First tone...


Second tone...


"Hello!"
She picked up.
I had been trying to talk to her all day long, and had actually been waiting to hear her voice all week.

We haven't really met yet, but we've been hitting it off lately. So much so that I can hardly think of someone else. I even see her wherever I go, despite her living in another state.

I really love her voice. It sounds so warm and sweet. The inflections she makes get my heart pumping faster, and my knees go weak. And then she starts talking in this silly yet adorable way that just makes me melt.
I'm also happy to say I was able to make her laugh. We both laughed and laughed throughout the whole call. There was not a single dull moment or awkward silence. I had to keep her laughing because that laughter kept the smile on my face alive.

"Do you realize we've been on the phone for over an hour now?"
She said to me as I realized how long it had been, even though it had felt like much less.
"I wish I could stay longer, but I really have to go. I don't want to, though."

Our goodbye took another half hour. Neither of us wanted to leave.
We were having so much fun.
We were so comfortable with each other.
We were falling for each other.

But the call had to end. I said my goodbye for the night. I was also brave enough to say an "I love you".
She said she did too.


Call ended.

Bukowski says poetry is not for the faint of heart. I feel a small ache as I turn another of his pages. What have I been neglecting? Myself, the words, the reality? The reality which the words showed me. Too much for a growing girl, growing in swirls, rather than up, just crazy. Same road again, almost every morning, anxiety. Awkward again, sick and angry boy. He breaks silence with ****** functions and doesn't like to repeat himself.
Okay, Bukowski, you're right.
Poetry is not for the faint of heart.
he art, she art, it will tear you apart... if you let it.

The warmth.
It escapes your body.
Your limbs grow weaker.
It gets harder to breathe.
The wound won't stop bleeding.

In my hand I hold yours.
Next to you lies a knife.
Your hands get colder.
Your eyes going blank.
Your heart can't keep up.

Stop... Stop...
It ceases to beat.
No more do you breathe.
You can't see.
You can't feel.

Gone. I rest.
Grab my knife and your corpse.
Tidy up the crime scene.
Leave no trace behind.
Rest in peace, my love.

there are just some things
you don't forget.

the time you get stitches on your chin when
you are four and the amount is double that
a result of your careless brother sitting your back and
your face meeting the ground with too much force
you aren't afraid though
you lay quiet as a doctor sews you back to one piece
this is bravery at its finest

the boy with the angry voice and heavy hands
teaches you to cower

the first panic attack with the salted swelling of your breath, the invisible hands wringing your neck into a knot you cannot untie,
the drenched palms and the pinching of your skin to bring you back down to earth
you think you are dying,
you aren't
you wonder if this will happen again,
it will

the dark of your uncle's funeral
your family's tears compiling next to the plate of poppyseed bagels that nobody eats
there is a silence that everybody seems to avoid and the sound of your unexplainable innapropriate laughter accompanying grief

your first kiss in someone's back bedroom and your body turning on vibrate mode
ringing with excitement, a smile numb from it's inability to escape

making out on the top of the movie theatre stairs at the mall on Fridays

the time you sneak out to meet up with older boys, the thrill coming from the risk
you trade tongues at 1 am and make it back in bed before mom and dad notice

the blacked out memory of your first time, in between his cartoon printed childhood sheets
you are fifteen and the **** and alcohol in your system make it harder to remember clearly
it is less of an event and more just a blurry moment

the nights with cough medicine and a handful of crushed pills up your nose and how it easily could have been too much

the halloween party with the dimmed lights and the red cups
the hammock in the back and the black basement couch and
her wrists the week after everyone found out what had happened on it
the word **** tied on to the back of her jeans for the rest of high school along with her self-destruction

the kid who threw himself in front of the train we all took to get to the city

the quiet in the school hallways the week after the drive-by

swallowing the word cancer and feeling every wall of your stomach turn ash

watching your father lose his hair like little pieces of the future

cursing out your chemistry teacher 6th period and being sent to the principals office
then loudly cracking your knuckles during saturday detention

eating ice cream in Haley's bed after finding out he cheated on her
telling her it will be okay and believing it

laying in bed for three days straight and ignoring any words of reassurance
depression settling comfortably inside your bone marrow

the comfort in his eyes and a sense of understanding nobody else had

your purple bedroom walls and
your purple bedding and
your purple curtains and
the pile of innocence disguised as stuffed animals sitting in
the corner of your room

every book you've ever loved

every song that's made your heart lunge

every human you ever thought of as you were falling asleep

every night you spent awake counting

every day you wasted spent waiting

every time you thought you wouldn't make it

every time you did.