you said you had been a mess lately.
i ran my fingers through your tangled hair and agreed.
the unorganized chaos in your head sent me into a whirl.
you said that old wounds dont heal,
i said that im just cleaning the cut.
ive always had a habit of disturbing things better left in the dark,
and i don’t think that there is any part of you that i left untouched.
childhood memories and things you had long since forgotten stirring in the dust
i took the paint splattered across your heart
and turned it into a masterpiece,
you said you had always liked abstract better than realism.
the neat rows that i stacked you in feel heavy on your tongue,
and you told me with words that i had already prepared for you
that the messiest thing about ocd,
is that nothing can ever be left alone.

Maybe I don't understand
the Laws of Physics or
Stellar evolution,
but I know that
your atoms are composed of stardust
Maybe this is why the life in your eyes
is illuminating everything like a carbon giant.

In astronomy they told us
that the darkest parts of space
often contain the most energy
And I thought you should know,
that just like the ancient galaxies inside of you,
your darkest parts still shine.

light your cigarette again
i'll try to breathe toxic air like im the one addicted.
i found myself in the flicker of your lighter,
only warm when your fingers were on me
i used to be forest fires
volcanoes
heat waves
now i am the dying ember in your ash bowl.
forgive me for wanting to feel your lips against my skin
ice melts in the presence of heat,
and you could never be less then me.
cigarette breaks are temporary
but the black in your lung is permanent.
you lit me with the intentions of putting me out
but I promise my flame will kindle every time you try to exhale me out

You were born with thunder rumbling from between your lips.
Your words were learned to be feared.
the promise of being trapped in the rain was too frightening for anyone to listen.

You were a flower that had begun to wilt,
covered by the shade of those towering above you,
and when they stole the last ray of light,
you learned to become your own sun.

Lightning shown in your golden-brown eyes.
Fierceness and a refusal to take any odds into consideration.
You struck hearts into beating again,
you struck minds into thinking again.

Your soul is a flood raging over hills. You are washing down every crevice of the world;
drowning and sweeping away things that will never measure to your strength.

You are a Californian wildfire.
Beautifully destructive and distinctively fearless.
You are crackling heat in valleys where thirst will never be quenched.
Don't be offended when they turn away,
some people just can't take the heat.

You have grown into a refusal to let the natural disasters inside of you sit still.
You have taken every ounce of nothingness that you felt and turned it into a brewing storm.
We will hear that thunder rolling from your lips this time.

Sonnets were written about your icy smile years before you were born.
Poets know the beauty of a powerful earthquake that could send cities crumbling,

Everyone knows the beauty of a powerful woman that can send worlds crumbling.

Your mosaic soul shows cracks, shattered glass,
jagged on the edges
and red where your pricked your fingers trying to pick them up.
I see pieces putting together something greater.
your water color freckles,
splattered over pale skin.
I'd compare them to the constellations, but those are just shapes
and the path im tracing with my fingers tells me much more.
there's no dawn in your golden brown eyes,
the sun I see shinning through stained glass is too bright to be just barely rising.
you are reckless laughter caught in a shutter
a frame by frame moment of the last trickles of childhood
blackness blurring the edges around you
from being left too long in the developer.
your lips feel like oil pants,
sliding over mine like a blank canvas,
I can still see the masterpiece you made me into.
I can still feel the whips of graphite tears pouring down your cheeks as you let all of the art you hold inside.

You used to be the golden sun and lingering kisses.
But now you're the reason thorns grow around my heart
and the reason my poetry is filled with metaphors for heartbreak.

I didnt lose anything the day that you kissed my red lips,
told me that you liked them swollen this color instead of painted it.
I didn’t lose anything when you kissed down my neck and across my collar bone and all the way down into my soul.
I don’t think I lost anything the day we kicked off our socks and shoes and shimmied out of our jeans
When we crawled under the covers and into each others hearts,
whispering words that I can still feel againt my skin long after your touch has faded.
Christmas lights casting shadows that I chased across your jaw
Legs tangled and fingers twined,
we were more laughter and love
patience and passion
imperfection and beauty than I had ever felt in myself alone.
I don’t think I lost anything;
some part of myself that my mother was always telling me to protect.
*I think I may have even grown.

this is what your mother does not want you to see,
that your ancestors rattled the cages so hard they broke
and learned to tame the lioness that stepped out from the aftermath.
you can find your linage in the dirt beneath your grandmothers fingernails,
here is the fight that they poured into your soul,
the mountains that they climbed,
the battles that they conquered.
your mothers grandmother laughs like wicken,
carries something valuable in the deep creases of her skin,
tells you not to waste your time with love and lust,
but to chase the wind while your feet are strong enough to carry you.
this is what your mother does not want you to see,
that you come from a long line of women nothing close to tame.
that you carry the blood of those who molded the world,
instead of letting it mold them.

