The day I had to leave was the worst day of my life. Waking up to the sun shining in your room, the roaring sound of the morning city travelers, and the quiet sound of your breathing filled the empty room. Laying there, waiting for you to wake up, I found myself staring at the white stale ceiling, realizing that this was our last day. This is the last day I will see your eyes stare into mine with the same sadness as if someone you knew just died. The ache I feel in my heart has me thinking that you could be the one. Our quiet awkward breakfast of bad coffee and burnt toast had me feeling like this was a bad ending to an awful breakup. But in reality it was worse. Leaving someone you love has a harder impact than leaving someone you just like. The walk to your car felt like I was walking the plank on a ship that I never thought I would be leaving. The drive through the city was not as exciting and colorful as it was before. It felt so grey and dull. It was as if me leaving has drained all of the color out of the world just leaving us the simple color of grey. As we pulled up to my house, we were both as quite as a mouse. We were both scared on the idea that in a few months, maybe even a few weeks, things might be different. Our lives are changing so fast that we might not be able to keep up with each other. As we were saying our goodbyes I held in my tears for I was afraid to show you how weak I really felt. Our last hug made me realize that the smell of your favorite cologne will only linger on me for so long. When you drove away the tears started to roll down my face as if there was a grey dreary rain storm only above my face. Ever since that day things have been different and not always in the best. I still wake up every morning to the sun shining in my room, the roaring sound of college kids going to class, and to the sight of my empty bed. Even though the same picture is produced morning by morning. It doesn’t get better. My heart still drops one hundred floors just thinking about the fact that you are gone. Leaving my room will still give me the same feelings I felt on that awful day. Talking on the phone with you every night I still find myself holding in the tears just like that day. When we hang up that grey dreary rain storm comes back and it lingers above my face. Eventually, the day will come where we can meet again, but until then I guess everyday will be the worst day of my life.

My efforts are broken, like your voice in the wind.
I hear the sound of the rain as it pelts me with sin.
Your support is fragile like our weak broken house.
One storm could come and knock down our house.

The sand swarms me like ducklings with their mother.
The waves pull me in as it wraps me with guilt.
Still my love surrounds you like the pieces of our broken house.
One storm could come and knock down our house.

Your stubbornness pierces me like a thorn of a rose.
I see the lightning strike as you shrill to the sky.
We may be stable but we are as feeble as our broken house.
One storm could come and knock down our house.

and one sunny day our house was blown away.

I never feel loved.
My heart feels broken.
Can you not stare at me?
My heart is not working.

You numbed inside.
My mind is not mine.
You made me feel blind.
Like I am not working.

You know the days aren't so bad when you can wake up without any struggle.
And actually look decent.

When the days are bad, you struggle, getting out of bed becomes pointless.
Looking even semi-decent is like trying to climb a mountain. Without any gear.

When he asks you what's wrong, you just look at him and shrug. The problem is that you don't even know why your down. You just are.

It's a constant mystery the moment you wake up. The question you ask your self every morning as you lay in bed looking up at your ceiling: is today a good day?

Drip.
Drip.
Boom.

When I look out my rain plastered window.
I see the storm is approaching the meadow.

Drip.
Drip.
Boom.

I lay back on my bed and listen.
I hear the window and the rain kissing.
I imagine how the sunlit meadow glistens.

Drip.
Drip.
Boom.

My heart starts to flutter.
When I hear the proud thunder.
My room lights up in color.
As the lightning strikes another.

Drip.
Drip.
Boom.

All of my words drown in the noise.
While my mind is risen and poise.
Like me, sometimes, the storm is powerful and destroys.

Drip.
Drip.
Boom.

When the morning comes near.
Everything is bright and clear.

Your vagueness fills me up.
Your power takes me down.
The reign of your life
tears at me like little
bells ringing in my head.
The mental stability of us
is drowning in a sea
of violent waves of lies.
The number of my cries
overpowers the number of the
little diamonds on your ring.
I can only cry out
and tell you, beg you
to do something about it.
All you do is hide
your flimsy little pig tails.
All you do is laugh with
your little pig snorted snouts.

They say those with depression are the best actors.

My dark, twisted mind, filled with deep thoughts of how I will never be good enough for anyone not even myself, will never show the real world how I feel.

My smile. My coffee-stained-semi-white teeth will shine in the light, as you ask me how I am doing and I will always answer with amazing.

