dont you think it is time
to forgive yourself for
only breathing in
half of the air
your lungs begged for

you already know
they took the other half from you
and it is not your fault

but breathe in again
forgive yourself
fully this time

i want to see you make it to the finish line
while they breathe only half of the air now
-- for the air you took away, was always yours
you have always had the potential to heal

do not let them have
the air

cloud vs. a silver lining
important not only in daily life
but through sickness and health

my mother sat down on our living room couch and looked me dead in the eyes after her chemotherapeutic shot. she told me she sat down in the oncology patient room, waiting for her round for the month. she said it depressed her. she said the nurses were anything but compassionate when they loaded her up with medicine. a painful sting coasting through her veins. she never unlocked her eyes with mine, until she told me that the nurse smiled at her and said, “at least now you can get a new set of *******”! I can tell she was hurt. she couldn’t do this, her health wouldn’t allow for it. she told me she was crushed, that it was a cloud. I thought about this for a long time. I thought about the clouds that others added into her life. “at least they caught it early”, “at least you’re alive now”.

I looked for a silver lining. something to let her know that clouds pass. that winds blow away the grey. that the weather is never unchanging. that she was strong. I looked her in the eyes once more and told her I loved her. not that I was happy that she was still here. not that one day she may be able to watch me walk down the aisle, or hold my child. not that I was sorry or felt for her. just that I loved her. and she smiled at me, a genuine smile. not beaming with happiness, but a little spark showed through all kinds of pain.

love, that’s her silver lining. so that’s mine too.

the uncanny feeling wells up inside
my chest
bursting along with a thousand butterflies
this is not a happy day, and we knew this
was creeping
crawling
awaiting to arise in the
awkward silence and steadiness of the
night
you’re gone

its funny, i sit here most of the time with metaphorical phrases churning in my head as i write. everytime i sit down to create i feel thousands of gears turning in my head.

sure, i’m real when i write. my passion lies here, my heart the same. but to me, maybe writing in metaphors is a way to mask a little bit of the hurt, a little less real then telling the truth.

it takes a lot of bravery to go back in time and reflect, to create poetry. writing takes you to a place, not always light. not always beaming with happiness. and i appreciate that. i appreciate the pain that poets go through everytime they relive, rewrite. because it should be. i know that.

i think that’s why i sit here, hurting most of the time. i think, wow, the one thing i love to do hurts. and that’s why i’ve been wanting to write about you and so many others. those who have escaped me. those who have stood by my side. maybe through my own selfish mistakes. maybe by their own demise.

every person that enters or exits my life has been written about. be that in my soul, on paper, or displayed on a computer screen. you’re there. and that’s pretty ******* special because its nice to be seen. i can’t tell them in person how much they meant to me, because i’m simply not good enough at doing that, i mean cant you see? i crave acceptance in all aspects of my life, and i am too fragile emotionally to let them know what i really mean.

for me to sit here, to dig, to romanticize, demonize, glorify. willingly be vulnerable with myself and others, it’s a lot. i’m nobody to be pitied, not by a long shot. no poet is and that’s not what we look for. just harmony, balance and not too much more. it is something that writing gives us. because the pain of retelling the latter and the late is almost worth the harmony that the release brings to create.

maybe aspects of myself have been lost throughout the years, but one thing remains. my writing. my poetry, my endless drafts, and journal entries stained with fallen tears that could be around for centuries. they tell my story. of you and everyone else who has left a mark on me. i am who i have been given and THAT is what i mean. what i have been given will forever be apart of my writing, therefore, a part of me.

this is a tribute to poets everywhere, as they caress their soul. as they mourn themselves in even the brightest of times even as they grow old. when they reminisce on the nostalgia of greater moments through rhymes. but most of all, this is a tribute to me as i strive to make myself feel. even if it’s anything less than alive.

