I still see your face in my dreams.

Is this what loss actually feels like? The way my whole body aches as these days work their way forward, as my brain refuses to think of you until the dark hours of the night when I can't think of literally anything else.

I love you
                                                             it's over
I need you
                                 I can't do this anymore

Back and forth back and forth
I am so empty without your hands holding my flyaway pieces together

I don't know why I wasn't good enough.

A *** drunken man
A Bed full of tangled sheets
I may fall again

The funniest thing is

You'd probably know that all these poems
Are about you

And you have the key to open them.

You would know me inside out
If you'd ever turn the key

You wanna do something really lame

And fall in love

And succeed at everything

And stay home in our safe space

Where the worlds we discuss are enough muse

To keep me writing forever

I am constantly falling in love with strangers.
With words written in notebooks stashed away and forgotten about.
With the way the light hits the trees in the morning as the sun rises, the way the sky is light pink and orange before blue.
I fall in love with curves of lips as boys talk to girls on the streets.
With the way people walk, as if gliding over linoleum in the oddly bright supermarket.
With hands that gesticulate as tongues, mouths, and brains tell stories too wildly unimaginable for the layfolk.
But I will not let myself fall in love with you.

I'm so sorry for that.

The back of the fire truck says "call to report arsonists."
The 800 number is at the tips of my fingers.
     But how can I report hands that sent flames licking up my thighs, kisses that left my lips scorched, smiles that ignited a roar deep in my stomach.
     How can I report you for setting my world ablaze, my heart on fire...
                                 And then leaving.

Scene one, Childhood

I never really learned to emotionally regulate,
Taking clues from Nickelodeon more than parents who set good examples,
Screaming fights and bruises and broken glass
Too much drinking, the smell of cigarettes
Moms broken bones
Make yourself small, make yourself gone
They may not notice you.

We played family a lot, curtaining blankets over a bunk bed to block the outside, and in family, I always took care of my babies.

Scene two, 18

I never really learned to emotionally regulate, taking clues from the friends around me more than parents who set any example.
A false father leaving, a mom losing her cash cow
The smell of Arbor Mist and ***** still makes me sick, mom’s incoherent fists still make contact in my sleep, I still wouldn’t have given her the keys.

We don’t play anymore. We’re mostly estranged. But we work. And in family, I always took care of my babies.

Scene three, 28

I’m trying to learn to emotionally regulate, the slideshow of couches and faces of therapists trying to set an example.
A son born to trauma, a marriage of consequence, I’m still learning to love myself, please, the sound of yelling still makes me sick,
I don’t know how to do this.

We are grown now, we are mostly put together. And now we live. But this is my family, and I will always take care of my babies

Your love is my drug, my vice, my obsession
And I am in prison for possession
But from behind these bars, the chains of restriction
Your eyes still look like the ocean

I have never been quite sure why I like
To press my teeth into skin just like so

Maybe some animalistic instinct, as lionesses in heat bite the ***** of males when they want to mate

Maybe some innate claim to be made to the world, in dental record no less, that I have made this one my own

Marked. Claimed.

I still have a bruise on my arm, still feel your hair in my fingers

Smitten. Bitten.

I guess every family has to have a black sheep, and in mine, it might as well be me.
With eight younger siblings, following like ducks in a row...
Getting pregnant and married at 22 was the worst thing I could have done, at least according to my mom.
She would have rather I got an abortion, or been a single mother, than would she have chose my marriage.
I guess love doesn't have a thing to do with it, because that's not a path she ever took.
I chose my own way, to do what was best for my family, and because it wasn't her way it was wrong.
I guess, if choosing my own path makes me bad, I have painted myself black, neck to belly, hips to toes.
And if God forbid my siblings cross her, I will always be the worst because I was the first.
So as far as black sheep go...
bahhhh

Bah bah black sheep, have you any wool?
We’ll shield your eyes and make you a fool

Laid up on the couch with one leg casually tossed over yours,
the room still vaguely spinning with one eye open.
Maybe downing 4 beers in an hour wasn't such a good idea, but my anxiety got the better of me, and I didn't know what else to do while everyone else stared at their phones and I stared at you, memorizing the planes of your face so I won't forget them again.
My head is pounding and I doze, YouTube in the background. It has to be late, or early.
The fan blows against my skin and I peek to see if you are still there. Yup. Okay. Breathe, Mel, breathe.
The nauseating feeling of being left again roils my stomach. Or maybe that's the beer again.
It has to be early, or late. But this moment will burn in my memory for days as I psychoanalyze everything I've done wrong that could make you want to run.
Is it early or late?
I wake up and you're not there, but when I stumble to the bathroom you're laying in your bed and I would join you but the room is still spinning and I need to just lay back down.