You look at me with your sparkling eyes and say great. Great as if you believe everything I say is true. Great as if the sun shines brightly through the dark overcast clouds into my room, onto my bed, onto my face that is as pale as the walls that enclose my cries in.

I ask you how you are, and you smile back at me and say wonderful. and I truly wonder if you are. or are you just another actor making their way to their bed where they can lay thoughtless with the hovering feeling of overwhelming dread.

Or maybe, maybe for just once you are genuine.

A time where all the mountains meet,
my soul cried out to my heart; trying to break clean.
To late to be. To tired to sleep. I cried myself to a bottle, cheap.
A cheating, a lie, a sweet bitter cry.
I called him out, all he did was lie.
His mind not caring, my tears not dry,
our feelings drying out in the moon that's too high.

I sit quietly in a desk working on my homework. Conversations are becoming ramp just like how my worries are increasing. Don't worry I tell myself. It's all good. You have it under control. More thoughts, more worries. More thoughts, more worries. A bell rings. A bell rings but I don't get up. The stomping of feet feel like the stomping of thoughts inside my head. The heat in this place. This hell. It builds up like pressure inside my chest. Words are thrown at me in a way..in a way..that makes me want to explode. The water I hear dripping are my tears falling to the dry christened floor. My pencil slips out of my hand and onto my desk just like the way my heart drops inside my chest. A bell rings. A bell rings and I still don't get up. Again conversations are ringing, people are singing, my heart is hardly beating. I'm just here. I'm fading. I'm just a person in the back ground waiting to be touched. Waiting to be reached out and picked up under the florecent sun. The thoughts are still there. The worries are still running and running and running. But why can't I run? I want to run away from those worries not run towards them. My dazed fog still chooses to hang low like in the summer mornings. Please I beg. Fade away. Soon my heart just starts to flutter. The fog in my mind begins to fade away as the sun peaks. Everything feels. Better. I start to smile and laugh. I am better. And so eventually a bell rings. A bell rings and I get up.

Broken hearts and dying of love.
It withers down into an early grave.
Love is but a song.
A women's heart is her world.
Her soul if shipwrecked is a bankruptcy of the heart.
The disappointment of love wounds some feelings.
But a women's life is her own thoughts and feelings.

A light bulb flickers late into the night.
You leave me standing with the door open wide.
I stare at you, eyes wide, with my heart plain in sight.
How can one person leave me feeling so...mystified.

The only time I fall asleep in your arms are the nights we sit by our empty glasses. The bottles lay askew on the floor, they are cold and dripping with the last drop of our day. They were filled with the fruits of our labor and the sour bubbling laughs. We filled each other in as we filled each other's glasses. The comfortableness, the ease that we feel are not because we are comfortable with each other. It is because our drinks push us out. You might as well say that we are introverts by day and extroverts by night. One bottle is empty and one hour of our day is complete. We move on continuing to fill the silence that we both cannot bear to see. To us being in the clear is seeing our glasses empty. It does not provide us with any relief, just anxiety to why our glass is still empty. I fill up the glasses as we fill up the room with our conversation. Two bottles down, then three, then four, and now we are on the floor. Laying there finger to finger, head to head, leg to leg we discuss our future plans and our ***** secrets because we know by morning we will forget we ever spoke. As sad as it may be, when we wake up in the morning feeling the pain of last night. We will just sit and stare. Not say a word. Our glasses that lay beside us this morning are as empty as our conversations. I just want to be able sleep with you after a night of not drinking. Because maybe I can actually speak.

if one only cared,
if you cared to be there.
if one simple word,
if you said it right here.
if one finally shared,
if you did that everywhere.
if one person kissed,
if you kissed me right there.
if one only ended,
if you ended it right here.

Will you come with me?
One day, my dear, maybe next year.
Now come with me?
Dear, maybe next year.
Eli, come with me?
Right now, my dear?
Let's leave this moment, yes?
Ultimately we can't my dear.
Say why cant't we leave?
T**he time is just not right my dear.

Who am I.
Symptoms of the mind, my mind, is deteriorating rapidly.
Empty smiles, blank expressions staring at me.
Please, not that again.
Forgetting to be forgotten.
That feeling I don't understand.
Why am I broken?
Foolish.
No reason for it.
I knew it was perfectly normal.

My heart is as fragile
as the broken glass
that lays softly on the hardwood floor.
Do not let me fall
like a bird who can’t fly
and find myself on the hardwood floor.