the crook in my mothers arm, the shadow of my fathers figure, the rhythmic cadence of breathing.
it was stitched together with strings of comfort to create a creature of unusual habits.
the shadow was never once afraid of the turning pages and the crook was transitioning to a state of playful wincing.
black teeth and ink stains run along attire from chewed words and twisting metaphors.
dry definitions of glued together meanings of the less lonely.
remember, give vivd contrast to stained windows and dusted fleshly faces within each page turn, but let shadows overrule the light and rooms fill with silence.  
why gorge the darkness on a substance less likely to harm the living?
minds deteriorate quicker than flesh after all, and bodies were not built for fear,
so build the strength while you have it.
folding words like origami and stretching beyond the sick feeling of failure, you lived.
you cannot write about what you don't feel and heavy weather cannot stop a driver from reaching a destination.
vitamins were only long stings rolling down internal skin,
after all, you were always sick anyway.
coming to this realization,
suddenly,
my eyes were playfully wincing and the black teeth and ink stains that remained on my body,
while i gave vivid contrast to the rejuvenated definition of the less lonely.
and i liked the silence.

september came and went
and the dew fall
steady fell to the
wilted blades of
grass - to mimic
my soul sinking
under the
season's change

i give praise to
the weather
as it so confidently
shift-shapes - boldy
and on time - as
i whisper jealous
praise toward
its consistency

while i know it
is reliable and approaching
i still wish the planet
would coddle me
and defy its
punctual drift
to make me feel like
i am caught up with
where i desired to be by now

maybe if it did i would
feel less guilty for not moving
forward with it

but

september came and went
and while my body is still
in season my heart is left
in the warmth of june

my fingers are
still absorbing the
heat from the sun
as it solemnly
waves goodbye
and fearlessly falls
away - i tell september
not to wait for me this time

ill catch up next year

if i could have given you the world
you would have lived forever
but love cannot maintain life
love is truly not enough
and this is the biggest lesson i have learned

i think phrases like
it wasn't meant to be
is a coping mechanism
because it is easier to spit out words
than to accept the truth
and the sun still rises
no matter what the truth is
and we are all trying to live

even if that means ending life
you forever will be
my everything
and I will run to you (always)

i often fail to conceptualize and compartmentalize the past
it so willingly invades my present and makes a reality here

I always had a way of romanticizing my life
Which sounds really lame and probably
A little childish
But I didn’t leave my dress up shoes behind
When I started my period or
Grew into a new body  
In fact now saying it out loud
I don't think I could leave behind those
Pink, plastic Cinderella shoes
I mean honestly
Just that intangible item makes me think
That ill never really GROW into who I really want
To be
And it's not that I'm trying to victimize myself for
Making the choices that I made
See
I gave up my innocence the moment
I let a man undress me
Who would never be my knight in shining armor in
Fact he wasn’t even a frog  
Or much of a charmer
he was the epitome of my
Self doubt
And thats where those fairytale ending got it all wrong

"The Princess Saves Herself in This One"  
Is a nice title but I don't want to save myself
Because if I fall while doing that
Im afraid the cement won’t catch me -
Like seriously I struggle to just put a book
Back on the shelf
And my apartment is never neat
and at the same time I call myself a clean freak
I feel like my head runs a million miles an hour
And at the same time I cant even decide what time of the day to Shower
And speaking of that don't get me started on my workout
Routine I have almost an entire novel written in my
Head about how I want to be seen
And ill never be seen like those
Girls in the pictures
"You're losing weight"
But
"Honey you just look sicker"
I want to scream and cry but at the same time
Be up at 6am to go work at a job
That I physically cannot stand
My rings never close
But hey I'm always on time
Because maybe if I get there early
I can go run and hide
In the back where nobody will see me
Because I don't have Cinderella shoes or a Gucci bag
To carry at my side
I have ***** converse sneakers that I wear everyday
And half of the time I just want to give up
Because if I catch myself in the middle of a crowd
I need to know how I'm going to get out
Or else I feel like I will crumble
In front of everyone around me

And thats not the way a lady should act
You need to keep your chin up and
Arch your back
You need to
Present yourself well and always smile
Because its unattractive
To be "CRAZY"
And you ask me why I'm hostile?
And make sure you run that extra mile
Because if my thighs touch while I walk
The knight in shining armor will have too much grab
Be sensitive and kind and for Gods sake
Hide that flab
And listen those
Converse sneakers need to be retired
Because in the eyes of a proper woman
Those would never be admired
I guess this doesn’t really sound poetic right?
But it would just be so be pathetic if I didn’t write
About that girl that I think about
Who played dress up everyday
And wonder how I let her slip away

