling.

I wondered if skydiving rivaled that thrill, and the fear.
My heart never stopped pounding.

When we got back to the car,
I kept staring at you as though you'd vanish.
My mouth grew dry with dread.
I worried I would wake any moment and all of this would have been nothing but a dream.
But I didn't, and you remained.

We stepped into my room and everything blurred.
I heard nothing but the air rushing by me as I fell harder each moment.
I turned to you, begging for clarity, and was met with a kiss.
For a moment, I could see again.
I warned you I was petrified.
You held me.

I saw the pieces of me I had lost when falling in the past come hurtling towards me as I fell.
When I woke up to you, your chestnut irises were still closed,
yet your breathing stabilized my rugged heart rate.
I was completely unaware of where the ground was,
or how hard I'd hit it,
but I savored the sight as though it were still all just a dream.

Each and every moment with you,
I feared the outcome.
I prepared myself with every aching hour for the impact.
My breathing was so unsteady, I felt on the verge of collapsing.
I closed my eyes. I couldn't let myself see what was coming.

As we sat on my bed, and you held me in your arms,
you begged me to open up.
You insisted I open my eyes,
and I fought tears as our breathing synchronized.
I could see the ground now.
The panic clawed its way out of my heart, up my throat,
and I felt my body shake as the words finally spilled out.

I braced myself.
I winced, expecting the pain.
I had anticipated every bit of me to shatter.
I was ready for there to be nothing left of me to break.

But I didn't break.

I could tell the world around me was still again,
but I wasn't on the ground.
I was not broken.
I was pieced back together, carefully.

You kissed me, breathing into me the life I thought I'd given up.
I finally opened my eyes, and as my vision focused,
there sat every piece of me I thought I had thrown away for each and every heartbreak before.
The parts of me that I had lost so long ago, that I assumed nobody would miss or remember,
sat upright, polished, and presented like precious gems.
The feeling in my body returned,
and I turned to those perfect orbs in disbelief--

you caught me.

You never let me go.

It was then that I realized that all the while I had readied myself to fall,
I had already spent my life preparing my heart for you.

So when my dad reminds me to be careful this time, I'll let him know:

I was, but I never needed to be.
You were right here all along,
waiting to catch me.

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.

An Open Letter To The First Boy I Loved

Alternatively known as “An Open Letter To The Boy That Calls Me Crazy.”

The first words you ever “said” to me were in a facebook message,
A picture of your lined arms attached, reading,
“Hah, I’m sorry, but I saw your picture of your scars and felt like showing you these.”

The first thing I should have done was run.
Not only were you immediately trying to make me feel bad
Before I had even uttered a word,
But you were already one-upping me,
Making me feel like you had been through so much more.

I admit my mistake of having shown my weaknesses online
At such a young age,
Hardly 14,
But having grown to a world of romanticized trauma,
I felt it was only normal to have issues of my own,
Whether they were exaggerated or not.

The saddest part of these issues having been forced upon myself
Is the fact that at one point I did not need them,
But now I feel like I would be nothing without them.
I do not blame you for their worsened behavior,
But before I met you,

I had never felt like a ****.
I had never actually made myself bleed to the point of soiling a shirt.
I had never actually attempted to take my life.

Though knowing I had these scars,
It seemed you knew how easily I’d fall into you,
Fall for you,
Looking for comfort in knowing I was not alone.

You persuaded me into kissing you.
You persuaded me into losing my virginity in the back of your mom’s car
While she was in your house on a cold September night.
It was rushed.
It was rough.
There was blood.
And you did not care.
“It’ll be quick, don’t worry.”

In the six months we were together,
I willingly had *** with you twice.
Every other time ****** acts occurred,
(which was over forty times)
You guilted me.
You told me that you deserved it.
You asked if I really loved you.
You told me I needed to show you that I loved you,
You told me that it was what love really was.

I never told you how many times I cried after you left.
I never told you how many guys I kissed after you,
And how every single one made me cry
Without saying a word.
It was the simple intimate touch--
Lips, even if gentle, pressing together--
That sent fear rolling through my body.

It was three months after you broke up with me.
Three months after you admitted that you cheated on me,
It was the day you asked me to go on a walk with you.
The day we could become friends again,
Start over,
Ignore that I still loved you,
Try again.
You insisted you still loved me
(Though now I doubt you ever did).
You insisted that you
Never wanted to hurt me,
And bent me over a tree in the woods
Behind the high school,
And said it would
“Just be in and out! Once!”
And I begged you to stop.
You slapped me,
You called me a ****,
And when you finally finished,
You started to panic.
You were begging me to say that
You
Didn’t
****
Me.
Through my own tears,
My own confusion,
My own pain,
I assured you,
“No, you're okay. It'll all be okay.”

