I know that things didn't turn out perfect.
And I know that falling for me wasn't quite in your plans,
not like you counted on all these wounds representing your lovin
but I don't want you to miss out on something worth holding
between the moments of should I go back or look ahead.

Because if I didn't love you, you would know.

I haven't gone to my apartment yet.
I've been sitting in my car listening
to all the decisions bounce off the guardrails I've constructed
on the edges of my brain
where it haphazardly connects to my heart.

You held me the other night.
Lips pressed to my neck,
pulling the sheets overtop us like a shadow
that only you could create with trying to hide
the parts of me I didn't like.

I don't want to steal a chance from you,
because love shouldn't be selfish
and I know that giving up any ties you had to my side
would let you be free enough to let me go.


"You can be mad in the morning,"
you used to tell me
"but don't leave me now. "

Because if I didn't love you, you would know.

I've been pressing on the lines the leather makes
in my driver's seat
trying to count the stitches until the numbers add up
crooked like your spine feels
after some backwards bending over my mistakes.
I know I'll never know forgiveness.

That's why I have to break the bond you have on me,
because you deserve the opportunity to love somebody good,
for the right reasons
instead of just a macramé of excuses and cover ups
for all the times I didn't.
I just didn't.
For all the times I never let you go
when I could have.

*Because if I didn't love you, you would know.

I wanna write new poetry,
but words won't form new verses.
Random phrases cross my mind,
but none bond together to make sense.

Maybe it's the stress of exam week.
Maybe it's my personal problems.
Lack of inspiration or a muse.
I overthink my verses too much.

Why can't I write about fantasy and love,
or maybe about a struggle for inner peace?
Why can't I find a piece of emotion
to let myself go in a sweet melody?

Could it be because she left me?
Could it be the cold weather?
What's the reason I can't rhyme?
Is it that I need more time?

In the end here I sit
typing these words untrue
for I just wrote a poem
when I didn't think I could.

He is tall.
So tall.
Too tall.
So tall that I have to look up to meet his eyes,
but it’s worth it.
Because his eyes are black.
Humorous.
Sparkling.
Sarcastic.
Smirking.
And his mouth is high up.
But it’s worth it.
Because his mouth is perfect.
Smirking at me, he knows what I’m thinking.
****** *****.
He’s too tall.

Gentle lady, do not sing
Sad songs about the end of love;
Lay aside sadness and sing
How love that passes is enough.

Sing about the long deep sleep
Of lovers that are dead, and how
In the grave all love shall sleep:
Love is aweary now.

Stars sparkle overhead,
     Like the diamond ring
           I'll never have.

I have applied pressure to the wound
And have bandaged it quite firmly
But nothing stops the bleeding
And nothing stops the ache
My heart broke for you...
But I have no
Bandaids to
Protect
My
Heart.
I hold
It in my
Hands-- blood quickly
Dripping through fingers.
Drops of blood mark my path
Showing just where I have been,
And where I'm headed to. My heartbeat
Stops. It ends, my love, just as you do.

I’m in a relationship
with the man
working behind the counter
at the post office

though I have yet
to determine
the nature of our pairing

he asks me how I am
as if fumbling for words
on a first date
i reply quickly fine fine and you?

he nods disappointed by
my urgency
and half-hearted smile

moments pass in silence
as we chew on our respective entrees
he looks at me questioningly
i stare down at my phone

a slip of paper is issued
I sign it he counts out the money
I stare at his chest hair

instead of placing it on the
counter he carefully slips
the notes and coins
into my outstretched hand

for that singular tactile experience
before our time is up
his soft blue eyes

always expectant
impatiently drink of me
without my acquiescence until
I leave there

awkwardly drained
knowing that
he’s watching me go

the world is wrapped in plastic
and our feelings can be found
through a binary language
in the internet web of deceit
and the only thing we feel strongly about
is our own apathy
and maybe our phones
the culture's obsession with Zombies
makes sense if art mirrors life
we walk around looking through empty glass eyes
and make fake relationships
with people
who barely even exist
we grow up
and fill the shoes
which were left for us
at different points
on our journeys
generations of Russian nesting dolls
the few of us who want to live
are drowned in debt and ***** looks
and Jesus Christ
one day we'll be in charge
of the entire ******* planet
just think about that