You kiss a lot of people that taste like anything but home.

Street light stars flicker above you

the blue filter over your skin makes you look a little less sad,

a little more drunk.

You fill yourself up with the saddest things;

Of people that slow your pulse down,

that sharpen their teeth against your bones.

Of a churning sea of clear *****,

waves breaking over your rib cage.

Of thick smoke that makes your lungs feel like silk,

that make your fingertips dance across the thin line of what feels like forgetting,

and what hurts.

But you’re running out of things to make yourself feel better,

and the more you hurt yourself 

the less you are inclined to hate him

it is safe to assume that my poetry will not make you love me back.
you can wash your hands of me,
but once i have tasted you my lips will spill sonnets about loosing myself in your voice until my throat is dry.
i will uncurl metaphors for your smile and the sun and
how they both pour golden light through the cracks in my ribs and into my heart,
until im empty enough to make room for you to fill me.
do not fall in love with a poet.
better, do not let a poet fall in love with you.
we make nasty habits of bleeding ourselves dry to make enough ink out of our blood to fill the page.
do not let a poet fall in love with you,
unless you crave an immortal soul,
because we will write about you on the walls on the inside of our coffins.

My mother looked for God at the bottom of a wine glass as empty as her heart,
she shrunk herself down to curl up in the bottom of it
and I haven’t heard her pray since.

My father looked for God at a grave marked for a man that introduced them.
But saw only grass growing over dirt,
saw only unanswered pleas
and he has been six feet further away from being saved since.

My brother looked for God in the highest place he could reach.
He was met with only a long way to fall,
the ground beneath him wasn’t as soft as it had been when he was a child,
and he hasn’t looked up since.

I looked for God in unheard answers and nights of loneliness.
All that I got back were prayers soiled with tears.
I caved in on myself.
And i have learned something since.

The dark cavern between my ribs holds promises
The possibilities of a glass that is empty
is as much as an empty heart has;
to be filled.
The certainty that six feet under isn't where our loved ones lie
The blanket of a God that loves us enough to let us hate Him
The highest place we can reach on earth,
is kneeling before a God that is not hard to find, but is hard to see.
All I had to do, was look inside of myself.

When you feel weak,
remember that your body is made of the same elements
that you see in a lioness’  fearless eyes
and hear in her echoing roar.
Your voice is just as loud,
it will always be heard.
When you feel weak,
remember that your DNA translates into the same
twenty amino acids that wolf genes code for,
the same ones that hunt like silent shadows,
ghosts children of the moon,
and sink their teeth into silver slivers of the night.
You will find harmony in red blood against
****** white snow
you will snap necks with jaws that open to the stars and sing.
When you feel weak,
remember that you are made of three quarters of the same water
that is carving canyons from stone,
that is beating away shore lines
and swallowing land whole.
Remember that the depths in you are as cavernous
as the bottomless ocean.
When you feel weak,
remember that your faint breaths and your wrenching sobs
fuel forest fires of the same degree
each alike in it’s power,
capable of destroying everything that they touch.
Know that you are the same;
just as fearless in your weakest moments as you are in your strongest.
When you feel weak,
on the mornings that the covers are heavier than the burden on your shoulders,
when the mirror is an enemy and the hole that you’ve dug for yourself
feels like a friend,
remember that diamonds are just carbon,
galaxies are just stardust,
but you
are
so
much
more.

the first time i kissed you,
i tasted salvation.
sweet hymns sang between lingering touches
and my skin burnt with something that looked like heaven,
but felt like hell.
tell me something that will lift the fear from my shoulders
and soon the stale air im breathing in is too heavy in my lungs.
religion is a game of who's story you believe the most.
i feel internal life in your hands
i taste something sweeter than enlightenment on your lips.
and i found myself believing in you as fiercely as if i had found God.