It has been over two years since that day.
Since then, I have opened myself up to one person.

That man has since left me.
One of the contributing factors
Being that he was worried I was not over you.
He kept receiving messages from you,
Messages you sent claiming I would never stop loving you,
When this is the closest thing to hatred that I have ever felt,
Messages you sent claiming I would always think of you,
And what’s terrifying is I can’t help thinking of you--

It's only because I can’t get the nightmare
Of your touch
Out of my aching skull
And I don’t want you to feel victorious,
And it terrifies me that you do,
Because not only did you push me,
Not only did you threaten me,
Intimidate me,
**** me,
But you insisted I’d spend the rest of my life with you,
You disoriented my visions of love
Like a bad LSD trip,
And I’m so ******* scared it will never ******* end,
Because every time I see myself trying to hug,
Kiss,
Love,
Trust someone,
I see what you did to me and I know that it’s
Baggage to them,
But a ball and chain on me,
And I’m petrified.
These memories are bars keeping me from moving onto happier things,
Keeping me holed up, waiting for you to finally let me go,

Stop telling people that I’m crazy,
Stop whispering my name when you pass me in the hall,
Stop following my social media,
Stop following the people that I try to let in,
Stop ******* with my life,
Stop ******* with my head,
Stop ******* with me,
Leave me the **** alone,

The first words you ever “said” to me were in a facebook message,
With a picture of your lined arms attached, reading,
“Hah, I’m sorry, but I saw your picture of your scars and felt like showing you these.”

I never thought I’d have more scars than that.
Over 146 scars,
The police department proved it when they showed up at your house
The night you tried to **** yourself,
And told me it was my fault.

The scars I have aren’t physical.
Not all of them, at least.
But the problem with scars is they don’t just go away.
They go away with time,
And it’s hard to let them heal when you’re still leaving them there today.

I’ve tried telling the police what you’ve done.
I’ve tried telling counselors,
They haven’t done anything;
There was never enough proof,
It happened too long ago.
I can’t do anything to prove it.
Instead I’m left to see you daily.
Instead I’m left to hear you whisper about me.
Have people ask me questions about the things they’re hearing
Things you say.

This is an open letter to the first boy I loved.

I say boy, because
The only thing I’m certain of anymore,
Is you will never
Be a
Man.

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.

You saved me.
You didn't need a mask to do so.
Yet when I see your eyes after a long day of crime
I see the pain you bear inside.
I will always kiss your pain away, baby.
And even though I'll never know the New York City skyline quite like you do,
I'll always stay nearby.
You don't need a web to keep me stuck on you.
Instead I'll try to keep your chin up until you finally can rest.
It might not be much, just know I'm doing my best.
I'm no hero myself, but I know I'm handling this the best I can,
and when you lay down beside me at the end of the night,
I'll kiss you.
I'll show you the tenderness you so desperately need, whether you admit it or not.
The scars on your body are the scars on my heart,
and I'll share your pain.
You are not doing this alone.
It is hard, but I am trying.
And I always will.
I'm not quite sure someone else could do this,
it's hard, I admit it.
But I'll always be here.
Partners in crime until the end of time.
What can I say?
Face it, tiger...
you just hit the jackpot.

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 found a caterpillar in the road when I took a walk today.
I picked it up, took a picture of it on my finger,
and sent it to a friend.
They responded
Aw, it's so small!
I told him I put it on a leaf and walked away.
But won't you miss it?
He joked, to which I replied,
He has a home.
Everyone deserves a chance to go home.
Why do you make sense?
He asked with a chuckle.
I apologized.
Well, now it's gone forever.
I stared at some leaves
and sat on the sidewalk.
No. It's just going home.
My friend grimaced,
noting that I was no longer joking.
Might it be home forever?
If it is, it's lucky.
Is it?
Well, at least it has a home to go to.
I said this quietly,
forgetting to filter my thoughts.
But you found it on the streets.
I sighed through my nose.
It may have been on the streets,
but as long as it's looking,
it'll find a home.
I miss its cute little face.
I laughed.
Why don't you go find it again?
With a bite of my lip,
I responded,
**Because I need to find my home.
And it's been taking me a lot longer
than it's taking the caterpillar.

