I've given up writing December.
I swear I tried, but these lines
don't seem to care; The drugs never work.
The haze of blinking eyes and wasted time
feels like infinity. I want to misremember
those wide eyed faces and your smirk
when you said you were mine. (Words like knives.)
I knew it was fatal as soon as you whispered that lie.
I swear... I've given up this December.
My words can't dig up the dirt
to bury these Winter memories
and these lonely goodbyes...

“I miss you” lit my
phone, as your tongue left its place
to touch her tonsils.

When I needed a google search to tell me if I was still a ******.

It took a game of dare or double dare to teach me I don’t know repeated sounds an awful lot like yes
and ******* can drop mountains on boundaries not yet built –
serrated edges on once innocent skin

I let you carve me.

Nine years later and I’m still trying to find air in the ocean where it all happened.
I took lessons, but I never learned how to swim.

I remember thinking you must’ve liked me, that was the reason
and returning the favor would’ve made it okay. I found you in my freshmen year yearbook.

But I was wearing a bikini shaped like ignorance and a smile lined with naïve

you weren’t reaching for my heart when you went to hold my hand,
forcibly lacing my fingers like ribs around your ****.

I still wonder if dropping the I don’t before the know would’ve made any difference.

The sky is the color you see when you close your eyes. Not quite black, just dark. It was nice, the way you looked at me when I was calm. How your smile caressed your eyes, your shoulders seemed to relax. The flowers I planted never grew; they must've been too weak, consumed by the earth. I watch happy people and realize how shallow they are. They space out and talk about their favorite tv shows and worry about stains on their shirts. My fingers are strangely shaped: they curve in and out, thinner than normal. But somehow they fit perfectly with yours, straight and perfect, always oil-stained and callused. I remember when I draped my arm across your chest and felt the scars on your shoulder. How they were arranged in such a familiar pattern. I traced them so carefully and read the word 'fear'. I wish I didn't write about you. I wish I didn't write at all. I know the smell of my mother's perfume. It reminds me of the times she came home and I ran to her after hours of waiting restlessly. Now it chokes me and creates a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes. No one's voice could ever fade in the background yet be heard so clearly except yours; a piano ballade in a distant room. We spend so much time trying not to take things for granted that we end up taking things for granted, for granted. "I ruined the flower you gave me. I didn't mean to," you said to me. It's been three years, and I feel like the flower.

Yellow and crimson is the fruit
Beckoning to be a moment's pleasure
Eating fruit, a sure pleasure,
Instant is the gratification
Memory is witness
To the happiness it brought

Left in agonizing want
One looks for more
Discouraged, defeated,
Agonized to know it passed

Lo and behold, all has changed
For action of eating
Had its own reaction
Unknown of what will be

Opening eyes to witness
the reaction that kept going
like a brand of battery
Energizer with long life

Blink not for it's alive
Asking  mind to follow
Follow like never before
And sleep no more

Yellow and crimson is the fruit
Beckoning to be a moment's pleasure
Eating fruit, a sure pleasure,
Instant is the gratification
Memory is witness
To the happiness it brought
©TRP

A never ending misery,
Seems like.
Years are passing by,
But the sounds of the night,
Remains the same.