we are Here.
the little red dot
on the map that says,
you are Here.
but it's almost like
undefined territory
on the map, it's almost
like we're on some new
street that's not on
a map yet. our little
Here dot is floating
out in the middle of
the ocean, it's planted
in the middle of
absolute nowhere
and maybe that's
what we are:
nowhere and nothing.

but god, I'm looking at this
map, and I'm looking at you
and I don't care about any
map. I don't care if we're
planted on it, I don't
care if we are Here or
There or Anywhere
because I'm looking at
you, and you have those
eyes of permanence, those
endless pits of dark
abyss that I want to drown
in and this map means
nothing to me because
you are Here and I am
Here and if we are in the
middle of a ******* ocean
I am begging you to dive.

I am discovering and
rediscovering myself
every single day.

some days I am masterpiece
and others I am tragedy.

most days, I find I am both-
my ruins have been tagged
so many times they've become
a mural of memory. all the
love and the loss and the longing
carved into every inch of bone,
sewn into every inch of skin.

some days I look at the architecture
of myself and I swear I should have
been excavated years ago and
some days I'm in awe of what the
wreckage has become.

breathe you in deep
like salty summer air
like cold winter, just
before it snows -
feel you on my skin
all the way into my lungs.

fragile is a matter of opinion.
lace is fragile, but so are bombs.
some fall silently to ruin when
destroyed, some take entire
cities down with them. press
your fingers against my lip,
and maybe i'll crumble. maybe
you won't survive long enough
to know the difference.

one wound heals
and another one opens.

I have grown tired
of this cycle.

i have allowed
too many careless hands
to cradle my soft, scarred heart

none so careless
as my own

one morning
I will wake up
and it won't hurt
anymore.
I will make coffee
and the open windows
won't welcome in
the ache of hazy
daylight.
the ghost of us
will finally be put
to rest and everything
will be alright.

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

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 wish I was one of those
picturesque kind of beauties,
curved and carved and made
of porcelain and painted up
lovelier than any sunrise.
their hearts are pure and
gentle, elegance laced
into every single step.

my beauty is chaos, fueled
by the storm in my chest.
I'm graceless, built by rage
and concrete. I'm the greenish
hue of the sky just before
a tornado and I am the
aftermath, an unrooted
forest strewn across city streets.

sometimes I'm sorry
for the disaster I've hurtled
into your life and sometimes
I wish you'd thank me for
the landscapes I am forever
repainting. I am hell and
I am home and I cannot
undo my weaving. love me
anyway. love my carnage
and my ravaged heart.
I wish I was picturesque
but I will never condemn
the chaos in my blood.

ice in the air, fire on your skin -
the snow hits the ground, thick
and heavy, loud and silent
out of a dark pink sky.
there is a world outside
waiting for us, eyeing us like
we are prey. its tendrils snake in
through the frozen windows, past
curtains and blankets; but for now,
we are safe -  for now all there is,
all there is
*is you.

I am not
your bitterness.

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

i hope it burns
i hope you choke
on every word
i hope it haunts you
i hope it hurts

i hope you get everything you deserve.

rundown rooms
and ***** sheets
the hum of
fluorescence
the flicker
of cheap bulbs
heavy handed
palms i wasn't
ready for

the tv groans
behind us
a sitcom for
a parody of a
romantic moment

you were not
soft or
gentle
or kind -

I felt the greed
in your blood
I felt your need
and I felt
the no die
in my throat.

it hurt
and then
you fell asleep.

felt it in my bones,
the day I met you.
felt the air around us
vibrate a little bit,
like the universe
whispering in my ear,
welcome home.
swept me off my
feet, swept me out of
my mind. took me too
many silent screams,
too many apologies,
too many scars to realize
the universe wasn't
welcoming me, but
warning me. run, babe.
get out of there while
there's still some of
you left. took me
years to realize I wasn't
swept off my feet but
pulled down by the
undertow.

it was a saturday, slow,
an early dark
dripping in my boots
i was a fool
to believe this
might simply end
with a whimper
when endings, for me,
are typically punctuated  
with a bang
a forest fire
a collapsed galaxy

i remember the
ripples of time
spreading out from
my fingertips
and i thought i might die
and it was terrifying
and then it was

silence
peace
a pool of
luxurious
nothingness

and then i was awake
left to wonder how survival
could feel like
such a punishment

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.

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.

he'll wipe the blood from your
chin, tell you you're beautiful
even when your smile splits
from ear to ear. he'll sew your
cheeks back together, tell you
it's okay that your lungs
occasionally collapse and it's
okay that sometimes you
can't breathe, because he'll
fill you with life when you
can't do it yourself and when
you apologize for smearing
your existence all over him,
when you apologize for what
a mess you are, when you
apologize for not being
better, he'll gently take
your face in his palms,
he'll tell you what a beautiful
thing you are, that you're his
mess, and god, baby girl,
you're so worth it.

I was always the girl
to leave before she's left -
but when I left us, you
locked the door behind
me, and it's a different
kind of ache to realize
I had to leave you
behind just as much
as I had to watch you go.

I'm sorry.
I know it
doesn't really
matter anymore,
though.
you're kissing
other mouths,
tracing other
hips - and I
only have myself
to blame.

I took too long
to unbury that
love for you I
thought I'd lost.
I found it in
mouths I
shouldn't have
tasted.

the only
difference is
I found my
way back to
you, and you
made sure to
destroy every
route home.

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?