If there is one thing that I know,
it's that the throbbing ache that's in
the cavern beneath my sternum

Feels a lot like my heart is held
Captive, prisoner, rattling
Against the rib-bone bars of jail

Classic me, hiding along the edges for just enough time to give you the space you need before popping back in.

Classic you, using song lyrics and sweet words to make it feel like no time has passed at all.

Sometimes I wonder if any of them would care if I disappeared,
Those that wrapped their hands around my throat and called me by the name
"Mine"

I wonder if they realize that in healing parts of me, they damaged others,
Those that whispered the sweetest words in my ear then ran away quickly
"I love you"

I wonder if in this conundrum of ups and downs, lefts and rights, they know
That I'm beyond all help, staring into the worthlessness of everything I've done
"I want you"

I wonder if I can ever belong to anyone again

My son does not understand why it is darker now
“But mom, three days ago at this time there was still sun!”

And I explain how, in our part of the world, we change our clocks for the benefit of using the most of our daylight

I do not tell him it is because we are slaves to time in the worst of ways

We spend mornings enjoying the sunrise together, and I count myself lucky that this time shift occurs

I do not tell him how I wish I could make it stop all together

“So is it 8? I’m staying up late?!”

I don’t bother to fight him, it’s the seventh times he’s asked the question, and I tousle his hair instead

Big brown eyes mischievously twinkle as he reaches for a hug, and jams his little fingers in my armpit painfully

“Tickle!!!” He shouts, rolling toward me and giggling.

I do not tell him that I would give all my hours to live in these moments with him

Dear 17 year old me,

You'll fall in love with a boy this year that will bring you as much happiness as pain.
You'll fall in love with his eyes, and the dimples in his smile,
And dear girl you will cry when the loneliness of his departure makes the innermost of you empty and aching.

I would tell you to run now, that when your friend tries to give you his phone number, to turn her down.

But in this pain, five years later, five years of the highest highs and the lowest lows, as I ache from the innermost of me and feel empty, in this pain I tell you do not run.

Without him, you will not have a million poems, you will not have some of the best nights of your life. You will not sleeplessly wonder what you've done wrong, or sleepily whisper your "I love yous" into his ear.

And what is love without heartbreak?
What would I be without him?

Humor me, little past self. Fall in love with him. Write poems about his eyes, write letters to him with no end. Love him. Lose him. Fight him. Love him again.

And then come back as me, twice as strong and twice as weary.

You won't regret it.

Love, you at 21.

There is no way to get rid of your demons besides exorcism.
Mine must be as buff as Marines the way I talk about them,
Exercising, jumping jacks, squats.
Those ******* have been around as long as my gap tooth has been closed.
I have given them pet names. One is "What If," the other "Past." They like to dance merrily on my tongue as I talk to myself wandering around my house.
They like to be written about, self absorbed and aware as they are that they exist.
What If is the one that yells "hey, hey, look over here!" Past is an introvert, hiding shyly among my innermost workings.
Occasionally, like most super buff dudes do, they get drunk and want to play. That's when the danger starts.
What If is a flirter. He really likes to hit it and quit it with my emotions. Past is that sappy guy that sits at the end of the bar and doesn't say a whole lot, but you can tell he just broke up with his girlfriend by the way he sighs into his drink.
These drunk ******* really need to knock their **** off, if only to let me sleep soundly for a single night.

Your eyes like the ocean, like the waves, like the sky, like a nice blue sports car. Things that are beautiful in passing, but are dangerous up close.

Danger. Loving you was danger.

You set me on fire, burning my body, burning through my brain. Passionate fire, then hot fire, then ******* I'm actually hurt fire. I still have the scars.

What I'm left with is dark and empty, unable to love another. Whispers on wind of what we used to be, secrets. I wasn't made to be a ***** little secret. I'm not your ***** little secret.