We walked in together and from that moment on,
I watched the way your eyes traced each line in each portrait.
Arms stiffened in the pockets of your tight, but not too tight jeans,
I wondered what it would be like to kiss you.
In an art museum I'd never been to,
you were the most beautiful piece in the room.
I couldn't look away.
While most people take pictures of the paintings they love,
the sculptures that mesmerize them,
I turned my focus to those carolina blue eyes as they focused on the art.
I traced your jawline in my mind,
and I tried to count each hair in your ****** scruff.
I wondered who was responsible for such an incredible work,
who could have created such beauty,
and how I came so lucky to witness it.
At least a thousand other people were in the museum
yet I felt as though it was only you.
You seemingly perfect human being,
your elegantly disheveled hair,
your tired yet lively eyes.
I want to create something with you.
I want to make art so beautiful it radiates,
I want to love you so purely it never ends.
You stopped to get gas on the way back.
I stepped out of the car to take a mental picture of the way those iridescent lights hit your face,
and as I approached,
you kissed me.
This moment was a masterpiece,
the world should have counted my heartbeats.
We broke the kiss and headed home.
I held your hand the whole way.
I have loved art my entire life,
but have never come across
beauty as pure as
you.

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?

When fireworks implode above us,
I understand why people say
"When I kiss you, I feel fireworks."

At first, it's like sparklers.
Small, short, but entertaining enough
to make you want to try again.

Then it gets up to firecrackers.
They get you heated, they make you
wanna throw a party.

Then they're fireworks.
It feels like you're exploding and
you can't help but be in awe.

And it's beautiful.
It's a moment you wish
you could catch on camera.

It's what keeps you waiting for
the grand finale.

It's what keeps me wanting
you.

The time is 2:38a.m.
I am staring at your picture,
and you are
perfect.
I wonder how you stumbled into my life,
how your warm cocoa eyes
were just enough to quench my sweet tooth.
The gentle waves in your hair,
permanently disheveled,
******* away without the wind that got them that way.
And this picture does not match your voice,
smooth,
my favorite drink.
The more I take in,
the lighter I feel,
drunk on love.
Drunk on you.
Growing up,
my mother was an alcoholic.
I always told myself I would never
fall victim to the bottle's grasp,
and it turns out I myself have a longing to get wasted--
so long as it means I'm wasting my time with you.
Each second with you feels like
every party I skipped out on.
Every moment with you feels like
I'm front row for my favorite band.
I will never forget your voice.
I will never forget the way you make me feel.
I will never forget your love,
I will never forget
you.

Burnt out like the **** of an old cigarette,
lipstick stained,
excitement drained,
nothing left but a ***** filter.
I'm seeing you for what you really are,
an addictive, silent killer.
You're romanticized by everyone,
except maybe yourself.
Oh, the coolest people have you
when they have nobody else.
Turns out, they're just victims
of a lifelong game of tag.
Still waiting for the moment
the chase ends and
they don't have to keep running back.
Like they're not supposed to have anything else to do,
almost like if they stopped,
they'd have no one
and you'd stop coming around
to build them up when they needed a kick,
giving them the smallest of highs.
You'd stop coming around and making them see
the world through your eyes.
Almost like it's so bad without you,
when really you're a pest-
gifted at knowing how to infest,
buzzing overhead no matter where they go,
inescapable like a dream.
Night after night,
whether they live alone or
with a family of six,
you keep up your tricks,
and the game's getting old.
Sometimes you gotta learn when to stop,
but it's repetition at its finest,
cancer stick to cancer stick until the
clock strikes twelve
and your gig is up.
Take your time,
they'll all see it soon.
Til then,
infect,
inject,
dissect their minds
don't let them be.
You're toxic as you are,
but not toxic to me.

you say you love me
yet it is small and it fades
my mind takes it
and it blows it up
tries to copy it, flip it, turn it
morph it into something bigger
it tries to change the hues
make it a little less cold
and maybe when it's done
it'll finally be what I've always thought love was supposed to be
magnificent
breathtaking
mesmerizing
like watching the solid blue of the sky turn
red
orange
yellow
pink
purple
we could be the picture perfect moment everyone wants to see
we could be perfect
let's be perfect before the sky goes

black.

black, void of color

black, void of love.

