there's a perfect version
of us
in some far
away universe
and in another
we've never
even met

and there are days
I'm uncertain
which pair
is the luckier

I used to make wishes at 11:11,
I used to pick up pennies,
holding them tight for luck.
I used to believe in fate.
I used to believe that good things
happened to good people.

there's a word for people like that: naive.
because, "the truth is,
baby, the world is a cruel place."
he told me he was saving me,
sort of like saving a suicide
victim from a moving train.

because he told me he loved me,
because he told me the world was mine.
because he told me he'd do anything for me.
and I believed him.

our little hearts break
under the weight of hundreds of years
millions of expectations

and I ask you
will we ever survive this?

our minds are empty
like draining sinks
like dry river beds

and you ask me are we
gonna weather this storm together?

we have nothing – we have I Don’t Know,
and we have
Maybe
If
Never
….why?

it’s never real

it’s an empty sink
it’s dry river beds and
grey soulless stones

it’s holding your hands out to the storm
and coming back emptier
than you ever were before.

the calm rumble
of your heartbeat
against my temple
is enough to silence
a thousand storms

I don't feel real anymore. nothing does. I saw myself deep in the throes of unbridled unconscious and it was terrifying. shapeless, worthless, needless. I can't stop seeing that. it's been hours and hours and I am haunted by that drug-induced vision of nothing. I have been pushed around and forcibly given and taken from for so long that I don't know where I end and everyone else begins. I am what they made me, and I allowed that to happen. I let people hurt me and change me and warp me into this terrifying mess. I feel like it scrubbed me clean of all emotion. I'm empty today, an unfeeling monster, and I can't get push myself out of it. it's made me realize that I don't actually know what feelings actually are. I don't feel them, I feel what I've been told feelings are supposed to feel like. I don't know how love feels. I don't know what happiness is. anger and fear I'm familiar with, but those aren't really emotions per se, just the mask deeper emotions wear and god forbid I ever have the ability to identify those. I am sick. I am lost. I hit that brick wall that holds everything back. the wall that separates me from unremembered trauma and the onslaught of emotion and the shell of a person that I've become. I don't know if I can break it, and I don't know if I want to. depression is already starting to slip back in, and I'm so afraid that if I push against that wall, I won't survive it. I won't come back from it. I'm so afraid of all the things I saw and what I am and I don't know how to fix it. or if I can. or if it'd even be worth it.

I am not worth it.

his fingertips graze my skin
and those few moments are enough
to touch every little
corner of my existence

can we take a moment?
pause.
rewind.
unwind.
we didn't
stumble into
this mess by
accident
and the threads
are so tangled
my fingertips
are bleeding
from trying
to unweave them.
and don't
misunderstand -
we're here
knee deep
in misunderstanding
and I've
never wanted
to be anywhere
else.

i'd give anything
to have you back
but i'd give anything
to never want you
back

got a hundred
a thousand
a million
little thoughts
bouncing
around in this
broken little
brain - tell me
you don't love me,
tell me I should
feel the same.
it's hard to let
go when you're
everything
I know.
the only thing
that's ever held
me down on
these two feet,
even on the
days you knocked
me down
the hardest.

my hands are empty
and I hope to fill them
with yours.

I am need
thirsty want
caverns of
desperation
finite light
and infinite
dark and
thousands
of moments
of undefined
shape I am
something
else I am
a heart made
for taking
exhausted
from giving
or being given
because what
am I but a
buffet line of
substance
for hungry
mouths that
are not mine
to feed

unraveling
slowly but surely
the threads spread
all over the house
you've tripped on them
so many times but
you hardly notice
you hardly notice
how the skin hangs
from my bones now
and you hardly notice
the whisper when i speak
you hardly notice
the threads on the floor
how they spell your name
and how little I have
left to give.

how often I find myself
feeling buried yet I never
find myself a shovel.
I have two good hands
and one rabbit heart
and it's so hard to
find air beneath
water, but I try.
dog paddeling
hard enough that
I never quite sink but
always right on the
cusp of running out
of breath. I find myself
holding paint brush
above canvas but
nothing ever paints
itself the way I see it
in my head and my
words, pen poised
above paper, never
elicit the view of my
mind or quiet the tornado
in my soul.

I always
want
to  slip into you
like a dress
it's a lovely
little dress
but no matter
what i do
it's a bit
too tight
in all
the wrong
places

sometimes I sit
next to the river
watch the rapids,
consumed by them,
and I wish they'd
consume me too.
wash me clean.
wash me away.
either would be
just fine
with me.

they pried us apart with
knives and tweezers,
extracted every last nerve
and so we drift away.
what am I now?
empty vessel?
empty canvas?

I don't think vessel,
I don't think canvas.
I am an emptiness
unlikely to fill, blank
surface unlikely to
become masterpiece.

I'm something like a
balled up note, with things
like "love you" and "don't
forget the milk" written
on it, crumbled up, fallen
out of someone's pocket
long forgotten. words that
mean everything, but
all at once amount to nothing.