Because I know theres nobody really there to save me
Im not someone to be pitied I was
Handed a silver spoon the moment my mother
Took her last push and
Let me into the world as a proper lady
And another day will start and maybe just maybe
It’ll be the day that I throw out all the chocolate in my cabinet
And not spend 40 dollars on drug store makeup
To make me feel more compassionate
About myself and the little girl who’s dad told her she was beautiful everyday
Maybe it will be the morning I can look in the mirror without dismay
About how my stomach sticks out just a little farther than I want it too

So thats why ill keep romanticizing my life
Ill keep telling myself that a morning routine will fix all my problems
And ill stop reading all the magazine columns
About celebrities that I really don't even give a **** about

Maybe when the sun rises tomorrow
I won’t care about how many calories I eat
Or switch out my bread to whole grain or wheat
Like really maybe I'll finally clean up the crumbs
I keep stepping on every time I walk into my door
To remind me that who I am is so much more
Than a pair of ***** converse shoes
That ill never throw away because I don't want them
To to waste in a landfill where my pink plastic
Cinderella shoes probably still lay

And I think its funny that more than ever
I can rearrange words in a sentence to make myself sound  
More clever and cover up the hurt
That I might feel for not being the brightest and best
and no ill never forget those little tuts and my dress
And the knight in shining armor can finally see
That his princess wears
***** converse shoes
And maybe then I'll finally feel pretty
I don't need to be what everyone says I should be
Because truly theres bruises on my knees
From falling so ******* the cement by myself
And I promise I finally put that book back on the shelf
But for now I just want to lay down on the couch
And not think about my little smooch pouch
Ill never be what society wants to see
But the little girl
In cinderella shoes
Will choose to be happy
For now and  
Until tomorrow
Ill romanticize my life
And stop wallowing in self pity and

Cinderella’s sorrow

rays steady shine
& radiate into my bedroom
earlier than usual this season
they say the warm season is one
of new life, nourishment, flourishing
but summer is even more sad

the summer reminds me of the feelings
that will not change even with the seasons
at least the winter mirrored the way
i feel inside
the irony is uncanny
i say i hate winter
but im beginning to think it is my favorite season
because i relate to winter

i dont relate to sunshine

i had been blind before
but never like this
i knew you had engulfed my soul
the moment i felt my heart shatter
and my lungs collapse
at your absence
how lucky am i
to have something
that drowns my
chest into a sullen
nostalgia when you are away
your touch ignites my senses
and i would
climb mountains
and dare
to touch the moon
just so i could extend your hand
out to mine in this very moment

the very sound of your name
makes my heart flutter
and i crave you when you are gone
more importantly
i long to stop time
when you are near because
i simply cannot bear
saying goodbye to you
countless times over

i thought i had been in love before
but he has taught me
that i have never witnessed love
not a love like his
not a love
that makes me speak to soon
and shatters the walls i have built up
around me

this is the fairytale little girls
dream about
and how lucky am i
to be so painfully broken
in the midst of pondering
losing him

keep me blind, i am happy here
if i see again
without these fresh eyes
i fear all colors will be lost

without you

steady love holds me
in the night when
vivid dreams
turn to melancholy

i feel my brain waves
humbled by you
in the dead of night
as you hold me
it feels like
music notes
dancing across my eyelids
treble, bass, treble

steady love grounds me
when sun greets the sky
and though you put on
a dress shirt and shoes
and walk out the door
your touch still reaches me
slow, tender, soft

steady love stays humble
as it teaches me kindness
like i had never received or
reciprocated before
like the moon cycle it meets me
half, full, whole

steady love breaks down
my walls and shatters my
anger whist patience engulfs me
as i don’t cry on the floor like i did before
you take my tears and turn them to
peonies and remind me of spring
breath, wind, air

steady love makes me tremble
as i imagine it leaving me
something to hold onto
while you are gone
with the reassurance that it will
come back through the door
stay, click, lock

steady love leaves me speechless
i have found my hope
i can’t leave now because
there is nothing greater off
earth than

steady love

you, me, always

this morning i looked at myself in the mirror
i still had makeup on from the night before
my hands were cold
my feet were grounded
its funny, ive never been able to see through other people
but as i stood, alone, in silence
i heard the buzz of the bathroom light
and i saw right through myself
---  the only one who really knows me
--- the only one in the whole entire world
that i can see through completely
and i didn't know if that was terrifying of beautiful