you say you love me
yet it is small and it fades
my mind takes it
and it blows it up
tries to copy it, flip it, turn it
morph it into something bigger
it tries to change the hues
make it a little less cold
but

i think the kaleidoscope is broken
it's not getting brighter anymore
i'm waiting for you to take my breath away
but instead i'm watching you drift away
like the colors of the sky all fading to a void black

like the colors of the sky,
soon you'll be gone,
too

I've always heard people say that
"Love's not like the movies."
I feel like I've come to learn they're not wrong.
But they're not completely right.
I've come to learn that love
can feel just like those movies.
You feel stupid in love,
can trip over your own two feet,
blabber,
blush,
go on cheesy dates.
You can use every pick up line in the world,
and you can want to show them the world-
they can become your world.
You can stick with them through thick and thin,
You can do everything in your power to make them happy.
But I feel like the movies are wrong at some point.
They start out strong, just like love.
They start out honest,
they start out happy.
But the movies end up happy,
and love doesn't always end up happy.
Falling in love isn't always just like the movies.
Sometimes, there comes a point in love where there's a disconnect.
If you're lucky, it can realign.
But falling out of love doesn't realign.
Falling out of love isn't like the movies.
They don't show you that in movies,
falling out of love can be more than the tear-soaked pillows.
It can be more than the empty bottle of *****,
the drunken texts,
the going out to distract yourself.
No,
falling out of love can be worse.
Falling out of love isn't always the abrupt "it's over."
Falling out of love can be the day you go to get coffee, just like always, but your footsteps don't match up the way they did a week ago.
It can be turning down the favorite songs you shared instead of turning them up, turning down the emotions instead of letting them out.
Waking up to the back of their head.
Falling asleep in bed before they get there.
Going to work sooner than usual, because you need to get gas.
The conversations die.
Falling out of love can be staring at the credits when the movie's over, because neither are sure if you should end it.
Maybe the silence isn't thick enough.
Let the credits roll.
Don't hold their hand.
Don't turn it down.
Don't make a joke.
Falling out of love can be just as rough when you know they are and you can't do anything.
Falling out of love can be letting them pack without having a conversation about it.
So when you packed your things we didn't have to speak.
I remember the moment we kind of just looked at each other and knew.
You had this pitiful look in your eyes like you wanted to apologize, but there was nothing to say, you can't be sorry for feeling.
You can't be sorry for not feeling, I always told you not to apologize for what you couldn't control.
We didn't talk about where you were going.
We didn't talk about what was happening to our plans.
We didn't talk about the ring I saw you looking at one day when I glanced over your shoulder (I had that feeling you were being sneaky.)
We didn't talk.
So I sat in the car of the parking lot where you took me on our first date,
and stared at the spot in the grass where you laid down and stared at the clouds.
I didn't even get out of the car, and I reached for the handle time
after time
after time
after time
but never opened the door because you knew you wouldn't be there.
We didn't talk.
Falling out of love is how many nights I've spent sleeping on the couch because the bed smells like you.
Falling out of love is waking up for the third day in a row this week, forgetting you were gone.
Falling out of love isn't like the movies.
We didn't talk.
The credits have been over for a while now.
I turned the TV off and have been staring at the screen.
I wonder what song would play for the end credits of our movie.
Because I know it's over, I'm just waiting for them to roll.

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

I'm contemplating cutting off ties with you.

This is how I fell for my ex.

This is how I fell for someone I thought I'd spend forever with.

This is how I made that connection,
and while our connection is so ******* strong
I need to find the static.
I might have to cut the line.
It's getting hard to face the fact there is white noise.

I don't think I love you.
But I think soon I might.

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

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.

I'm collecting dead wildflowers in a jar.
I've been watching their color fade,
wondering just how dull they
may grow at the end of each day.
I leave them in my windowsill
and let the sun drain them of sustenance.
It's quite interesting how easily
an item of livelihood
can lead to such tribulation.

I cannot help anticipating the day I
wake
beside you.
To hear your voice in reality
and not the speaker of my phone
would be
to wake to a dream,
instead of from one.
I've dreamt of you twice since Tuesday.
Days have blurred together,
as have the years we've known each other.
Almost like the way you edit your pictures;
these are soft,
beautiful,
emotional moments,
and I only wish I capture more.

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.

When I was young, I was told that
"bad things happen at 3 a.m."
We were made to believe
that we were "not alone."
Now,
the scariest thing about being awake
when the Witching Hour strikes,
is knowing you're not here,
and I'm alone in this bed.

18, no sense of purpose.
A bottle of pills and ***** later,
you're lying in a hospital bed.
You're not awake right now.

People keep asking me to give you some advice,
saying, "You know how it feels, right?"
How do I talk to someone who's hardly even there?

This hypocrisy echoes like a church bell in my head,
I don't practice what I preach.
I ask people to reach,
out for me,
out to help,
but I can't even reach out to you?
I can't help the fear.