&&&

ink bleeds dry in my veins
the words coiled around my tongue lie still for a moment
the quiet hush of happiness settles in my lungs
and i find myself aching to reach inside of my chest and break my heart again until it remembers what it is to bleed.
there is no beautiful metaphor for the way joy feels coiled beneath your ribs
there is no sonnets written about the steady rhythm of life working itself out again.
i dont beg for his lips on mine anymore
i beg for his fingers digging into my neck
and his cigarette smoke to linger in my hair and stain me for months after.
im no longer yearning to be complete
but im ripping out my stitches and cracking healed bones again
scrambling to find whatever i lost inside of myself.
Saturday night i lay broken on the bathroom tiles
my heart barely fluttering
my eyes too heavy to hold open.
words spilled from my wrists onto pages and i cried out everything i ever felt for you.
sunday morning i woke up in bed again
and i havent felt that way since
blank pages blank mind blank heart
who knew happiness would make me feel so empty

eating disorders are a simile for a coffin.
it hurts to breathe, with 6 feet of dirt pressed on your chest,
6 days of emptiness pressed on your chest.
your mother buried you the day you stopped eating,
your eyes are still open but she does not see past your pale skin,
frail bones,
hollow stomach.
this door does not open from the inside out,
you missed a chance to grab the hand that tried to help you.
if you had known the late nights she spent sobbing over losing you,
before you were even gone,
would you still have chased this emptiness?
the day you lusted for hollowness rather than wholeness,
you squeezed your mothers hand,
and told her to save her love for the living.

eating disorders are a simile for a coffin.
it hurts to breathe, with 6 feet of dirt pressed on your chest,
6 days of emptiness pressed on your chest.
your mother buried you the day you stopped eating,
your eyes are still open but she does not see past your pale skin,
frail bones,
hollow stomach.
this door does not open from the inside out,
you missed a chance to grab the hand that tried to help you.
if you had known the late nights she spent sobbing over losing you,
before you were even gone,
would you still have chased this emptiness?
the day you lusted for hollowness rather than wholeness,
you squeezed your mothers hand,
and told her to save her love for the living.

we lost ourselves in pieces,
because we promised we’d never do it all at once.

1.You’ll lose yourself in someones kisses. When you told yourself that you’d never live for someone else, you didn’t know that today his panted words are the oxygen that is filling your lungs.
2.You’re skin is buzzing and crawling, the trindles of smoke crashing against you hard enough to rock you off your feet. There’s an itch, but its too deep inside of you to scratch. The smoke starts knocking against you again and you being learning how to let the current carry you.
3.Inside jokes become awkward glances in the hall, and the people who used to make us laugh until it hurt, started hurting us for real.
4.Your dad used to push you on the swings. Your barefeet grazing a sky as bright as your future, but now hes anchoring you down, holding you back when your legs are kicking to push off the ground again. The wind tickling those childish feet is turning into mulch spiking splinters into the skin you thought was though, but isn’t tough enough.
5.Your bed has been made since Friday morning. The sheets are cold and the mascara stains in the pillow are starting to fade; because you can’t sleep in the same bed that’s covered by the quilt your grandma sewed when your skin is this *****. The shower stopped washing off your mistakes along time ago.
6.While sleeping in someone else’s bed, you forgot to pray. The sins began building up inside of you, another thing that won’t wash off. You’re done with people turning their eyes from your mistakes, but you aren’t strong enough to ask them to forgive you.
7.You’ve broken too many mirrors, and now you can’t tell the difference between a shattered one and a real one. Because they both shred you apart inside the same way. Those shards sticking in between the gaps of meals and the numbers on the scale and between the layers of your self-worth.
8.The butterflies drawn in the margins of your diary can’t fly as fast as your best friend’s car is down this back road. The stepping stones you leaped across don’t give you the same thrill of flying as unbuckling your seat belt to stick your head out the window and scream against the wind can. The flirt with death isn’t against dragons and monsters anymore, its with the cigarette between your finger and the creatures lurking in the darkness inside of you.
9.The things we promised our friends in middle school, words and childish innocence clutched in our pink palms, were forgotten until we’d cried hard enough to empty everything else from our heads. We lost ourselves in pieces and shed layers of skin until there weren’t anymore to peel away.

time is not your friend.
you figured this end of recovery would taste less like blood,
feel less like the wrong side of the bed.
bitter sweet doesnt even begin to describe your love language,
your bite is as sweet as your kiss.
youve become so fed up with waking up in the morning, you forget that was once what you prayed for.
who is your God?
is it the one you hand the butchers knife,
and lie your head so sweetly on the chopping block for?
or is it the one you turn from and flee,
when love becomes too familiar.

