it's like scratching
at the top of the coffin,
splintered hands,
shaky knees,
& shallow breath-

i'm climbing my way
out of this mess,

but once i sift through
all the soil
and finally land
with my feet on solid ground,
you're waiting in the graveyard
with the same shovel
that buried me in the first place-

and this goes on and on and on,
and the blood on your skin
will someday stain
from all the self-inflicted pain.
and this goes on and on and on,
and your teeth
will someday chip
from all the forced silence.
and this goes on and on and on-

til my elbows shatter
from pushing the weight
and my wrists break
from holding on so tight
and my throat begins
to bleed from screaming
your name,
begging you to save me.

but you will never be the one
who digs me out
when i'm in too deep
to catch my breath.

you will always be
the boy with the shovel,
and me...
the girl with the concrete feet...

there is something about a really big storm
that makes you feel so connected to earth
and to the strangers inhabiting it.
it's like, we're all in this together.
in this moment,
we're all kind of scared,
but we also feel this unique warmth
that only storms bring.
that warmth that collects in your chest
and then drizzles down your entire body,
slow like molasses,
until it reaches your toes
and we are reflective.
there's nothing like clouds parting
like flood gates,
releasing beautiful danger
over the roofs of our homes
and the windshields of our cars
to remind us of love or love lost.

I miss you in this moment
even though you are sitting right beside me.
you're not mine anymore.
a storm brings closeness, though.
it's like all the space between
washes away
with whatever pieces of the earth
found their way into the gutter.
everything kind of stops.
we are here for each other right now.
at least until it passes.
I want to comfort you.
I know you want to comfort me too
because that's just what storms do.
so I am twisting your hair
between my fingers,
as gently as my strong hands know how,
and I am looking at your neck,
and the side of your face,
all of the marks the world has left on you-
the places where you've bled,
and grown,
and stretched,
and shrunk-
the tear stains
and laugh lines
and deep pores
collecting dirt,
the indents
permanently left
along your temples
from 22 years of glasses.
you are beautiful
in the haze of violent rain.
everyone is.

I've always took notice
to the way people become so soft,
and kind,
and forgiving
when Mother Nature
is at her angriest-
like we are children
who've just been scolded.
she came down
and whispered in our ears,
"I can take this all from you
in a cold second."
and we believed her.

storms are when we count our blessings.
I counted you a few more times
than I'd like to admit
as the street lights
wrapped their yellow arms
around your chin
and then sunk into your lap,
again, and again.

When I was a child
the sun was my soulmate.
we'd dance across the yard,
barefoot and laughing.
in this moment, though,
I fear the sun.
I fear that when he comes
and settles the storm,
I will disassociate again.
I will feel a sturdy distance
between myself
and the things I love most,
like you.

I'm right, of course,
because that's what happened.
I feel so locked inside myself again,
and here I am,
one o'clock
on a Sunday morning,
wondering if I'll ever be
anything more than scared and lonely.
I haven't been in the past.

but I am trying this time.
I always say that I am,
so who can trust me?

but I feel it in my kneecaps,
my collarbones,
my knuckles,
and my elbows.
I'm sore with radiating power
pushing its way
from my core to my exterior.

something is stretching inside of me,
and pretty soon
the skin I'm in now
is going to burst
and evaporate into thin air
and I am going to be draped
in brand new flesh,
unbroken by speeding time
and undeserving love.
pretty soon I am going to be brave.
pretty soon I am going to
dance barefoot in my backyard
with the sun
and I am going to feel
like I deserve the vitamins
that will pulsate into my feet.
I won't feel like energy
from the ground
and the sky
are wasted on me,
a stagnant creature,
crying for no reason.

pretty soon,
I'll stop crying.
I'll be whole.
and safe.
and fulfilled.
I feel it.

there is a healer
who's traveled up
and down mountains,
through lakes,
under, and over bridges,
and it's knocking on doors
right now
looking for me
and when it gets here,
my chest is gonna split open
like an avocado
and let it in.

I am going to be connected,
even when Mother Nature
isn't throwing a tantrum.

I am going to come back to my body
and I am going to look
through my big eyes
and I am going to see the world
for what it is
and I am going to laugh
so hard my ribs
are going to rattle
inside my stomach
and I am going to mean it.

the darkness is lifting.
the sun is coming.
I am strength.
I am wisdom.
I am power
and I have not given up.

i've been watering dead plants for so long
i hardly remember what they look like
when they're alive,
and maybe this means i'm
losing my mind,
but the truth is,
we all want a miracle.

i think i've just been
counting too much
on mine.

i wanna believe
that my love & loyalty alone
can turn a withered pile of
prickly dirt into a strong
and stunning cactus,
once again.

i wanna believe
that if i count you every
time i count my blessings,
you'll bless me with your presence,
but it feels a bit like a child's
impossible dream.

i am a dreamer though,
even in a one bedroom apartment
with creaky doors and leaky faucets.

so, i'll continue to do these things
that don't make sense to you.
i'll wish you a happy birthday,
just cause i mean it.
& i'll visit your mom in the hospital,
so she knows she's never alone.
and i'll give money to your friends'
"gofundme" page,
because you know,
i want ryan to get well too.
and i'll pray for your safety,
even though i have no religion.

and i'll sit here,
on my bathroom floor
thinking about dead roses
while you lie with your
face in a pillow
that's forever stained
with the scent of my shampoo.

and i'll hope that you still love that smell
as much as you did when you still loved me.
and i'll hope that your heart isn't
prickly and pathetic.
i'll hope that it's
stunning and strong
like a cactus.

and if they call me crazy,
you can tell them they're right.

but i'd rather be the one who
waters a dead plant,
than be the one who misses
the magic only found
in fallen petals.