I'm a dried up river bed,
full of footprints and animal
corpses. I am empty, I am
devoid of life, I am...
I am nothing.

and you are gone,
fled the moment the
last tie was cut, a pillar
of relief to be free.
once, you were everything.
once, I was everything.
once.

i write about you all the time,
but i almost never keep it,
torn up or deleted,
or saved in some file to be
lost to the abyss of fracture
and finality, where i keep
all my other thoughts
of you.

they gut you, sometimes.
like little fish, like hunted
deer - they don't mean to.
you were the deer they
clipped on the highway,
you were the fish too sick
to release after catch. and
they hold on, they try
to save you. but in the end
the true mercy is the true
end, and so they gut you.

do you understand? did
you see the way I poured
myself out for you? an
ocean of love and want and
need, and it was just food
for the dirt. I ripped myself
open, you ripped me open,
and now this carcass needs
disposal. I don't imagine
I'm worth a wake, hardly
a moment of silence. the
trash heap out back seems
to be a nice enough
place.

i'm stuck
(again)
hoping for
something
to get better
(again)
and i'm left
sitting alone
praying for
escape
praying for
relief
praying
(again).

maybe it's different.
sometimes it feels
like an entirely
different skin;
sometimes it feels
like the i washed
the old one with something
new and bright
red, and it's almost
a convincingly new shade
but it's still got all
the same holes,
the same tatters as
the last one.

i'm so scared of
getting stuck in the
same rut, of wasting
so much of my life
i could have been using
to be happy.

but maybe i am not
meant to be happy
maybe i am destined
only for suffering
for loss and loneliness.
maybe i will only ever
find this nothingness.
this desperation for meaning.
i don't know.
i don't know.
(again)
i don't know.

sometimes losing
what you once thought
you could not stand to be
without
means finding
the things you never
knew you needed.

this is a losing battle.
this is me, putting down my weapon
and removing my armor
because I cannot stand the
blood pooling at your feet.
this is my surrender because
my wounds are far too deep
to continue this fight.
we will never find common ground,
we will never be eye to eye.
and in this war, victory is losing you
and defeat is losing my life.
which is the nobler sacrifice?
because here, there are no victors.
there is only bloodshed and massacre.

nothing is permanent.
but then again,
nothing is permanent.

every day
***** the air out of my lungs
a little more

and I wonder how
much longer
they expect me to keep going
like this

suffocating with a smile

equations
where variables and numbers
and letters find themselves
meaning -
yet we do not.
unsolvable equations,
where your x and my y
never add up to z
where z is grace
and z is perfection
and z is comfort
but these are just
unreal fantasies
these are just irrational numbers
going on and on and on
far off into infinity
because no matter how hard we try
your x and my y
will never be z.

hungry little heart
thirsty for love you
haven't ever tasted

thinking it's so sweet
like chocolate and lavender

but i'll tell you this, the
aftertaste is bitter and black
and it's the only thing you'll taste

for centuries.

I drink my brain
into coma
so maybe
I can get some
silence
some rest in
the catacombs
of my soul
I drink because
maybe this
time I will wake
up from some
years long
dream a better
version of mysef
or someone
entirely new
I drink and
it hurts

tender little fingertips
too afraid to let go -
tracing at the frail
lines of your bittersweetest
existence.

and they'll tell you
to wait it out
to let it be,
let you sink
while demanding
you rise beyond
hand-drawn lines.

chest is a graveyard
full of the ghosts of all
those that i have loved;
every rib bone a eulogy,
fingertips a prayer.
you'll find me on
my knees, begging
for forgiveness, for
rebirth - untying
every nerve, disconnecting
every bone. undress
this body, bare this
soul and you'll find empty
canvas, empty promise,
empty glass.

comes out when you're
quiet, when you least
want her - fingers. claws.
the blood drips down
your thighs. the
rumbling of your
mind become shouts,
become cries. she feels
like drowning, she feels
like trying to pull yourself
out of a cement mixer.
feels like the rain and
hail and blocks
and blocks of locked
doors and blinds
pulled tight.

fingertips pried my ribs apart
invited themselves in
with malicious whispers
of belonging, the kind that
make lonely hearts beat.
made a mess of the
pretty girl, the nightmare
in a white dress.
made myself a throne,
heir to my own wreckage.
crown of broken glass
and bloodstains, and
you wonder why
my kingdom is in shambles.

do i miss you?
i miss a lot of things.
i miss the sound of the garage door
of the house i grew up in.
i miss the toughness
of the acres of yellowing
grass bruising my baby feet.
i miss the smell of chlorine early
in the morning and the
sound of the windchimes in the
late evening.
i miss the sound of the front door
of my first apartment,
i miss the creak of the wood floors
in the old house,
i miss the late nights and the
fearlessness of being 22, 23, 24.
i miss a lot of things that were
impermanent milestones,
and i left them behind
when the  time came.
so when you ask if i miss you,
the answer is yes,
in the same kneejerk
way you miss all the things that
once mattered.

a dance of sorts,
caught in a driftless sea.
fragments of memories
and the people
we used to be.

i think
i made you
too
much
space

when i let you in

i think in trying
to let you make yourself
at home

i gave you
real property

put your name
on the deed.

