there is no breath in my bones
Their crevices hollow with water
Their creaks silenced with snow
It sits in my knees
Low
Lost
Lackluster
It hides from the wind
(It forgets it is the wind)

A myocardial infarction, also known as a heart attack is caused by a blockage in one of the coronary arteries

Heartache is caused by ghosts swimming in your lungs
There is no breath left in me
I am
Never whole


There is no breath in my bones

not many girls have to fear becoming their mothers

I am afraid.
I am afraid that I am just a single drop of rain
and not the entire ocean
I am afraid that I may be a tiny little burnt out star
and not the entire galaxy
I am terrified that i am a single thorn
and not the entire bouquet.
I am ******* frightened by the fact that I will die
and that the world will continue to spin
the waves will continue to crash
the birds will continue to sing.
I am scared that my voice will remain silent.
I am scared that I am nothing.

Standing like a model in a motel room-
jealous eyes can't open the blinds.
Every time, every time.

Je t'aime à la folie, broken frames.
These are beautiful songs for damaged people
that don't think they're all the same.

They taste like formaldehyde,
so hopefully they'll preserve me.
But, instead, they burn the room
as they kiss my neck and collarbone.
Lapdancing on my loneliness-
Please, let me remove my eyes and hands,
because I've seen and have felt too much.

You don't understand:
everything is ideation
and demisexuality.
Double entendre:
I'm a toxic lover,
I have girls around my waste.

Take a look around and see how damaged everyone is,
and how universal they are in their illusory disguise,
"How can we be so smart if the last line was redundant, guys?"

Je t'aime à la folie, broken frames.
This is just a mediocre song for damaged people,
so they believe they're not all the same.

Don't feel too much.
Remove introspection.
Be self-absorbed.
Feel no affection.

and here i am again
at the intersection
of pedestrian language
& old wives tales
swallowing gum
like 7 year memories
opening umbrellas inside
cause i can't seem get away
from all of this rain
i ******* with my left hand
cause i was told
back in highschool that
"it feels like someone else is doing it"
it gets me wondering
about the difference between
losing you and finding out
that some one else found you
or my sleep
or lack thereof
its starting to tear me apart
i keep having this dream
where you are in
an unfamiliar body of water
trying to wash my poetry
off of your hands
or the one where
something happens in my chest
every time you sit
on someone else's bed
i'm tired of feeling like something you've misplaced
but don't have the heart
to look for anymore
tired of you saying my name
like you're trying to bury it
i'm tired of wondering
if you can tell the difference
between the absence
of my voice & silence
the other day
i almost started sobbing
at work when a woman
asked me about
our equipment
i was explaining how
things come apart
and almost mentioned your name
it made me think
of how you used to say
things like "what would you do
if i showed up on your doorstep
one day?" now, i haunt
the windows in my house
i don't leave for weeks at a time
i sit on the porch like the dog
you didn't shoot behind the shed
the one that refuses to die
until you come home again
i told somebody once, that
you didn't even know
what my voicemail sounded like
i wonder if they thought
it was because you
are so important that i never
let it ring that many times
before picking up
or if you dont know
what it sounds like
because you've never called
you can't be the ****** weapon
and the search party
i'm tired of all the seats
to the ferris wheel in my chest
being empty
tired of your voice
being the one i look for
in abandoned places
that one sound i beg
to bounce back
down vacant hallways
i just seem to stand there
in all of that quiet
like someone looking for a mistake
on an eviction notice
so i guess the hardest part
isn't letting go
it's forgetting
you ever had a grip
in the first place
and since you've been gone
i wonder if when
you pushed yourself away from me
you used your left hand
so it felt like someone else did it

Some days are hard.
I wake up with weeds growing in my chest,
rooting me to the bed beneath me. They are
chains, constrictions on my breathing and the
butterflies in my stomach, and those moments
remind me that I have never felt more caged
than I do right now.
There are picket fences in my ribs, sporting
chipped paint and broken wood, and I find it
comforting that something is as damaged and
destroyed as I am. I do not cry. I have not cried
for six years and yet every time you look at me,
I feel the tear drops pool in my lungs, drowning
me with romanticized suicide and bleach. You left
me for alcohol and cigarette butts and I think that
is what hurts the most. Every third degree burn on
your arm takes away a part of me, stripping me
of my own ambitions and identity. I do not find comfort
in the fact that this is what you have always wanted.
I sit on a swing that is older than my veins and I wait
for you to come. You do not, and I do not cry.