I stopped losing my hair and I started waking up again
I returned to a mundane routine
In a similar place with similar people
I found reprieve in the love that was given to me daily
And I stopped feeling sorry for myself
I started pouring my soul into my career
Because people need me
People count on me
I have a dog now and I pay all my bills
I smile at the sun and breathe in the air that is so
Graciously given to me everyday
I clean up when there is a mess and I check in on my father
I make sure my appearance is presentable and I take care of my body
I love my friends and I keep up with phone calls
I thank when there is thankfulness to be given and I am humble
When achievements are made
I hold on to memories and I cherish the good ones
I bask in nostalgia and I stare at the sunset
I look up at the birds and I appreciate their songs
I thank them for waking me up and silencing when I am sleeping

I take care of myself and I -

Cry when I am alone
I try to keep up when I am behind I-
Struggle to find my purpose, and I actually don’t really sleep
I return to my mundane routine because
People need me?
And in the back of my mind I know that I am easily replaced
My career is advancing in a way to attempt to succeed
In a world that is so disappointed in less than ordinary
I clean up when my mind is so distressed from the weeks of mess that
I so solemnly swore would never appear again when I was in crisis
I’m presentable but it was from the night before
I “bare minimumed” the expectation
Which surprises me when it is so deceiving to others
I have three maybe four good friends that check in
I give what others would expect
I pay when I can, and I keep my workouts at a point where I don’t choke on my own sadness, maybe even selfishness
Nostalgia is interpreted as pain these days
I self medicate to wake up for others
And call it a day.

I hold onto to memories that haunt me
The birds make me jealous
And sunsets only remind me that a new day will start.

And I am tired.

my house is not my home
until those who I adore
fill the space I so genuinely
despise when it is
empty
just as a body may exist
to be a home for paradoxical
heartbeats - human and souls perhaps -
as they coexist to mold experience
all locked up in memories
a time capsule of individuality
a genuine tribute to wisdom as we grow
all unique and beautiful

but most importantly a memoir of the most subtle happenstances
the perfect collage

my body exists in my house
but it does not live until human experiences
all locked up collide together
they make it home
we say “its the little things”
dents in hardwood, a broken door hinge

(youll fix it one day)

they make the space less expensive
the collage more understandable
less extravagant, more extraordinary
I hope and I pray that when my eyes wearily
open on a Tuesday morning
and I pull at my hair while looking in the
mirror
that I can recreate the feeling of wholeness
one day of a true home for myself
that is not simply physical  

I will forever laugh at the mess
I will be honored to clean it up
how lucky am I to have something so
beautiful because

at the end of the day
we are all just
walking
each
other

home

i remember the night
my soul left my body
in utter agony

like thousands of
tiny pin ******
driving into every nerve
of my body

i gripped my hands onto my chest
to feel my heart racing
and my blood running cold —

i buried my body into the
bed i used to share with you
and i poured tears
onto my pillowcase
and let the sheets run damp
for days —

i picked myself up
after those days turned into weeks
and i vowed to never
let anyone in that close again

i would never wish that pain
on anyone except back onto you

because you shattered me

i was left with nothing
while you had everything
i was left with nobody
while you had everybody

and i will never get back
the part of my soul that you
stole when you walked away

you still make my
stomach turn
and now that she finally has you
after digging her claws into me
and finally ripping you away
i hope they all realize

every lie you told
is laid out in front of them
so they can finally see

that when you called me crazy
it was really you all along

and i ******* hate you

i

hate you

within the night comes
tremulous forms of
soul flooding heartache

those thoughts of which are
often unspoken when the sun rises
and the day begs you to partake
in another anguishing routine
of here and there, hello and goodbye

within those moments i admire those
that can roll a feeling off of their shoulder
as they agree with the skyline and
happily hold out their arms --
much like a wavelength of gratitude
accepting the flood that they will
overcome on their own

however, in these moments in which
one recognizes the complexity
of their own consciousness
it is evident that one thing
must remain in a world full of
anguish and demise

that being love
where a night may then offer
a tinge of sunlight
so that the dawn may then
ease into another day
and pain of tomorrow
would be a quite
happy here and there
hello and goodbye

to know and to be certain that you exist
in someone else's world
minutes or hours away
is incredible - yet completely illogical.

