Dwell
In my basement dwells the memories of you and I,
musty like your scent on late March nights,
cold like the night we first kissed.
But the emptiness is reminiscent to that of a cave.
The deeper I enter into my basement,
the more alone I realize I now am;
The more often I stop to admire my surroundings,
the more danger I feel knowing
I have nothing to help me get out
if everything around me
fell apart again.

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

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.

As I’m looking at you my heart is beating at a rate I can’t justify
I’m dreaming of a day where you’re here and I can call you mine
Where I can trace the tattoos on your arms and kiss the spot between your eyes
Where I can hold you through the night and lose track of the time

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

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.

The moment I realized that you no longer loved me,
I started to notice the way the sun hit every hair on my knuckles.
It seemed that even though I was already going 65 miles an hour on a 50 mile an hour road,
it only felt as though I was going 30.
Everything around me started to slow down,
everything switched to high definition.
Usually, when I think of you,
everything else is a blur.
Usually when I think of you I see the silhouette of our future,
harsh against the doubts.
Now,
it's faint in comparison,
and I can't quite tell the difference.
You always told me that I was unlike any other girl.
But today you told me,
that you don't respond as often as you used to,
because everyone gets on your nerves.
And for me to "not be like" everyone
when suddenly I am everyone,
I realized you no longer love me.
When I got in the accident and you were the first person I called,
you sent me to voicemail.
When I told you that I loved you,
and you were the first and last person to cross my mind,
you told me you were busy.
Two weeks later and you never called back.
The idea of loving you turned from the reality it was and slid to just that-- an idea.
And yes,
I've always had a creative mind,
and yes,
I've always let my hopes get the best of me,
but you were the best of me.
You see, I've always seen you as beautiful,
some beautiful mistake.
I can't help wonder if all of this was a mistake.
When I call your name, you don't respond.
When I dream of you, it's not as clear as normal.
And yes, I said when I think of you,
usually things are a blur,
but I never thought this connection would get weak.
I guess...
I guess I thought wrong.
I always wanted to love you until there wasn't another tomorrow,
but now it seems my schedule's free;
I have no idea what's to come.
You always told me that I was unlike any other girl.
But now, I'm just like everyone else.
I'm just like *everyone.

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.

"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.

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 moment you walked into the room,
tousled hair, guitar case in hand,
I knew I had to talk to you.
Your forest eyes were tired but you tried so hard to seem interesting,
and I was determined
to find my way through those emerald pines
so tightly sequestered in your iris to
your mind.
Everything was lighthearted until the drive home.
You told me we should definitely talk or hang again soon.
Keeping in mind that it was me you were talking to,
I chuckled awkwardly and waved it off.
"It's more something you'll have to follow up on.
"It doesn't matter how many times I ask to go places,
"See people,
"Everyone forgets about me.
"It's okay though. I'll see you around."

Obviously, I'm not good at first impressions.

I saw you around, here and there,
when suddenly, we lost a mutual friend.
I'd been crushing on your irish charm for some time now.
You were nearing the end of a relationship.
The most ****** up thing,
is the fact that
I knew
that I loved you
when
you walked into the room
holding her hand.

It's ironic- and kind of unnerving-
that three weeks later,
you were taking me on our first date.
Despite the location--
Country Christmas, Pewaukee, WI--
the color that was most vibrant was the look in your eyes
when you leaned in to kiss me.

Those forest eyes are the ones I was screaming to
seven months later.
Almost to date.
The ones I was begging for answers from,
on my knees in front of one of the many Wisconsin forests,
alone.
Tears stung my eyes as I hit the ground.
Your name tore at my throat as I looked at the trees
and saw nothing but your eyes.

I was tempted to run into the forest.
I was tempted to see if it would lead me back to you,
if I could finally get through the brush and find your smile again.

I wonder if I'll see it again.
I wonder if I'll kiss you again.

All I knew from the moment you walked into the room,
tousled hair, guitar case in hand,
was you were going to be a part of my life, forever.

I was just hoping you'd be my forever.

"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.

