the storm of disconnect
    mine
        yours

hell and home
meet like
two              sides
of one sea,
split down
the mid      dle;
we're                  beautiful,
they say.
a natural
                           wonder.

the natural wonder of

s e p a r a t i o n ,

they fail to realize,
is night and day,
earth and water.

they don't feel the warmth
of your side, the cold of mine -
the nothingness of     white
and emptiness be t w ee n      u s.

and I can't help but wonder
what is so beautiful about two
hands that will never hold?

I wish my
name had
never fallen
from your
tongue.

maybe there are some of us
who are not meant to be
shared with other people.
we are always too something -
too much, too rough, too
quiet. maybe we are born
solid, instead of in parts. we
are born without soul mates
because we are already whole
on our own.

I keep writing about you.
all these words you don't
deserve, all this time. energy.
space. you deserve nothing
more of me, except maybe
this weight you left me with.
that, you deserve. I don't know
what it is. what links me to
you this way. do you feel me?
do you feel the inecessant
whine of my thoughts? the
childlike nature of it all,
elementary longing for a boy
for a boy for a boy for a
god forsaken pit of all the
things that wrecked me. yet,
here I am. well past midnight,
alone writing about you. they
say writing comes most easily
from broken heart, but mine
isn't really broken anymore.
a broken heart implies love,
and I don't have that for you
anymore. haven't for awhile.
that's not really the problem.
at least if I still loved you, I'd
know why you plague me still.
but I suppose these are questions
that don't have answers. maybe
time still does heal all wounds,
some just much slower than
others. but are you wound? am
I still wounded? I don't feel hurt
when I think of you. just...sore.
you know? how decades old
injuries have healed, but they
still inexplicably ache in the rain?
it's something like that. everything's
healed. these scars aren't pink and
shiny, they're old. almost invisible.
but they ache, sometimes. when
I'm alone. and the you I'm writing
to is the wrong one. the one that
broke me ages ago. the one that
deserves no more of my time. all
the while the you that loves me
sits in the other room, none the
wiser that these words pour
from my fingertips. that my
thoughts are on an old you. and
it's ****** up. I'm ****** up.
and I'm not sure which one of us
is more to blame.

i am not a girl.
i am forest fire,
i am hurricane -
quick and quiet,
leaving miles
and miles of destruction
in my wake. i am
wilderness trails at
blackened midnight,
hidden pockets and
silence and strangeness,
barren trees looking
more like skeletons
and all the things that
make your heart race.
i am broken fences
and unhinged doors.
i am unmade beds
and unlocked windows.
***** bathtubs and
empty light sockets.
i am heaven and earth
and hell and home, i am
the loss that plagues you
and the trauma that
breaks you and i am the
goddess you yearn for
lurking in the clouds.
i am the disgrace, the fallen
angel that makes you
regret not your last step,
but every single one
you've ever taken. i am
the burn and the rage and
i am the forest fire.
the one that licks at your
door and shatters your window.
the one that takes everything
from you, and yet you
still find yourself in the
quiet wreckage afterwards
whispering thank you.

waiting is
familiar, the
particular silence
of night, the
particular stillness
of music as
background to
dark. the hum
of outside and
the plaintive
whine of bathwater
down the drain.
it is the loneliness
of a blue screen,
waking up long
after the movie
finished and everyone's
gone to bed except you.
they leave you like
this, hollow and wanting
and it feels oddly
impersonal - like
leaving you wasn't
a conscious thought
and how improper
that you feel so slighted.
you are afterthought,
not worthy of goodnight
or goodbye or even
a glance on the way out.
you feel the weight
of tepid bathwater
past collar bones
past ribs, past
elbows, past ankles.
it leaks out along with
your hope, your hope
that someone is waiting
for you - it is only
you waiting for the
love you crave, waiting
for the answer to longing
in your bones and the
need that ripples
through your blood. it
is your passion for alone
yet the anguish at alone
and you are alone and alone
and alone and you wait.

burn this house to
the ground if it meant
keeping you out

sink the whole ****
ship if it meant
watching you drown

take this ground away
like an earthquake or
an atom bomb

just to spare the surface
of your existence that feels
something like slaughter.