Hi can someone help me figure out how to add my poem to a collection please? I would really appreciate it :)

i watched my mother crack her ribs open to pour out her heart to someone whos love language was violence.
his hands too rough to piece her tender skin back together again.
she pulled my sleeve down over my heart,
and pointed to her bleeding one,
and told me that this is where love will get you.
now i wonder if i'll ever let a boy hold my hand,
with out feeling like my fingers are breaking,
feeling like i can hear my heart screaming at me
i wonder if words of love will ever taste like anything other than poison sliding idly down my throat,
a drawn out pain that settles in the bottom of your stomach
and stirs every time you smile back at him.
i wonder if i'll always be too scared to let myself be pulled apart,
trust me, these inner workings are not beautiful
i get so lonely hiding within myself,
but better to be lonely and whole than lonely and left with half of a heart

He’s going to make you feel like Cleopatra
this is your kingdom
solid gold crown on your head
and you can feel the riches in your veins.
Maybe he didn’t fill your cup with his own wine,
but who’s love were you remembering the taste of
when the poison touched your lips?

I have learned that solitude is a company all by itself.
My emptiness has grown to fill rooms
The sadness on the back of my tongue leaves an aftertaste like a bitter lover.
The day i learned my depression takes up more room than me,
We became friendly.
With a mental illness bigger than the space you carry it in
You learn a lot about how to shrink yourself into something more convenient,
As if your mere existence speaks volumes too many.
Solitude becomes more familiar the longer you spend with it.
And that Solitude has become as familiar as the warm lover on the other side of your bed.
Unzip your skin and step out
to make more room for the anxiety to fit comfortably.
youll leave a bag of skin and bones and misery on the floor.
my mental illness doesnt feel like a hovering shadow,
it feels more like an extra piece of my brain that the doctors overlooked.
tell me again that im just tired,
im just lazy,
im just unmotivated.
id try to draw you a map of my mind but lately its been just static.
maybe it isnt the solitude ive grown used to,
maybe its my elephant in the room,
maybe its the never ending presence of my mental illness in the room,
my overwhelming need to no longer exist in the room.

“when i close my eyes i see constellations.

you promised

you would still be here 
in the morning,

but my fingers close
around 
cold sheets,

and i realize answers
do not lie

in the stars,

they lay in the empty side

of my bed.”

1.ask yourself why
years wasted looking into a shattered mirror,
fingers pricked from reaching for things that slipped between the cracks.
2.whisper apologies to your stomach,
tell it that it is welcome here again.
3.Kiss your hipbones goodbye
and promise to never ask so much of them again.
4.thank your ribs
for as long as you pushed against them they never let you get to what was underneath.
they fought to anchor you back down.
5.mend the skin that is littered with scars
it held you together through years of being ripped apart.
6.tell yourself that it's not overnight,
that the transparent girl with boney fingers that cut into you like knives
will be hovering behind you the rest of your life.
7.hear her whispering numbers into your ears,
8.feel the cranks in your brain start churning again,
9.feel yourself getting lighter and life becomes hazy, you're three feet off the ground and it's colder up here, but it makes you feel more awake-
10.turn them off. everyone relapses.
11.start to realize that she is so hollow because there is nothing valuable inside of her.
12.the mirror doesn't look cracked anymore
13.You realize it was your mind that was shattered.

there are days when i feel myself craving to be a mother.
i let myself flirt with the fantasy of a daughter playing in a field of daisies,
golden curls bouncing like her laughter off of my heart.
the world does not let me forget its presence long.
how daisy are weeds that fool you with their prettiness,
how the universe will fool you into thinking that it is soft.
i tell myself that she will not be like me,
she will not carve out her bones to make room for men who will feast on her soul,
she will not chop off her curls when boys tug on them on the playground.
i imagine any daughter of mine would grow to be a warrior,
tongue sharper than a sword,
soul more powerful than a tsunami wave.
but i will remember this world is not always worthy of the life we bring into it.
that hardening comes from pain,
and that fact will always outweigh fantasy.

.
ink bleeds dry in my veins
the words coiled around my tongue lie still for a moment
the quiet hush of happiness settles in my lungs
and i find myself aching to reach inside of my chest and break my heart again until it remembers what it is to bleed.
there is no beautiful metaphor for the way joy feels coiled beneath your ribs
there is no sonnets written about the steady rhythm of life working itself out again.
i dont beg for his lips on mine anymore
i beg for his fingers digging into my neck
and his cigarette smoke to linger in my hair and stain me for months after.
im no longer yearning to be complete
but im ripping out my stitches and cracking healed bones again
scrambling to find whatever i lost inside of myself.
Saturday night i lay broken on the bathroom tiles
my heart barely fluttering
my eyes too heavy to hold open.
words spilled from my wrists onto pages and i cried out everything i ever felt for you.
sunday morning i woke up in bed again
and i havent felt that way since
blank pages blank mind blank heart
who knew happiness would make me feel so empty