Don’t get drunk when you’re already soberly sad. The sadness will become so amplified that you will fall asleep to the feeling of yourself drowning in your own tears.

2. Sleep on the ground without a mattress for one night. You will wake up feeling sore and bruised, and thirsty for the comfort of your own bed. See this as a metaphor for how you feel on the inside. Recognize that the bruises will fade. Find a way to embrace the power of longing.

3. Let him hold you while you cry. Get your snot all over his shirt, sob into his shoulder, let him comfort you. You went without comfort for so long it’s about time you let go and let yourself be loved.

4. Write it out. No one will ever understand your pain down to the bone but you. Bleed out through the pen instead of the skin. There’s no such thing as a page that would rather remain blank.

5. As hard as it is to accept, sometimes the only thing you can do for someone who’s hurting is remind them that you love them.

be still.
make a choice to avoid making any choices for as long as you possibly can.
what power do you have when so many other people's choices blur your own.

close your eyes.
decide not to decide.
decisions are for people that have nothing better to do than choose.

but I do.
i just choose not to.

You wanna know what hurts me more than crying myself to sleep
because I think I'll never be good enough?

Knowing that when he talks he says no one loves him, when I
have told him repeatedly that I do.

But maybe he's right -- after all, I'd consider myself no one, too.

We broke up a week ago, but
I still sleep in your bed every night
because there's a sink spot in the mattress,
your sheets smell like Old Spice,
and you hold my hand underneath the pillow
until our circulation gives, and the needles
***** our senses, pausing the blood flow
until we roll to our separate sides.
But when our hips collide,
hands playing my ribs like a harpsichord,
kissing your scruffy chin and collarbone line,
my dream begins to slip and I'm reminded again
how good it is to forget.

Coming to you is like coming home,
all washed-up and beautifully damaged.
So I draw the curtains and I turn on the fan
to lull us into another hand-painted, night design
where my lines intersect with yours,
the comforter overlapping us,
shadowing the fact that I shouldn't really be here,
but you dare not ask me to leave.

It's May
And I'll kiss you by the light of your still decorated Christmas tree.

It's May,
And the rain comes down heavy from the dark clouds that lurk at every corner.

It's May
And we've only got a couple more months together.

It's May,
And I don't really care that you're leaving
Because it's May,
And for right now,
I'm happy.

You've got me addicted to your scent,
Breathe you in 'till I feel content.
Craving the feeling of your lips against mine,
Obsessed with the feeling of our hands intertwined.

I can't drink a Miller without the taste
of a backyard, bonfire
raising and your name
only catching speed
in my throat before I gasp
too many, too late confessions. I can't
let the liquid rest with me,
just before I swallow,
or else I'll drown in reminiscing.
So I gulp.
I ferment my own mind and I punish
bottle after bottle even though
every breath after just reminds me
of inhaling your own
when we'd wind ourselves back up
after a drunken escapade
in your bed after everyone else
went to sleep and our dreams
had no chance of catching up to us. I can't
think of you too long
unless I balance on distance
and YOU'RE NEVER COMING BACK!
That's it. I can't
decide whether I'm happy that you've grasped
something so real and sturdy
after all the times I've played the crutch,
or if I hate you,
still, for leaving me by the fingertips,
dangling on a prayer for your safety,
basking in the light of your brilliance,
only to find myself here
in my shower
with a Miller
and an old country song on the radio.

It's not my fault he liked me even though I wore overalls.
Kind of sad, isn't it?
That someone could be so desperate
as to hit on a sorry excuse for a woman
who strode confidently in a white tee and jean
overalls with gym sneakers.
But maybe he found the way my collarbone
stuck out of the top of my shirt enchanting
or even fell dizzy imagining
what I would look like underneath.
Perhaps, he hoped I had something ****
on beneath the big **** pockets.
(I didn't, in case you were wondering).
Yet, he asked my name after I noticed him
watching me examine an avocado
for the bad spots, checking to see if the pit
was still green. He laughed, slightly,
when I told him it was
None of your **** business why I have
ten cans of Spaghetti O's in my cart!
I was polite enough not to question
why he had a Cosmo magazine in his,
or if he was making tacos for dinner
based on his pound of ground round
or the wrong brand of bagged lettuce
resting next to corn shells and salsa.

It's not my fault that I'm a two drink drunk.
He's the one that bought the expensive wine,
and asked me to join him for, you guessed it, tacos.
I hated the way he kept his socks on in bed,
but he didn't stop holding me when it was over
and he never asked me to leave when I woke up
in the morning. He brought me coffee, black, and sat
reading the paper like a gentleman while I
asked to turn on cartoons. He had the jaw line
of an actor and hair that could be in a shampoo commercial,
and I hadn't shaved my legs in three days, but
he still drew circles on my knees as he read.

I ran myself through the shower to dilute the blame.
My phone rang all the next day, no pick up.
Just burning noodles in the *** and picking
at my nails as I sat alone in the kitchen.
I threw that morning's paper away.
It's not my fault that I love the rain.