it's funny
how forever
can be so short,
whether ended by
choice or unwillingly,
forever
is forever on
the precarious edge
of ending

oh god i'm so sorry
i built you a tsunami
when all you wanted
was a rain shower i
wanted (needed) to
be your answer but
you had no open-
ended questions i
am drunk and i called
someone else

I've seen
               Jesus
               at the bottom of
                          whiskey bottles.
We've talked
                  about the universe,
                                    and death,
And he's given me the whole speech,

                        And I decided I'd better just
Sleep it off.

breathe.
because you know what you
do when someone ***** you
over? you calmly take your
heart out of their hands
and leave. you think maybe
you'll sew it back on to
your sleeve but not now, not
today. you put their things
in a box (their cds, their
shirts, their books, their
notes, the little things you
picked up on your dates)
and you put it on the
highest shelf in your
closet, because someday
you will want to remember
them, maybe. if you don't
want to remember them, you
give them the box, you
donate the box, you throw
the box in the river. and
you breathe. because you
deserve better. you deserve
someone who doesn't consider
you a fallback, a plan b.
you will be someone's plan.
you will be the only plan.
you will be my-god-what-
was-i-doing-before-you-
walked-around-that-
corner. remember that
you are enough.
breathe.

I opened my mouth
and let out the
feathers I've had
hidden in there
since the first morning
I woke up to your
fingers wiggling
on my shoulder,
let the emptiness
settle deep in my
stomach. But I need
reasons to feel whole,
so today I find the
thought that you will
never walk up my
marble staircase again,
never put your hand
on my doorknob again,
never complain about my
pink couch again, never
bat away my fern that
has overgrown its place
again, never spend time
finding my most
ticklish spots again,
never stop in the
kitchen on your way
out to kiss me goodbye
again, never wave at
me with just one finger
the way I so loved
again to be oddly
comforting. I'm glad
you will not be
coming over anymore.

my father is a blind man.
heavy drooping lids with even heavier dripping blood.

i am his failure that was only good at one thing.
swimming past the others.

and maybe i'm not the perfect daughter;
maybe you weren't expecting the *** or drugs or parties or ****** language,
but ******* for acting like it meant i was dead.

you do not own me.
you will not write my eulogy when i finally succeed after failed attempts.
you will not say how i had a beautiful heart and YOUR sense of humor.
i will write my own goodbye letter.
and yes, maybe every i love you feels like a swallowed, searing coal.
and yes, maybe my signature at the bottom of the loos-leaf sheet of blood-stained paper will remind you to acknowledge your two other children, and stop saying that i am your favorite.
i am not your favorite.
you should be willing to stay for a favorite.

so leave me the **** alone
to bleed in peace.