How do I tell someone it'll all be okay,
especially when I'm still fighting to find a reason to stay, myself?

I last saw you at Christmas, a family event.
You even had me fooled, cleaned up,
new job, going to school,
further than I ever expected to be myself.

But here we are again.
Same place, same tricks.

You're supposed to turn 19 next week.
I want to say I love you but I'm scared to delve that deep.
I want to say I love you, but I'm already a mess.
I want to say I love you but I can't lose somebody else,
I can't go to another funeral.
I've never been to a funeral for someone over 18,
please, don't make that change,
don't make the number raise.

Smoky blue eyes, can you see past the fog?
Haley, why won't you stay?
I promise, it fades.
I'm not strong enough for both of us,
give me a little leeway,
try,
stop pushing me away.

Haley, please,

Tomorrow's a new day.

July is unbearably hot in Wisconsin.
Lose yourself in the sun's rays.
Not the *****.
Not the pills.

How do I reach out to you?

I can't stop the fear.

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.

When we first met you told me I had bad habits.
I bit my nails when I was anxious,
I bounced my knee when I did something wrong.
I wasn’t very confident.
I took your words to heart,
and I tried changing those habits.
I hoped you’d notice each time I didn’t do them,
each time an alternative arose.
As I focused more and more on pleasing you than myself,
you grew distant.
I kicked myself ****** on my own two feet.
I attempted to be strong,
strong enough to love you when you couldn’t love yourself,
but it wasn’t enough.
It took me a while to adjust once you left.
Most of those habits returned.
I grew to accept them.
The few habits I dropped for good are the ones I don’t miss.
I suppose my worst habit of all of them was
loving you.

It's taken me a long time to realize
that being happy is a matter of smiling
without having to think about it first
and sometimes
smiling is a matter of doing so because you can

The stars line the skyline,
and the moon lies beside me.
It's not often the sun and the moon intertwine.
It seems we have finally crossed paths;
You call me your sunrise, and you are my moon.
After countless years we have finally met and while astronomy says it is meant to be brief,
I'm begging for a miracle and for the chance of an eclipse.
And while it could end the world should it last too long,
We'd get what we've been asking for.
To spend every moment of the rest of our lives,
together.

Passion behind words is something I worry I feel alone.
I’ve tried sharing my passion of vocabulary,
my passion of poetry with others,
tried showing them the entire novels only
a few lines can write,
and I worry that I seem insane.
I worry that they don’t understand me,
that I’m misinterpreted.
No, I am not saying I feel smarter than you,
I am saying I find beauty in these words,
these stories.
My father calls it beatnik.
He believes spoken word poetry exists nowhere but a paper,
that it is not meant to be spoken,
that it is a lesser version of rap--
which he also hates.
I pattern my syllables or rhyming to create what I see as art,
only to have others raise an eyebrow and wonder
what my “damage” is.
Distinguishing my deterioration is not the objective at hand.
"Words" can be so easily misspelled to say "swords,"
and swords can impale.
I suppose words can, too.

Do yourself a favor.
Don't think of the little bit of food that got on their chin that one time in the little pizza place you stopped at together, and how you both laughed.
Don't think about the night you laid on the roof of their car with them, looking at the stars, pointing out your favorite constellations and listening to cheesy love songs.
Don't think about the morning you woke up to their smile when you least expected it.
Don't think about the mornings you woke up to their voice.
Don't think about the long drives where you'd sing at the top of your lungs, for hours and hours.
Don't think about the shows you went to together, and how they cried during that one song, and tried to hide it, but you held them anyway.
Don't think about the moment you made the promise of forever, whether it was the ring in the glovebox they tricked you into finding, or the slow conversation at 2am.
Don't think about the time their car broke down in the middle of town and you helped them fix it.
Don't think about how empowered you felt knowing you could help fix something with them, for them, and made them so happy.
This is something you can't fix.
You can't fix everything.
Somethings are meant to stay broken.
Like the first place you made love,
intimate, raw,
it's not a place you can go to anymore.
Their love does not belong to you.
Yours does not belong to them.
Think about the moment they did the unexpected--
the moment they ended it.
Think about the fact you were expecting a life of happiness, memories, a family, a happily ever after.
Think about how they took that away in a matter of seconds.
Think about how you still deserve that.
Think about how you didn't deserve to get that taken from you.
Think about how they don't deserve you.
Their eyes will forever be your favorite shade of whatever,
but for their mouth to convince you this would never end,
know it's better you got the truth now than later.
Close your eyes.
Put their things aside.
Trust me, you'll get yours eventually.
Lay down and sleep.
You'll dream of them for weeks, months,
you'll think you hear their voice when you don't.
It's for the better.
Your heart was never meant to endure such torture,
and as fragile as it remains once they lift their foot from the wreckage,
why let them have the opportunity to put it down again?
Lift yourself up.
Dust off your coat, your shoes.
It's a long journey from where you are now, but happiness will reappear.
When you're least expecting it, you'll find it again.
And they won't be there.
And that's okay.
I promise.

