Nights
When I cannot see the stars
Are the most tragic.

To see their beauty
Covered by the clouds,
          As if they are jealous,
Unwilling to share the joyful twinkle
Of the stars with anyone else.
          They cling to them,
Withholding their beauty from me,
Leading me to yearn for them.

Becoming addicted to that twinkle
I conclude that I am willing
          To travel as many miles as it takes,
          To discover the most secluded area around,  
          To hike the tallest mountain I can find,
Just to see those bright stars
Shine down on me.

They remind me of your smile,
          You know?
How it illuminates me,
How it brightens up my darkest days.  
          Or your eyes,
How they twinkle
When you talk about something you love
          Or even when you laugh.

I would go miles to see your eyes,
Cross the ocean to see you smile,
Climb the tallest mountain to hear your laugh

The nights she comes back into your life
          Are the nights that I find so tragic,
They're the nights my stars
          Are hidden from me,

The cloud of her presence
Covering the stars that fill your face.
Your smile hidden beneath your taut lips
          Formed in an impenetrable frown.
The twinkle in your eyes
          Hazed with over-thinking.

These are the nights I find most tragic,
The nights that I vow
To do whatever it takes
To see my stars shine bright
Once again.

You make death seem like the ultimate thing to wish for
                   On a shooting star,
                   Or at 11:11
                   Or on whatever it is people wish on these days.

You make slicing my thighs seem like the ultimate prize
At the end of a long day.

You make death seem like it’s the only thing I need to aim for.

I don’t dream of what my life could be anymore,
                    The job I could have,
                    The family I could love
Rarely crossing my mind.

When people ask me where I want to be in 5 years,
                    Or even 3,
I hesitate.
Wanting to be 6 feet under the stars,
                    Maybe in 5 months,
                    Preferably in 3,
But these are secrets you dare not speak of,
So I simply reply
                    Happy.
Maybe in Washington,
In a port town,
Or in Colorado in the mountains.

I don’t dream about love anymore,
                     Or at least I try not to,
But my god do you make it hard
Because,
Well,
                      I love you.

Instead I try to dream of cars,
Crashing into me,
It gives me the same sensation as dreaming of you,
                      But it doesn't hurt as much,
                      Or as last as long.

I find it hard to find the thrill in living.
Maybe I’m just not doing it right yet,
But right now I find a certain thrill
                       In hiding my scars,
                       In pretending to be fine;
I like to give others enough information
That if they tried hard enough
They could figure me out,
To see if anyone thinks I’m worth the effort.
                       Update: I’m not.

Late Night Writing:
I am a journal
I am a journal. Those around me are the writers. They come to me with stories to tell.
She comes to me to write about her, the girl she loved, the one she’s not quite over and the one that’s not quite over her, she writes about her family life sometimes too. She comes around seldom, not quite sure if my pages will be read by others, or if they will keep our secrets. He writes about his past love, the one that didn’t work out, the one before me that he’s not quite over, the one that left him broken, with issues I cannot help him solve, she is the one who moved on and left him behind. He comes to me at 3 am, often after a night of drinking, sometimes not, and I am there my pages ready. She comes to me often, at many times of the day, and she has written many stories. Some of which I never did want to hear. She writes about boys, not men, they are immature, not deserving of her time, her pain or her love. I know this, but she has yet to realize it. She comes to me often, to tell me about the boys who are talking to her, the ones she responds to although she never really wanted to talk to them anyway, and I can’t help but wonder why she does this. She writes about one boy in particular, the one that really broke her heart; the one she’s still not over, the one she spends hours on before a party in hopes of making him jealous.
Like a journal I have no words to say, seldom any responses to give, and if I do they are weak. Instead I listen, I let them vent, I let them spew onto me their self-loathing and I soak in every inch of it, like paper gulps down every drop of ink. I carry their self-hate with me; I absorb it into my skin so they don’t have to carry it. This is all I can do for them. I have never experienced true heart break. No one has ever loved me, I have only loved others. No one has ever left me; because I have never been anyone’s to leave. I have no way of offering advice, so instead I let them pour out their feelings, I soak them up, I hold them in for them, I lessen their burden, assure them that everything will be okay, and then they leave. And I am left there, alone, so full with self- hatred, some my own, some of it theirs that I am ready to burst.
There is little room left in me, my pages are running low. Soon, I will be full, soon, I will be left unable to absorb any more, unable to let those around me use me as a journal, soon, I will be unable to help those who need me the most. Soon, I will become useless, people will stop coming to me, people will leave, and then what will be of me, but a journal full of hatred and a saturated sponge?

You
You make me feel
    Alive
More alive
Than the pain from the razors
Ever could
You make me feel
    Loved
More loved
Than I ever knew I could be
You
You make my nights bearable
And my days bright
You
You make me feel sane
Thank you

I remember when your words were warm,
When your smile shined down on me,
And when your touch kissed my skin,
To me you were like the sun in the middle of summer, you were my light.

I remember when the sparkle left your eyes and they turned dark and sullen,
Like the sky before a storm.
I remember when the tears started to fall, like rain,
Slowly at first, but soon they poured out,
Unstoppable.  

I remember when your touch turned to ice,
When your smile transformed into a permanent frown, frozen in place.
When your tears stopped falling and your voice became harsh,
Cutting into me like the winter wind.
I remember.

I remember when I said goodbye.
You never asked me why, or begged me not to go.
You never cried because you knew.
You knew it was coming, that we could never last,
Not like this.

I remember when you whispered to me that it was okay,
Because you knew that “no one could ever love someone so dead..”
But I did. I loved you.

I pray that soon my sun will start to shine once more.
That the darkness in your eyes will fade, revealing the light that lies behind it.
That your touch will thaw and become warm, with life and love,
Like it once was.
That your smile will return and shine down on others like rays of sun, warming them.
I pray that you will feel alive once more.