to know and to be certain that someone thinks of you
when you're not there is an absurdity - and yet entirely wondrous
even then, still, your fingers ache to grasp the intangible reality
of revelation as to when and where your two worlds will collide again when you are apart.

and upon that collision
will there be time to stand and watch the seasons change?
or will it move like lightning - in seconds it is gone
and you have missed it.

will days be weary from verbal abscission or will hours be shortened
by love's implicitly?
furthermore, will night's be stormy from words left unsaid
or will minutes be lengthened by confluence of two souls?

those moments
when souls are bonded
when their eyes find yours
when your breath catches
when your voice falters in your throat
those moments
when their lips press against your skin
when your eyes close
when your hands clasp
and your heart hammers
those moments when

you cant tell whose heart is is synching with who's -
those are the moments you crave.

there is nothing more innocent than someone who can stop you in your tracks with a wave - and take your breath away with a smile, jumpstart your heart with a word, and ignite a fire in your stomach with a kiss.

the absurdity of those moments is incredible - yet completely illogical.
so tell me, what does it really mean to be certain?

“you’re so beautiful”
he said through his teeth
with his head cocked to the side
like a child after a scolding
nothing he said resonated as true
because he couldn’t choose
he couldn’t choose me

“i don’t feel like it”
i said stone cold sober
with a guarded heart
like an ancient wall about to crumble
but preserved through time
remembering i never deserved to be
someone’s second option
especially after years of always being
the first

“come back to me and you’ll feel like it
everyday”
he cockily pleaded
as if he knew it would be
the last words he said to me
in a long while
or maybe even the last time he said it
at all

i sneered and he threw me over his shoulder
and i laughed and screamed
like an innocent
like the past five years were not just a
memory of us
but
we were always meant for hurt

then he walked out the door for the last time
and i went to sleep
and dreamt of new beginnings
and caressed closure

and i felt beautiful
because i wasn’t chosen

they say you die twice
once when your heart stops
and twice the last time you are remembered
by someone

its most like
hearing something you weren't supposed to
and nobody knows you heard

but you still think you'll die once then
and maybe thats for the best
because for you
other peoples memories are just
ghosts
and you didn't really want to be remembered anyway
at least, not in the way they did

you are simply
the beginning and the end.
i am not morbidly mourning my own self destruction,
but i had forgotten my priorities when i first had laid eyes on you.
simply, the innocence of my being had been lost because every pore had been filled with the presence of yourself. it is incredibly challenging to explain the exasperating and overwhelming draft you add to the room.
like a casting call
for your own role - identity.
god i could play it over and over again.
like a torn up passion
sprinkling its own grace over the particular stereotype.
like those films and stories of love and deep movement.
you are simply the blindness that i feel
to all of my surroundings
that inevitably keeps me from recognizing
the beginning and the end
of myself.

you make me feel unworthy of love.
incapable of fulfilling
manipulative expectations.
you make me feel lonely.
half instead of full.
you make me feel
like I am not good enough.
for you and others around me.
you make me feel terrified
of other’s intentions when
I couldn’t give them a chance myself.
you make me feel like I am inferior.
that you stand on the top of the ******* world
without even knowing it.
you make me feel like
I am unstable.
and that others notice it too.
you make me feel sad.
you make me feel small.
you make me feel like
I can never be touched by another.
adored by another.
cherished by another.

you make me feel unloved.
and it feels wrong.
but without you
I don’t feel.
you make me feel.
just not in the ways I
deserve to.

i didnt know how to start writing again  
because i didnt know how to write about you
in a way i hadn’t before

but then i learned that you were no longer my muse
and writing was more beautiful without you

of hurt that i feel alone in the middle of the night
is mine anymore
i know it's not yours
or yours that you inflicted on me
nothing that belongs to me belongs to you anymore
this kind of hurt runs deeper than this
a hurt that is permanently encrypted
into the cracks in my soul
i want to scream because it is
one that i know i
cannot fix
one that i cannot
even put into words

and i can put
anything
into words

It starts with a word I can barely pronounce.
Primary. Biliary. Cholangitis.
It sounds clinical.
Clean.
But the truth of it is messy.
It’s in the yellow tint of her eyes,
the persistent itch that breaks her sleep,
the tired that drapes over her like a second skin.