Four years ago today you walked into my life.
Four years ago today, I had never known love.
Four years ago today, I had never known the fear of losing someone.
Four years ago today, I had never known the fear of staying with someone.
Four years ago today, I had never known the fear of being touched.
Four years ago today, I had never known you'd never let me say no.
Four years ago today, I had never known the nightmare of love.
Four years ago today, I was innocent.
Four years later, you showed me how to doubt.
Four years later and I still panic when asked about you.
Four years later, you're still haunting me.
Four years later and you still call my name.
Four years later and I'm still so scared.
Four years of this.
Four years.

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'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.

You held my hand as I showed you my deepest of scars,
and I held yours as you did the same.
We each held the moment as though it were to die should we release it.
And because of your grasp, I knew it was a moment worth keeping.

For the fourth time this week,
I drove down J imagining you were in the seat next to me,
Telling me how much of a nerd I was for mouthing the words to the song playing.
Bayside had always been our favorite band,
This ride did not change that.
I mouthed that you were my rock so long as I was yours and you just smiled.
I awake from my reverie.
Fourteen hours later and you’ve hardly spoken to me today.
It’s normal, though, as you’re a busy guy.
This is what I’ve been telling myself for three years.
I apologize to the voices in my head for your behaviour.
“We’ve talked about this,”
I say,
“We’re not going to try anything because of the distance.”
I sigh to myself and erase the message I’ve typed out for you.
It’s the fifth time I’ve done it this hour,
Seeing as you never responded to the last.
Last time you said you loved me was three days ago.
I told you I love you two hours ago and you called me a nerd.
“Nerd.”
I take a deep breath at the thought of the word.
I try to replace it with something different.
“Love.”
“Beautiful.”
Beautiful.
You’ve called me beautiful, right?
I scroll through our messages, looking for a time where you might have.
I only find you telling me my smile “kills” you.
Those words still make me melt, and I hate it.
I hate myself for loving you like this.
I hate myself for hating myself for loving you,
As I convince myself again,
For the hundredth time,
That you do.
I’ve been begging for a sign that you do.
One aside from your words.
“Actions speak louder than words,”
I remind myself,
And think back to an action.
What have you done?
I can’t help but wonder if the songs you wrote about me,
Loving me,
And us,
Were sent to another.
The lack of specification in said songs makes me swallow hard.
I think back to the night you told me you broke down with your friend.
You told him everything,
How you’ve loved me for years,
How you’ve never been able to do something about it.
How you tell me you date so many girls but always think of me.
How I believe you.
I’m scared, now.
Every day that we’re apart,
I can’t help but worry and doubt.
Am I just some... toy?
I can’t help wonder to myself if I am,
And I scroll through our messages.
I’m torturing myself, really.
As I scroll I reflect on the amount;
Thousands of messages collected over the past three years.
Three years--
Why would you spend that much time ‘toying’ with someone?
My heart swells,
As do tears.
I erase the message I’ve typed out to you.
That's the sixth time this hour.
The cycle will repeat until I fall asleep,
One last unsent message sitting in my palm.
I stare at the screen, waiting for my eyes to close.
They don't.
"active now"
it reads under your name.
I stare at your display picture.
For the fourth time this week, I pretend you’re staring back.
And for the... what was it?
I’ve lost count.
I pretend you’re listening and I turn off the screen.*
“Goodnight, I love you. Sweet dreams.”