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

Quiet now, they whisper.
Their fingers are like paintbrushes on my skin
Leaving deep red welts instead of paint smears.
Careful now, they hiss,
Their fingers to my lips and it burns and burns.
I cannot scream, they’ve shoved my sound deep
Into my chest, and it thrums there, boiling and burning
Thrashing like a caged animal.
Still, so still, looking into a black mirror
And the only thing I see is myself;
I can’t help but feel I’m drowning under water
But there is air in my lungs, however harsh it may be.
My reflection stares at me with the blankness of a porcelain doll.
Cold, quiet, smiling in a way that I am not
The body I am in does not smile,
But my reflection does.
She smiles wide and vicious, blinking in deceitful innocence.
And she moves out of the glass, the smoky tendrils
Of her fingertips
Wrap around my wrists, painting all the way down to the bone
And the rest of them silence my screams.

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.

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.

home isn't
home and permanence
isn't permanent
and i'm still waiting
for the boy
who promised
me forever
to make good
on his word
but he's long gone
making home
in someone else
and i'm still here
feeling like an
unwelcome house
guest in my
own bed.

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'm sorry
my broken pieces
cut you,
but I'm not sorry
for the way
I chose to put
them back together.

the thirst
the hunger
the echoes
of thousands of voices
screaming for relief
for patience
for salvation
home
permanence
the secret
wishes of the
mangled hearts
the wrecked spirits
the ones who have
given up
who have made friends
with the shadows
in the corner
made art of the
dandelions in the
sidewalks and the
****** fingerprints
on the window panes

eventually I'll stop writing about you.
I miss you, in a way. I still love you,
in a way. probably always will.
but after awhile, after it sets in,
you will evaporate. you will stop
being in the foreground of my
waking mind. even now, the space
you occupy is so small. more or less
of a habit, I suppose. the habit
of thinking of someone you loved
for four years. you on my mind
is a knee-**** reaction. I guess I
thought since I did the leaving,
it wouldn't be like this. I thought it
would be like ripping off the band-
aid. the residue that's left rinses off
with a little water, a little soap, a little
scrub. oh, no. you are wound. healing,
but still bruised, still sort of aching.
but you are an exit wound now, the
memory of an injury that will come to
pass. someday, you won't even be
background. you'll be the faintest
whisper of somebody I used to know,
a trace of somebody I used to be.

sometimes
I wonder
how much easier
my life would be
if you'd never
touched it.
sometimes
I wonder
if I'd still choose you
if I knew where we'd go.
sometimes
I wonder
who I'd be
without you.
but I know
always I know
I'd choose you
again and again
every time
because even
at our worst
you are still
my best.

I didn't mean to become work,
to cross the line from a hand to hold
to a handful.

I never meant to become the sad girl,
the girl that always invokes the response,
what now?

I'm sorry I need more than anyone can give me,
I'm sorry that I disolve at night,
any time, all the time.

I'm sorry.

it's okay to
hate me now
as long as
you promise to
try to
love me again
later.

i feel it happening.
i feel myself
falling down that
veritable rabbit hole of
feelings and
vulnerability and
you
and that's
a ******* terrifying
thing, just a dangerous
******* place to be
because god knows
if you'll catch me
or you'll just let
me hit the ground.
not even the ground,
it's like tipping
backwards off this
cliff ledge,
not knowing
whether there's
merciful water down
there to catch me
or jagged angry rocks
waiting to rip me
to pieces.

like most things,
you are left on
my nightstand,
unfinished.

stuck in a bad dream,
a loop of nightmares of
losing you and leaving you
and I can't wake up.
I watch myself make
the same mistakes
over and over again.
watch myself ruin all
the things that once made
me so happy. watch
myself lay hands on
everything but you.
I just want to wake up
in our bed, in your arms,
while you kiss my face
and tell me everything
is going to be okay.

i am not sure what this
possession is, what
unholy demon has
taken hold of my skin,
my bones, my everything.

choking me, pushing me
out of my own body,
telling me how wrong it
is, how selfish that i won't
share such a vessel, that
i won't give it to those
who need it more.

she whispers in my mind,
she laces my blood with heavy
hatred and misdirected longing.
she tells me hope is a fallacy
and need is a crutch. she tells
me this life i live is a waste.
that i am waste and oh,
what a shame.

I built my house
with the stones
I found
when I hit
rock bottom.

it's a mess,
but it's mine.

Check your pockets –
No, not those.
Not now.

Someday,
When you’re cold
Or nervous, or bored
And your fingers find their familiar way
Into the pockets of your jeans or your jacket,
You’ll find I’ve left something for you
Little notes I wrote
Over the years
Thousands of them

Every time I thought of you.

I always feel like something's missing.

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.

chains
tethers
the long
lines of
events
we call
fate  &
d e s t i n y.

here, there
is no fate.
no destiny.
only the foretold
ending of ruin.
i can pinpoint
every
little
dot
that got us here,
can see the lines
ahead.
we will never win.
not a single one of us.

my body is an apology,
paying off debts that
I don't owe. my body
is tired, thankless,
an empty pit, a broken
mirror, a monument to all
my sin. a church to save,
but nobody saves me.
they lay me to rest in
my coffin of rot, my pits
of self-loathing and they
leave me there. they
believe I deserve it.

I believe
I deserve it.

say nothing.
write nothing.
hold it all in.
because, it seems,
to breathe life into though
is to lead it
straight to its death.
so just hold it in,
let it incubate in absolute silence.
let it grow, and fester,
until maybe you’re about to burst
with the time bomb ticking in your chest.
my god
how hope kills.

sometimes i ache to be mild,
clear skies and sunshine.
other times i am at peace
being less a girl and more
a natural disaster.

i'm tired of the triage.
i'm tired of bandaging
the wounds of those around me,
i'm tired of the shrapnel and
the pain and the feeling of
helplessness, watching
them burn and bruise
and bleed while i can
only offer bandaids
and well wishes. i'm tired
of sincere apologies that
don't mend the losses
and i'm tired of the tears
that never dry and the
need and the ache and the
void platitudes will never fill.

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.