you
don't live there
anymore

don't visit
don't write
     and that's okay

we've long since
gone our
separate
ways

parallel lines

different
people

but what a greedy thing
to do

leaving
like that

but still keeping
your little plot of land.

you tear me apart
piece by piece
yet how peacefully
you sleep

the cracks in the sidewalk
outside my window have begun
to fill with sprouts, with
little tendrils of green
stretching out of the chasms,
a promised exchange of light
for colors

and maybe i'll plant tulips in
the cracks that have splintered
inside of me, maybe i'll fill them
with gold paint

maybe one day i will be a garden
maybe one day i will be a work of art

it's okay
i'm still here

doodling on napkins and
writing a line or two in a notepad

never committing
to much of anything or anyone.

i'm not sure exactly when it all emptied out,
all the words, all the ideas, all of me.

nothing paints the canvas in my mind
anymore.

i can only write so many poems about
heartbreak and trauma

and all the ways i've been torn apart
the last couple years.

it gets old, even for me.
but recovery is long and lonely

and sometimes it's just wide open desert
for miles
and miles.

sometimes I love you
is an empty bed
and heavy silence

sometimes I miss you
is cold shoulders
and empty hands

sometimes I'm sorry
is a lonely night
and a lonelier morning

sometimes I love you
is more hurt than heart
more ache than adored.

--

where is the line
between worth it
and walk away?
I always think I'll
know, and sometimes
I know I will never
make the right choice
because your mouth
says so many good
things, even when
it's saying the worst
things.

sometimes I understand
when people tell you
you can't love someone
if you don't love yourself
because you don't know
where that line is of enough
and too much and just right
and that terrifies me.

love isn't always enough
and I don't know how to
make that picture whole
in my head, where love is
right and where love isn't
enough.

push us together
                                  pull us apart

a grief
a gift
a collision of moments

do you have any idea?
do you think they said
hello
to each other

on the way out,
on the way in?

do you think maybe
it was never supposed to be mine

always meant
to be yours?

i lost my heart
somewhere back there
trudging along,
knee-deep in mud
and anger. you were
my guiding light,
a false prophet,
leading me deeper
into the void and
telling me, so gently,
that we were on the
cusp of paradise. and
honey, you spoke like
an angel - whispered words
of honey and agony, and i
hung on every sip.
drawing me in with
tightly laced tendrils
of poison, whole body
ravage, an uninvited
suicide. i don't exist
anymore, not sure i ever
did. parts of my dissolved
along with my heart,
shriveling into contorted
reality. watching myself
slip away into the
ether - watching your
diligent mask slide
off, fat chunks of
rotten meat and when
i saw your face i was
not filled with regret.
only mourning for the
heart that was once in
you. the heart long ago,
like mine, shriveled by
a hungering, false prophet
desperate for the next victim.

and now i watch him
hanging on my words the
way i once did yours and
i wonder what kind of
bullet it takes to ****
the devil.

dripping
from the wrist
ink
blood

i tried
i tried
to write
to you

i swear
i tried -

i'm sorry
will never
be enough

goodbye
will never
close the
door

the blades
never sever
the ache

the pen
never
carves anything
but your
name

those little words,
and the ones
that came after -
I'm sorry
I made you wait.
your hands in
my hair,
your hands
at my waist -
*but I know
I'm sure.

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.

love becomes
afterthought
a heartless
endeavor,
a knee-****
response,
becoming
synonymous
with goodbye
and hello
until the word
hello fades
from memory
and the last
I love you
is your last
goodbye.

I dream about magic.
about bending time
and undoing the strings
of mistakes that land
me here every night,
the ocean of regret
and longing.

I dream about the
drifting, the days
I spent pushing you
away and the night
I spent falling into
the wrong arms.

my favorite dream is the
one where we go to bed
together, where
we should have been
all along.

that's the dream. the
longing is the nightmare.

sometimes you can't just walk it off.
sometimes you have to rebreak the bones
before they'll heal right. sometimes
you have to sew the cuts closed
and sometimes you pick the scabs over
and over again before the itching stops.
sometimes they become faint scar,
injury really only you can see. sometimes
the scars are so thick and dark that
they become the most noticeable part
of your body.

sometimes we heal.
sometimes we don't.
sometimes we say goodbye
over and over to the ghost
in the mirror, watching the
scars deepen with every
desperate breath.

I am not
your bitterness.

undress
peel the layers
of skin

find the name
of every boy
carved into a
rib

the bones are like
flower petals
the blood like
a river

fed it the lavender
heat of want
and neglect

paint it on your
skin the war paint
of trying too hard

of giving up

find her in pieces
each and everyone
with your name on it
only yours
only yours
only yours

she pried every rib out
years ago, used them
to burn at the alter
of every loss and

every longing
and she still holds onto
the ribbons used
to connect you

the one you untied
years ago

left my body
in shallow river
and city
grew from
these bones

quiet
pops and
bubbles
the burns and the
flesh the anger
the quiet
memory of
moments
feelings of
rightness of
balance
that aren't
there anymore
whispers of what
used to mean
okay
and not
okay anymore
not
okay