i.
Unrequited love is the most silent pain anyone could ever know.
ii.
It is for the lonely, sleepy hearts, the ones who find safety in dangling themselves above rocky cliffs just to be tortured by not being tortured at all.
iii.
The hardest thing is understanding that you'll never be able to explore whats underneath the thin cotton that covers his body.
iv.
But worse than that, is realizing that so many other girls can.
v.
You'll never know true heartbreak, because he never loved you in the first place.  
vi.
If he wants perfect, you'll be perfect.  If he wants broken, you'll be broken, but sooner or later you'll realize he'll never want you.

Today was the first time I saw my grandfather since his passing.
He had a chubbier face
and was behind the wheel of a red Toyota Camry
next to a woman who wasn't my grandmother.  
Becca was in the passenger seat beside me.  
She didn't see my knuckles turn white
as I gripped the steering wheel tighter.  
Then the light told me I could go.  
She didn't see tears fall as I accelarated into the intersection
when all I wanted to do was turn around follow
the man who wasn't my grandpa
in a car that wasn't his
to a house I'd never seen before
and wouldn't miss when I left.

One morning he awoke to find
his nose had gone missing,
the sculpted feature that
clung to his face so sweetly, gone.
He couldn't enjoy the smell
of baking or clean laundry
in his afternoons spent with me,
or even the wintery scent while walking
up to my front door.
Or the lingering coffee before he closed his.
But he still had his lips, his eyes.
That was enough for me
and my button nose was enough for him
to experience every aroma.

It's been ten days since I've written.
Ten days I've been an uninspired mess.
Ten days I've had the little dizzies after standing up too quickly.
Ten days I've felt rug burn in my cheeks and cotton mouth in my eyes.
Ten days I've felt the grease ooze from my hair down my back.
Ten days I've found a home in the unswept floorboards by the door.
Ten days I've bathed in crumpled, ink infected papers.
Ten days I've drawn blood from dry lips no longer able to whistle.
Ten days I've doubted tomorrow.
Ten days I've...just...

My poetry comes in pulses,
in waves, in breaths.
Take it all, crumple it into a little ball of flavors,
and scenes,
and lovers,
and sadness,
and scents,
and magic
and swallow it whole.
Don't chew it, or grind its little letters up.
Let the ***** on your tongue sting it,
make it a little delusional, a little wild.
Let the alcohol twist its meaning.
Don't spit it out, don't *****
because it wouldn't be the only thing sticking to the lining of the trash can.
Taste it completely, intoxicated or not,
let the little droplets burn your throat,
let the beer stain your lips with poetic regret.
Let it consume you as the bottle does.

She's not done counting.
Sitting in the middle of the bed,
feet tucked under her,
white room boiling over with tension.
She hopes for safety.
What time is it?
The clocks don't keep time anymore.
The rain hasn't been steady in years.
The drums are no longer pounded evenly.
Portions.
Distribution.
How many months need to go by
for an understanding that the wheels,
those headlights, that copper painted body
won't roll up along the gravel again?
How many extra places need to be set at the dinner table,
how many reminders to turn the light off downstairs,
how many cold sides of the bed need to be felt,
to feel the sting of reality again?
How much longer will agony exist?