It's been almost a year and I don't love you anymore. But I can't help but remember you showing me The Wonder Years and I don't think of you when I listen to them, but I will admit you still come to mind when I listen to Aaron West. It's bittersweet, like grapefruit. Both ended up my coping mechanism.
You left when I had the most faith in you I would ever have and it's not that I'm not over you. I'm not over what you did. I fear putting that much of my faith into someone again would be like handing them a loaded gun with a faulty trigger, as cliche as that is, and praying they don't shoot. I fear it wouldn't matter whether they try to shoot or not. I fear it'll happen when they don't mean for it. I'm afraid to love.
I don't hate you, but by no means do I love you, I just hope you're happy and you don't think about me when you look around that apartment, because I know I helped you move in-- I was there when you brought in your couch, bed, everything on that road. I stopped thinking about you every time I stepped into my room. I hope you did the same.
I hope she's happy, too. The girl you're with now. You did everything you could to hide the fact it was /her/ of all girls you ended up with, but it wasn't in my control that my friends told me. I'm happy you two are together-- you always talked about your connection anyway. I knew it had full potential, I just always hoped it wouldn't.
I've picked up bad habits, but haven't we all? I hope Ezra happens for you, and I hope I didn't ruin the name. I hope she treats you right.
It's been almost a year and I don't love you anymore. I just wish things didn't end the way they did. And I'm sorry.

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.

H** esitance overcame me the moment I recognized the feelings.
E ncountering them jogged my memory of what it was like; love.
A lthough the nerves in my body are zipping around, electric,
L etting this happen feels like the most natural thing I can do.
I 'm going to. For reasons I cannot place, there is little to
N o fear in my chest at the thought of you, as you feel like a
G ift. One I've waited far, far too long to accept.

If home is where the heart is,
I know it does not lie with you.
For there is no stranger being that could embody it.
Although we were children,
you have lost your place in my mind,
my heart,
and whilst I keep myself as far from you as possible,
it seems you continuously find your way in.
Despite my best efforts
you are a force to be reckoned with.
Despite your best efforts,
so am I.
The newspaper came out with a story last week.
"Man Charged With Having Relationship With Girl"

What you’ve deserved all these years has
caught up with your running,
as you cannot run forever.
It's time we grow up.
Hide and seek is over.
All this time I thought I was the one who should be hiding.
Maybe, it should have been you.

"Home is where the heart is."
Gaius Plinius Secundus.

Around the time I turned 9 years old,
the word "home" became a puzzle.
Where was it?
Was I supposed to go and find it?
What did it even look like?

You see, I grew up in an unhealthy household
with few friends to surround myself with.
I grew up calling my house just that--
a house.

I searched for a safe place to rest my tired mind and heart
for longer than I can remember.
But on a seemingly dull November night,
where I was completely off guard,
completely unaware,
you walked into the room,
and suddenly,
I saw a porch light.
I was so scared to walk in because,
How was I supposed to know a home even looked like that?
Disheveled, almost ashy brown hair.
Eyes greener than the pines that
we've been surrounded by our whole lives,
a smile reminiscent of the sun itself.
A month later, I finally let myself in and
I feel as though I made the mistake of getting too cozy.
You see, the floorboards had chips and cracks,
The foundation had been growing weak.
I insisted on staying as the roof caved in.
I had to crawl out of the rubble,
alone,
and try to build some makeshift shelter of my own.
A shelter of empty liquor bottles and cigarette butts,
Crumpled up papers and broken pencils.

I was sure the light was out for good.
I was sure I was left to find another home,
or at least wander in the nothingness,
when I heard a slight knock.
A knock on the door,
and I went outside.
I was confused--
nobody was there.
No one was home.

I followed the knocking as it rang in my ears,
and came across a familiar,
unkempt shanty.

The porch light flickered as I approached.
You came back into my life,
and while all I wanted to do was step inside,
maneuver through the wreckage,
I stared.
I couldn't even look in those stain glass windows,
those rich, forest green eyes,
because I felt it.
As I stood beside you,
next to you,
I feared for my sanity knowing
you were still my home.

The conversations were almost as unstable
as the remaining scaffolding and stilts.
As the drops began to pattern my clothing,
you reached out, gave me your hand,
and pulled me inside.
You pulled me into your arms,
and I cried.
I cried because I was home again.
I couldn't tell you that.
I cried because I still love you,
and we simply cannot mingle.
We cannot use the old baseboards
of the places we've evacuated
to rebuild a home together;
I'm yet to find my heart.
I think I left it with you.

When I pulled away from your hold,
I felt lost.
I looked to your eyes without thinking,
and I saw every moment we spent together
as though it were today.