I loved you. All consuming love. Love like only a 17 year old knows. Love like only an 18 year old can hold. Love like only a 19 year old can endure. Love like only a 20 year old can let go.

I used to be sick over it. I used to wait for it. And now I've let go of it. Rain from the gray skies that are so like your eyes in the dark. Rain washes away everything I've remembered.

I may not be your forever

But I will haunt your dreams
I will be the thing that you find yourself
Going back to in your thoughts
The thing you ****** up
The thing you forgot was the most important
The thing you couldn't prioritize over yourself

I may not be your soulmate

But my soul shines so brilliantly, your life will be dark without me
I will continue to burn brilliantly while you flicker out
The thing that you realize you cannot live without
The eternal flame that kept your house and heart warm

I may not be the answer to your questions

But I was the solution to your problems, the builder, the caretaker, the mother, the life giver.

And it would do you well to remember.

You ooze that good boy persona just a little too well,
And people whisper about how I am defiling you
But the pressure of your hand at the small of my back
Is enough to remind me that I really don't care.

And maybe I don't know if this will last two weeks
Two months
Or two years
Or maybe two lifetimes

The most selfish part of me hopes I never have to find out

And I'm still trying to keep ahold of my feelings,
          I'm better in writing, anyway
And just when I think I'm going to squelch it
          I'm better at writing, anyway
You stretch and just a strip of your skin shows,
Leaving me lost in the thought of your hips against mine, your lips against mine

          God, I'm awful at goodbyes

And you wonder why you're a distraction

I will probably always be
Just the tiniest bit feral

But part of feminism is the choice
And I would really like the choice
To just stay home

And clean a house and do a million hobbies
Stay close to my son, be able to take him to
AND pick him up from school.

Follow my dreams. Write like my life
And very income
Depends on it.

Write like no ones reading because I don't have to consider it
Life or death

I would like to scrub floors and toilets
Wear pretty clothes for a man
That truthfully loves me and doesn't
View me as property, but a proper
Partner

I just want to stay safe
In my four walls
With my words

But I'll correct the **** out of their grammar.

I have been locked inside, kept small for far too long, that any opportunity seems like the best one

So I grasp at straws, holding on like flotation devices, please just pull me back to shore

I can't breathe, underwater, unloved, a constant reminder
That maybe "good enough" is all I'll ever get

Second choice, second chance be ******

I can only do so much on my own
The growth doesn't matter when it's just centimeters
The achievements are nothing when the people who are proud of you are obligated

I don't want to just be an obligation

So throw me a bone,
I'll hold onto it like it's my last shot,
One last shot, one last try,
Please for the love of all the Gods,
This can't be all there is

I don't need drugs. My brain is drugs.

Maybe it's a side effect of a mother that dropped acid for the first trimester of pregnancy and then some.

Maybe it's a side effect of the abusive step father that told me I would never amount to anything and that I am *******.

My brain processes things at about a hundred miles per hour. In conversations I am always three steps ahead of what ever was said last. I make connections in things that are unconnected.

They tell me this is adult ADHD. They tell me I should be proscribed a pill to help my brain focus.

But focus isn't what I want. Nor is the drowsiness that comes with Lorazepam, the fog that goes with Prozac. I have been separately proscribed these things without ever filling the bottles.

But I fear that if I fix all my chemical imbalances, my medical maladies, that I will disappear into a fog.

Who am I without my OCD, without my brain over processing, over loving, over caring. Without the pain in my chest from another panic, my bouncing off the walls and singing to myself.

Maybe I am unwell.

But who am I without my unwellness?

I will claim this, the power I have over you
The intense attraction that pulls me back to you
Onto you
Perfect fit, so easy, so simple

I don't have to think about how much I want you
That much is evident in the waterfall
At the end of the hike
Both of which I enjoy equally

But *******, the power to make you fall to your knees
The feast that you're willing to make of
The famished
The way you are so willing to drown
Just for me

How could I ever pretend not to feel like a
Goddess
again?

I told you before, I'd shut it all down
Because it's better to not feel anything at all
Than constantly be hurt.

Is this another lesson?

How to rip my insecurities open one by one
Dig into the wounds and twist the knife
Examine just how much I squirm under
Scrutiny

I thought this would be healing.