I woke up with a sinking feeling,
one I couldn't place.
You quickly told me you were drowning,
and it didn't take long for me to realize that
we were sinking fast.
It was then that I realized it'd be
weeks before I saw your face.
As you abandoned ship,
it hit me that there was only one life jacket between us.
You apologized as you left.
You made it to shore as
I was lost in the undertow.

We are sitting in your car, and we are quiet.
The sun has set and the only illumination is the streetlights of the city I've told you I wanted to show you since the day we met.
For once, we are not holding hands.
Three hours prior we were staring at one another across the top of a table at Qdoba and you assured me things were working out. You assured me that we could continue as we were. This wasn't goodbye.
I assured me you weren't forcing those words, yet three hours later, as we are leaving the city I never got to show you, you are not looking at me.
The day before I would not hesitate to say I love you.
The day before, I would not doubt your touch.
The day before, I explained to you that I do not say "goodbye" when planning to see someone again. "Goodbye" is too permanent a term, "goodbye" is when you can't promise you'll come back.
Now, we are sitting in my basement and you lie on the couch.
I am sitting on the floor.
You're looking at your phone as I look for something to watch on the TV, and you do not seem to care what.
I look for something for you.
As it plays and you watch, I watch how quickly we are fading.
My heart yearns to show to you that I believe we are worth this, but just like the sun faded from the sky and we were overcome by the night sky,
it seemed the light had faded from your eyes and you no longer saw the sky in mine.
I attempt to make my way beside you on the couch, and I soon realize that there's no longer room in your life for two.
I found myself memorizing each freckle on your face,
I found myself remembering the shades of blue your eyes kaleidoscope into when hit by the sun.
I found myself wondering just when they might see sun again,
as I could tell they no longer shone when looking at me.
It was then that I realized my heart was no longer full of love,
it was empty from the lack of reciprocation.
You looked at me as though I held the answers to everything you'd ever asked,
but I feel as though you quickly realized I was an issue, outdated.
You left about midnight.
I kissed you as you left, and I thanked you for coming.
You assured me it wasn't a problem.
I told you that I loved you,
and you told me you loved me, too.
You said "goodnight,"
and for the first time,
I said
*"goodbye."

As I watch you strum
away at your guitar,
I hope the only thing
you're playing is music.

You've got a twinkle in your eye,
one I really can't describe.
Yet your laugh shines so bright
it reminds me of the stars in the night sky.
Maybe it's because you feel so out of reach.
I could be asked to wish upon a star,
yet I'd think about you.
You're like my North Star.
You guide me.
I'm not sure what lies ahead,
and that alone is overwhelming most nights.
But my certainty clings to the fact that
I know my future will be bright,
so long as you stay in it.

I am a human being
I am a human being
I am a human being
I am honest
I am strong
I am beautiful
I can be friends with whoever I want
I can protect myself
I can defend myself
The world is not out to get me
I am me
I am my own person
I do not exist at the expense of others
MY life choices should not control someone else's
Someone else's life should not control mine
I am not property
I am allowed to roam
I am allowed to be depressed for no reason
I am allowed to be happy for no reason other than I am happy
I will not cheat
I will not lie
I have never cheated
I have never lied in that matter
I never will
I am trustworthy
I am not my mother
I am not my father
I am not my past
I am honest
I am careful
I am hushed
I am scared
I am in love, and it terrifies me
Love controls me
Love tells me to not have friends
Love tells me I cannot stray
I cannot be by myself
I am not allowed to talk to anyone it doesn't know
I am not allowed to talk to anyone it does know
I have restrictions
MY love is bold
MY love is loud
It does not care what it does
It only wants to exist alone
So when my love exists
I do not

Eyes closed as I lay,
I wish you were here to stay
yet fear envelopes my aching chest
and I worry that I'll never
rest beside you.
So I lie awake and count the breaths I take,
each one feeling wasted as
the only piece of you that lingers
is your
absence.