I think the scent of bug spray on my palms will now forever remind me of you and the late night (early morning) we spent sitting in your car, drawing awfully unskillful portraits on the back of each other’s hands in 
dim light and 3 a.m. stillness. (I wonder if you could tell that doodling on your skin was just an excuse to touch you.) I wanted so badly to let my fingers find yours 
as we laid back in our seats 
and peeked out the rolled down 
windows at the infinite stars scattered above us in the 
early August night sky. I told you I wouldn’t kiss you, 
because I know my heart and 
how relentlessly it would 
replay how your lips felt on mine, and how it would ache knowing
 you couldn’t be mine,
 so I let you kiss my cheek instead,
 and the half a moment that I felt 
your unshaven face brush mine in the middle of the street at five in the morning feels like a fake memory. When you looked at me, I wanted to hide, because I was too afraid to read what words might’ve been written in your eyes, but I felt so content listening to the 
deep tone of your voice 
mix with the obnoxiously loud crickets singing in the trees 
surrounding us. I could’ve sat there with you till the stars disappeared and the sun took their place, but you walked me back home, and you left in the dark, and now I’m sitting in my bed thinking about how the hours between 2 and 5 a.m. have never felt so full.

I feel like a bother to people;
I feel like a burden.
I feel like so many people's lives
Would benefit from me not being part of them.
I'm always sad.
No matter what drug they give me next.
I'm good at faking.
Laughter.
A smile.
Compassion.
I give so much to people,
Yet I get nothing in return.
I've heard that people are indebted to me.
Yes, very much so.
But I can't say that;
That's mean and insensitive.
And I'm not good at cruel.
I'm good at me;
Whatever that is.
I feel alone.
All the time.
Because I guess it's easier to text
"I'm sorry ):"
Then to call and ask "what's wrong?"
I feel unappreciated.
I give so much
And help so often.
Yet I'm the one always begging for a life vest
Because I'm drowning.
I feel sad.
Plain and simple - I AM DEPRESSED.
I am up and down every day.
But there are more frequent downs
Than ups.
I feel like I have no purpose.
That this life is a waste of time;
A never-ending ride.
But I want off.
I feel like a bother to people.
Maybe if I disappeared...

the pale moths
silver and egg-shell blue
fall lilac
across the dusty
wooden floors
in the abandoned buildings
lining
7th avenue

they all fall
every night
just before
the scattered pages
that drift across
the room
like sail boats
in summer
on the waves
of the spring breeze

their eyes
the ones that long for the sun
but are open
at the wrong hour
always see
the black swirls
that run into each other

just before
their wings
stop to fly

and their souls
scream
in the heart of the crickets
hiding in the lawn
ignited by the fireflies

they just want to know
what those letters mean