I saw the little country market where you
demanded I get out of the car,
because I was crying and you knew I needed
someone to hold, and you offered.
I saw the look in your eyes when you asked to kiss me,
because you knew that I'd been hurt so terribly before,
because you wanted me to feel safe enough
to fall into someone's arms again.
I saw our matching shoes on our first date,
the nerf guns you came running in with,
heard the playlist in the car as we laughed at
how young we felt, and how it contradicted our actual age.

I saw the box I had to put your things in.
I saw the screen of the phone reading 'call ended',
the last time I heard your voice.
I saw the treeline as I shouted at it,
cursing at the wind for reminding me of your touch,
for sending chills down my spine when
that was your job,
cursing the trees for being so lively,
so close to your eyes,
I cursed you for being everywhere I went.

Like a 'Vacancy" sign on my front door,
I felt as though I was evicted from my home,
and I cannot go back because
it's not safe.

I know it's not safe.
Not right now.
I know the foundation is weaker than ever.
I know there's not room for two.

Instead I lie in this bed,
thinking of you.

I'm lost.
I miss you.
I just want to go home.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

you cried last night.
i promised you that everything would be fine.
you looked at me with tears in your eyes
and assured me that everything was alright.
but i saw the pain you were struggling to hide
and watched your mask disappear from sight
as you told me,
"i've never wanted to kiss someone
and wanted to run away from them
at the
same time."

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

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.

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.

I'm trying to muster up the words to say to you,
the words that could make or break everything we've built.
The words are fighting to cross my lips.
Two years we've been in this cycle,
falling in and out of one another.
A connection that has refused to die,
surviving one another's heartaches like an old friend.
It never mattered how long it was between conversations.
We always picked up right where we left,
only each time,
a little bit older.
This time though, I fell
a little bit deeper.
I can feel your sigh through the speaker of my phone,
feel your lips part as you struggle for words.
I try to keep my eyes dry as my nerves raise,
breaths deepen.
My lips are dry.
Confessions like this are meant to be personal;
confessions like this are meant to be said face to face.
Massapequa and Mukwonago do not face each other.
They don't so much as touch,
which is what makes this so tough.
Your stunning brown eyes that smile more than your lips aren't what stares back at me when I look at your name on my screen.
Only the text.
Only the arial font, black against the blue speech bubbles.
To know what it would feel like to say these words to your face would be
knowing how to make this work.
But time and money are not on our side.

When you told me you loved me,
you told me it was different.
You told me you tell everyone you love them but it's empty.
I asked how I was different,
and all you told me is the first thought you'd have should
we ever meet
would be to kiss me.
You told me the first thing you'd do
would be to ensure we were connected more than ever:
lips
to
**lips.

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.

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.

My pulse quickens when I descend those stairs,
and when I reach the bottom and look to the place
where we used to lay, where you slept so many times,
I wonder if it's called a heartbeat because of the bruises
I feel forming on the inside of my ribcage
from how hard my heart thuds.

I spent nine hours awake in bed yesterday,
hungover,
or is the word overhang?
Thoughts of you looming overhead,
whether or not I'll ever kiss you again.
You see your scent has stained my clothing,
my couch, my bed,
and although it's now subtle,
I still smell it from time to time and I mostly smile.
Yet I start feeling unsettled because I know not what we are,
old friends in love?
Or should I call you my ex?
You held me last week,
for the first time in over a month,
and there were no hard feelings.
No feelings except love and confusion.

I'm confused.

You got drunk the other night and messaged me,
telling me you missed me.
I thought I'd made it obvious that I miss you too,
your fingers tracing my curves in your bed on those late winter nights,
the way your lips molded with mine,
proving that maybe I am an artist,
because never before was I part of such a beautiful piece of work.
Work, because it was not easy,
but no masterpiece is.
It's late nights of thinking, frustration,
and sometimes, no sleep at all.
It's compromise,
it's accepting the faults and moving past them,
learning to embrace them.

Though when it's finally over,
you can't help but think of how breathtaking it is.

The problem is, our canvas was massive--
we were far from filling its empty spaces.

