All of my belongings are strewn across the floor
lone socks, piled clothing, a book of poetry
the carpet is covered in empty bags and pens and pieces of notebook paper filled with lines I couldn't finish
I never found the right words to

I know I should be putting my life together
folding and storing and cleaning
I should be fixing the chip in the wall or doing something of importance
there are too many boxes I still haven't packed, but
all I'm thinking about is how to get you back

I should be moving out of this house into the next but
I'm wrapping myself in these same red sheets wishing you were sinking into the mattress with me
phantom feeling skin that isn't touching mine
longing like the hungry heart I always claim to not have
but here I am, starving again
insatiable

and when I leave I wont miss the salt in the air or
the sand building hills in every crack of the room
I wont miss the ink stained sunsets much
or the welcoming breeze that morning wakes me up with
I wont miss it at all

not the sound of waves or the way the moon looks when
everyone is too busy to notice
the stars and how they peek out during the vacant of night
not the crawl of sunlight through windows and
the dance the curtains do when the door is left open

not even the sounds coming from the alley outside in the middle of sleep
or the scratch of cars along the one way street
I wont miss it, I promise
there's no point in missing what I can always come back to

but I will miss you
I will the way I have for however long I haven't had you here
for whatever city you're in today
for whatever heart you're casing inside yours
for whatever one that isn't mine
how ironic it was that you used to be just a few blocks down the beach
now we're more than miles apart in distance
I wonder if your thoughts ever find their way to me

I buried too many feelings in the sand  
leaving seems an easier feat than digging up memories
and I don't think there's enough time in the world to get to where I need to be to be okay again

all of my belongings are strewn across the floor
lone socks, piled clothing and a book of poetry
the carpet is covered in empty bags and pens and pieces of notebook paper filled with lines I couldn't finish
I never found the right words to
I'm starting to think I never will

Loving the addict is
an addiction in itself
Learning to digest
all of the sharp pieces that
come with it
Apologies and how
they lose meaning
after the second
Loving the addict is
as much of an art as
the hiding is, as
the covering up, as
the forgive me
After some time
I love you and I'm sorry
start to sound the same
letting go and withdrawal
become an equal amount of
swollen
and coming back is
more relapse than any
tangible substance
Loving the addict is
a guilty habit growing
inside a dark closet
feeding the plant until
it becomes animal,
ravenous
love and dependence
are both diseases that
share the same root

But being the addict
is always an attempted break up
It is avoidance at
its finest
It is ripping apart
strings of a rope
with chipped fingernails
in attempts to
cut loose ends
It is sawing pieces of
wood with bare skin and
trying not to get a splinter
It is leave me
It is don't go
It is I am trying to not destroy
everything in my path
It is painting with
heavy winds and rain
hoping there wont be
a mess to clean up
But mess is as inevitable
as the art is creating
And love and addiction
mix like oil and water
nobody is perfectly
capable of cleaning
up correctly
So we leave in a pile
to return to later
Coming back is
more relapse than any
tangible substance
that has ever
existed
and mercy is more perilous than
we'd hope it to be

you are too familiar with yourself
with your face
your body
your beauty

your reflection is an image skewed from being seen by
your same eyes too often
your confidence is a locked box you keep in the back of
your closet
your smile is more uncomfortable than it is curling and
you've grown to hate the large of your laugh

you are blind to almost all that you are

but just imagine,
for a second
what you look like
to someone who is a stranger

you could be their textbook definition of ideal
their exact description of beautiful and
you wouldn't even know it

imagine for a moment
how your greatness might resonate
with someone who has never been close to that much at once

there have been people in your life who
have attempted to break you into smaller pieces
crush you from whole so you would be easier to swallow

there will always be some who will be unable to see your worth
others who wont be able to handle you
maybe they'll see too much and try to shrink you into less
with the hopes of becoming more themselves

you build yourself quieter each time that you do
you know how to shy away from the prescence of light and
you've settled comfortably in the shadow of day

but there is someone out there waiting to hear your loud
a blank canvas ready to be filled with all of your paint
you will be the exact shade they have spent their entire life trying to find

and when they do
you'll remember that there was a time
before you were taught to see dark
when you could see all of your colors clear
without trying

I lose count of how many times I am catcalled on my way to the gym
I think that maybe turning around, eating an entire pizza and
never coming back would stop this from happening
I realize it wouldn't
I would still be a woman

"Smile baby,"
I hear as I leave my car
Just 3 hours of sleep to get me to where I am and
I am tired enough to silence a response from my ******* but
not enough to quit

A guy standing at the bus stop sees my hands wrapped and
tells me that boxing is ****
I wonder how clenched fists
self-protection and
the desire to make it home alive
each night is **** but
I don't ask

When I don't hit the bag hard enough
I remember the force of
his body and
I let my knuckles do the speaking
there is no stopping after the rage is
reborn

A man tells me how lucky I am
to have this figure
ignorant to the fact that hard work is nothing
remotely similar to luck
a string I have been stretching and pulling
that is what my body is
luck,
I think about how he will never have enough of it to touch me

I like the way it feels to
be sore from something willingly
to get up from the ground without a hand helping
these bruises are proof of my attempts

I have been practicing my run
to make up for all of the times
I havent had the guts to
my limbs are reaching forward for
every time they've been held back

I like to say that survival
is a choice made in the aftermath of destruction
the conscious decision to chew through broken glass rather
than swallow it whole
survival is not as simple as I didn't die
it is deciding not to

Hand squeezing wrist,
he told me I'd never be enough for anyone anyway
well today I am enough for
me

I'm working on myself
for myself
building ash into bone into muscle
this is strength learning how to show
this is me learning how to pull through
this is me doing exactly
that