It’s a slow erosion.
Not a storm, not a flood—
but a river that carves away at her liver,
cell by cell,
quiet and cruel.

I was just a daughter.
But illness turns you into more.
A researcher.
A translator of test results.
A calm voice in the chaos of hospital rooms.
A silent witness when she cries in the dark,
thinking I’m asleep.

I learned to watch her hands—
how they shook after bloodwork,
how they steadied when she braided my hair anyway.

I learned to memorize the rhythm of her breath,
so I could sense the shifts,
the nights her body betrayed her more than usual.

I hated the word “chronic.”
It means forever.
But not in the romantic way.
Not like a love story.
Like a sentence.
Like something you survive instead of live.

She tried to protect me from it.
But I saw.
I saw how she rearranged her pain behind a smile.
How she rationed her energy to make dinner,
even if it meant lying down halfway through.

I saw how strong she was.
Not the kind they write about in books,
but the kind that gets up
after falling apart
in a a hospital bed
quiet but intense on
her own.

Being her daughter means walking beside her,
but never fully understanding what her body feels like
from the inside.

It means Googling treatments at 2am and
Asking doctors the questions she was too tired to form.

It means feeling rage at a disease
you can’t punch,
can’t bargain with,
can’t scream at until it backs down.

But it also means knowing love differently.
Not the easy kind.
Not just the birthday cake kind.

But the holding her hand in waiting rooms kind.
The learning to administer meds kind.
The reading her silence kind.
The sitting with fear kind.

She is still my mother.
And I, still her daughter.
But illness taught us a new language.
One made of glances,
and touch,
and an ache I carry in my own body
even when I feel fine.

She was fighting something I cannot see.
But I see her.
And I will not look away.

there is a scar on my forearm
where pain once opened a door I never meant to walk through.
and just above it—
there is ink.

not to cover,
but to honor.
not to erase,
but to rewrite.

a brain and a heart,
entangled.
not in opposition—
but in conversation.
connected by wires,
or maybe veins,
or maybe something holier than either.

I used to think I had to choose—
logic or love
rationality or feeling
selflessness or survival.

but I was trained in the gospel of self-erasure.
taught to anticipate everyone else’s needs
before I ever learned to ask myself:
“what the hell do you need?”
and even if I had asked,
the answer would have caught in my throat,
choked out by guilt
and the ghost of obligation.

because I was supposed to be
the good daughter,
the emotional translator,
the fixer of moods,
the feeler of everyone else’s feelings.

they called it kindness.
“you’re too nice”.
I called it exhaustion.
because how do you think for yourself
when you’ve only ever been rewarded for disappearing?

and every time I tried to speak,
to set a line in the sand,
they said I was dramatic,
ungrateful,
too much.

I am not too much.
they just asked me to live in too little.

it isn’t just ink.
it’s a reclamation.
it says:
“I won’t keep bleeding quietly
just so you don’t have to see your reflection in the mess.”

it says:
“I have boundaries now.
not because I hate you.
but because I finally want to love me.”

I have spent years
reading rooms like scripture,
absorbing tension like oxygen,
offering versions of myself
tailored to everyones comfort
and calling it connection.

but I’ve learned—
connection without truth
is just performance.
and I’m done auditioning
for love that demands I amputate parts of who I am.

they said balance was something you find.
but I bled for mine.
I built it
nerve by nerve.
word by word.

now I wear ink on my skin
not for show,
but for remembrance.

it is my altar.
my vow.
my refusal to be edited
just to keep someone else’s peace.

because I am not the wound.
I am what grew beside it.

a wire runs
from synapse to sigh,
from heartbeat to hypothesis—
and I am the bridge,
living in the middle.

but remember - lauren -
tattoos disgust me.