Finally, a cure to a problem I never caused,
The answer to a question I forgot I even asked
The years of searching for a reason nullified
Real

And instead

I’m questioning reality, if I learned anything
At all

How do you say you're screaming internally when no one else seems to see that you're drowning?

How do you keep trying, trying to do the right thing, to follow the rules, to keep life fair,
keep watching, watching as everyone that cheats and lies gets everything while you still have
Nothing

How do you keep giving away your heart, over and over, smiling at strangers, held together with bandaids over gaping wounds, holding onto coping mechanisms like internalizing everything

How can you say you're burning, burning from the inside, your chest is too tight and your brain is too wound, and you're not sleeping again and it definitely shows...

How can you keep going, going, Energizer bunny this **** because you have to, you have a mouth to feed that isn't yours and you can't give up

But how can you fight for your life when it keeps kicking you back down?

Sleep would be a literal dream
But I play it over and over and over again
Sitting in the dark, staring at the ugly pattern stamped into the ceiling
It just doesn't make sense.

How can you tell me to take up space,
But get frustrated when my feelings get
Too big, too chaotic?
I guess I'll always be too much.

I grew so big, I guess I'm the one that somehow created
This canyon between us
Where there was once mere centimeters.

I thought I knew who I was,
But that's just something I tell myself
When I need to feel better I guess
Because I've never known who I am
Without loving someone else.

So the minutes tick on, and I'm not sure whether or not to text you.
So the sun goes down, and minutes turn to hours turn to days.
And I blink again, again. Beg sleep to find me.
Call out for the sandman.
Or any man, I guess.
It doesn't seem I know how to choose.

I'm not sure if this is an existential crisis, or just my reality

To be lost without a clue, deeply alone, mood changing every minute because reality sinks in

And I'm just not the main character. I never will be. I'm some forgettable auxillary background character

And that's true for everyone, but is the deep seated dread that you truly don't matter also ever present?

Does everyone's heart feel like a shell of fear, worried that you're just here, existing instead of living?

I have been broken before. Bent past recognition.
       Who is this apparition in the mirror?
I am working so hard to be whole again, not just a shadow of who I used to be.
But putting myself back together with duct taped words is not the glue I need.
I want nothing more than to watch you glue me back together, to stitch my wounds with careful kisses.
I want nothing more than to come alive in your arms, to resurrect the human I once was in your love.
        Who is this apparition in the mirror?
My wounds are too deep to heal on their own, too long drawn out to stop bleeding. I need you to set my heart on fire, cauterize the holes that were left

It has long been time to say goodnight,
The hands of the clock caressing my face, lulling me into secluded silence.
But I can still smell your skin on me, feel the bite of the binds.
And so the cigarette still burns. On. And on. And on. And the tears still fall. On. And on. And on.
Agony is telling the same story over and over until you believe it. "I'm fine, I don't think about it anymore. I'm over it."
And then you see something. Or hear something. Or read the ******* newspaper. And your name is never under arrest.
Maybe you never hurt anyone again. Maybe you only took my voice.
Maybe the cigarette still burns so close to my fingers that I have scars. Maybe I still wait for sleep. Maybe you'll catch fire to that bed dropping a cigarette. Maybe the flames will take you.
Maybe I can wait for the next time the pain will hit. Maybe I can smoke another cigarette.

Rekindling old flames and lighting half gone cigarettes is what I'm known for.
It never is quite the same, really. The taste is all but gone, the flint gone from the match before you can even strike it. The taste of you is just a bitter reminder, like kicking that habit for good and taking the first drag off a cigarette in six months.
Then I started over.
There's a difference really from starting an entirely new fire and trying to relight pieces of charred and half burned pine that got rained on. One will burn bright for a minute and fizzle out. The other will burn a lifetime.
That last drag on a new cigarette never tasted more like addiction.

The four walls around me have felt like a prison for longer than I'm willing to admit on paper

But I'd do the time again and again if it meant I could spend one more minute hearing your laugh, one more second watching the sparkle in your eyes, one more hour holding you in my arms, our hearts beating against each other.

There is something insane about me, sure. You'll hear that a lot, my boy. I've made poor choices. I've done wild things. I've lived enough lives for seven people. I've gone through literal hell.

But it was all worth it to be your mom. It will all be worth it to watch you grow.

Prison, I suppose, isn't so bad with a cool bunkie.