He said that he doesn't like the way she is,
That she needs to relax a little bit.
"How do you do that?"
She asked.
"One drink at a time,"
He answered.

And as the alcohol coursed through her veins,
She began to fall in love with the sound of his name.
And in the heat of the hot summer nights,
They were always together,
It just felt right.
But soon summer was over,
The fun was all done.
Before she knew it,
He was gone.

She waited and waited,
For some sort of sign,
That it wasn't over,
But it was the end.
The summer love had died.

People told her to forget him,
That he wasn't coming back.
He was nothing but trouble,
She didn't need that.
"How?"
She asked.
And they replied with "One drink at a time."

And as the alcohol she sipped burned her throat,
She slowly began to learn how to let go.
You don't get over someone by crying tears,
You get over them by downing shots and sipping beers.

a lot of people ask who I write for

and mainly it’s really for my girlfriend

I’ve always said that she’s the kind of girl

that makes you write poetry.

it’s to express the endless love

the irretrievable gratitude

and the unconditional happiness I feel.

but it’s also for the broken ones

who desperately want to believe in hope

who have Pandora’s box

wrenched from their hands.

for the crying ones

who need solidarity and a warm cup of tea

overwhelmed and wrapped in a blanket.

it’s also for the 9-to-5’s

who drink when they come home

for those who are simply fed up

and want an escape from it all.

I write to help heal.

for the people out there

who just need to know someone understands.

I write because it’s 4am and

I’m listening to Keaton Henson

and these raw feelings

won’t leave my brain

and won’t let me sleep

so really,

I write

to save myself.

Days without talking,
I miss you with all my heart.
My soul cries for you.

I love you
but you are not medicine.

Sleep and quiet eludes me
It shakes and shimmies our of my grasp
20 in 4
20 in 4
I am sore
hours and days run, there is dark but not total
The weight on my face pulls me down
I fall head head first in my chair, my neck can't support my bare empty head, full of half made walking dreams, I reach out for a translucent hand
20 in 4
20 in 4
There is no giddiness in this, only floating in semi nothing, work stumbles out of my mouth hours after my shift, I just need to drift
20 in 4
20 in 4
I will settle for lucid, these dreams where I'm chased by shadows of the day are giving me whiplash
20 in 4
20 in 4

Today, I am sick.
My mental illness is shaped like a prison
and I am in the waiting room
wanting to ask
"What are you in here for"
like
what kind of crime has your head committed
that you are trying to lock it up
with prescriptions
and weekly meetings filled
with uncomfortable confessions
and numb palms from sitting on your hands for too long.
They say it's like playing in traffic,
a red-light-green-light game
where we beg for help
but don't know how to move
when we're asked to explain how we got here.
Do you even remember
what you're running from anymore?
Tell us about the days
where you can't tell if waking up
is a trench or a hill.
What has your head told you to do
and have you done it?
How did it feel when it was over?
Did your head congratulate you
when you were done?
Did you get a prize
like new scars?
Or three more handles of liquor?
The last time you prayed
did you have trouble unlocking your fingers?
Did the weight of God
keep your hands closed tight
in hopes that you wouldn't forget him
like the last time you saw Him
in the bottom of the pill bottle
and you smiled back?
Everyone here says the word Friday
like it hurts
because we know that the weekend is here
but we just can't seem to feel it.

Today we are sick
and nobody notices because our noses aren't running
we aren't openly bleeding in front of the one's we love
we do it in secret
just in case they ever catch us.
Today, we wanted them to catch us.
Stick out their hands
like a safety net
but it doesn't matter what height we fall from
because bones hitting bones
like a head on car collision
will never feel like warm sheets
blanketing our bodies
but we can't help but wonder
if the sheet they will cover us with
after they find us
will be warm too.

Today we are tired of being sick
tired of waking up looking like police chalk lines
tired of walking into the therapy rooms
like they are our parish
but we're too afraid God might smite us on the way in.
We shouldn't have to flinch
when certain words are said
that pull us back loading gun
but are too weak to pull the trigger.

Today WE are the triggered,
the empty promise of tomorrow being filled
with another prescription
another drink
another list of second hand hope
coming from someone who is probably
still trying to remember what it says.
We would rather tiptoe between eggshells
and take our time
than let you know we are struggling.
We are STRUGGLING.
And it makes us so very tired.

So today I am tired
and I will tell you that
instead of reminding you
that every day I am sick.