One heart to heal in my swollen life,
             A single girl is left to cry.
An ace for the boy who is playing cards,
             playing the cards of a relationship with sight.
One soul to gamble,
             a single die.
A ***** left to play and left to play with my life.

A dance in the light,
on the street at night.
Under the harsh light she walks,
moving around as she talks.
The road being beat,
by her moves, too neat.

Do you remember that day,
that day we met on the idea
that maybe, this day, was the day we could start.

Do you remember that day,
that day we fell asleep drunk on the idea
that maybe, this day, was the day we could be sweethearts.

Do you remember that day,
that day we waited around on the idea
that maybe, this day, was the day we could be apart.

Do you remember that day,
that day we drove the car on the idea
that maybe, this day, was the day we could restart.

Do you remember that day,
that day we ran on the idea
that maybe, this day, was the day we could depart.

As much as we were open with our thoughts, he still chose to be silent.
As much as I told him he could talk, he still chose to be quiet.
As much as we talked, he still chose to be private.
The first thing he could never tell me was how much he was hurting.
He needed a friend, a person, someone to tell him it was okay; but, me, I wasn't there for him.
He didn't want to tell me he was feeling lonely, or lost.
He didn't want to tell me he needed a shoulder to cry on.
He was hurting and I was blind.
Two, he never told me what it was like when I wasn't there.
He didn't tell me the fighting, the arguing, the screaming that happened when I wasn't around.
He wanted to protect me.
He needed to protect me.
Three, he didn't want to tell me he was afraid.
He didn't want me to know how fearful he was to lose me.
I was his person, his best friend.
I was the only thing he thought about day and night.
As much as I listened, I chose not to be better.
As much as I talked, I chose to be loud.
As much as we loved each other, I chose to end it.

How can I make myself realize
that drinking hot coffee
on a warm summer's day
is as bad of an idea
as the time I thought
you were the person
I would spend
the rest of my life with.

I was always told to be myself.
I was always told to be kind.
I was always told to be truthful.
What happened to everyone else?
You aren’t yourself.
You aren’t kind.
You aren’t truthful.

The sun,
The shine,
The light blue skies.

The kisses,
The hugs,
The sweet sign of love.

The heart,
The eyes,
The light of my soul.

Some days I wish I could be invisible. I wish I could hide from the fear and insecurity I feel walking to class, or walking in the store, or even just walking to my car. I keep my head down and arms crossed. and then I get told I look like a *****, well I would rather be my ***** than your *****.

Jeans, yoga pants, leggings, shorts.

I could look like a ghost and they would still cat-call me down. The days were no matter what I wear and where I walk some guy is staring me down. looking my body up and down. taking in every inch that I worked so hard to gain. My ***** are not mountains that you can climb. My ****** is not a temple you can worship yourself in. My mouth is not your bowl for you to empty yourself into.

T-Shirts, tank tops, long-sleeves, sweaters, crop tops.

I can still hear the "hey ladies" or "you look hot" playing on repeat in the background like my speaker plays You Don't Own Me for hours on end. trying to keep the last sanity I have of myself in. I am so scared of being stared at for too long, I bury myself in baggy clothes and make sure my *** is covered. so that you cannot search my ground for a piece of missed grass to mow yourself over.

Messy buns, scarves, no mascara, no drop of foundation to touch my bad skin.

One day at work a man was shocked by my looks. He was asking for a band-aid, proceeded to look and said "Wow, you look pretty" Shocked by your words, I asked my mom, "is it my hair? Do I dress like a ****?" She said, "No honey. It's the eyes. That's a woman's secret weapon." I told her *******. When the guy was checking me out he wasn't checking my eyes. he was calculating how much of my *** could fit in his hand, while he was picturing himself in bed with me. That's no secret they can hide.

Oversized sweaters a trend, I wonder why.

In high school, we were scolded. No tank tops, no shorts that don't go past mid-thigh, no holes in your jeans, no tight dresses, no crop tops. the list of no's could go on, what is left for me to say yes. Freedom of fashion, or lack there of. Free come the tears I shed from my dressings rooms as the clothes just pile up. Why should I be punished for the so-called distraction I place in the classroom. Who gave men the right to look up and down my body like I am the wallpaper on their phone screen, when that is the real item that is serving as the distraction in the classroom.

Being a girl is more than the new makeup trend, Starbucks, and the latest Instagram picture of Kim Kardashian's ****. It's the feeling of being underpaid while feeling insecure thanks to being body shamed by every guy in the tri-state.

anxiety, depression, anorexia, bulimia. The new common trend.