I can't help but hope that as we are,
completely aware we love each other,
still too far in to stop loving each other now,
that maybe,
we will pick up the paintbrushes
and finish this masterpiece.

Maybe my ribs will get some rest
from the beating they've undergone,
maybe we can finally earn some repose,
together.

god ****** you are so beautiful, you're like a walking piece of art

and as someone who loves art
and has seen **** like van gogh's starry night in person
or monet's water lilies
or any of beth cavener's sculptures
you are so ******* unique
and breathtaking
I can't get over you
I never want to have to
you're as priceless as salvator mundi
and I feel so ******* lucky to have even gotten a glimpse of 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?

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.

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.

Some nights,
I think the few extra bites I take are helping me get better.

Some nights,
I look at the clock and realize it's already four in the morning and I'm nowhere near tired,
so I smoke another cigarette.

Some nights,
I wish that instead of lying in my empty bed,
I was lying in yours.

Some nights,
I allow myself to accept that I am not what you need,
and therefore,
I will not be yours.

Some nights,
I finally do sleep,
and I dream that I am everything you need,
and I wake up next to you,
and it's more than just a quick goodbye.

Some nights,
I think I'm better off alone.

Some nights,
I wonder if I will ever get out of this rut that I have been stuck in,
for however many years it has been,
and finally be good enough for someone.

Some nights,
I finally start to convince myself that I was good enough all along,
and maybe you were never enough
for me.

I just want to tell you I'm sorry.
I want to tell you all of the things I know I did wrong.
I want you to know I never meant to hurt you.
I never wanted to be that person.
I'm moving on, I'm growing up.
And it's without you,
whether I like it or not.

It is people like us
who are meant to be alone.
It's the way we've become accustomed to living,
late nights of dreading sunrise,
talking **** about the place we inhabit.
Talking **** is *****,
but not as ***** as I feel
waking in the same place.
Nothing has changed,
it'll always be the same,
and I don't have the patience
to encourage any change.
I stopped giving a ****.

Oh well.

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've traced the pillow's edge pretending it was your back for some time now,
acting as if you'd been lying beside me this whole time.
Whether sharing a bed with you is plausible or not is still a mystery to me.
I'd always imagined you to be a very warm person,
and I'd like not to have to get more blankets every night.
Lately, though, I'm beginning to think the opposite.
Maybe the bed being cold and empty
is a proper representation of your presence after all.

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'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.

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.

Falling in love scares me more than drowning.
In a sense, it's the same thing. You put your heart in someone's hands and if they drop you, it feels like you're being engulfed in a dark hole you'll never come out of.
He left over three months ago.
About a month ago he blocked me on everything and I'm glad he did.
It felt like someone cut a ball and chain from my leg, and before they did that I was stuck at the bottom of whatever trench I was in. Once it was cut, I was so engulfed in the panic I didn't realize I could finally get out.
But I did.
Now I'm just trying to find the courage to get back in the water.
I always wondered why I was afraid of dark water.
Maybe that's why.
You never know if you'll be pulled back under.
You never know when you're safe.

I've been losing sleep these last few nights.
Usually this would upset me,
but as I lie here awake
with you on my mind,
warming my heart,
I can't help but wish
you were instead in my bed,
warming my body as well.
I have only smoked one cigarette in the last week.
I started to realize
that you're much more addictive.
It seems nicotine is no match for love.
I've been struggling to be happy
for some time now.
But as I look back over the years,
it's becoming clear I've always been
the happiest when you were there.
While the echo of your voice through
my speakers never fails to make me melt,
I know it'll never rival the day we
fall asleep in one another's arms.
So until it happens,
I hope we can make up for it.
Every moment we've missed.
Every moment we could have kissed.
Until then, I'll lie awake.
Losing sleep again,
for the best
and worst
reasons.

my body begs for forgiveness.
a break, a chance to run away
from this constant pain.
i'm exhausted.
maybe it's better off this way.
who knows who's looking for me.
who knows what they'll find,
i've been lost inside myself for years,
so they need to watch their strides.