theres the static from the heater in the room over
the door is cracked, their door is open.
still open. why tonight?
I'm struck with loneliness and I want things to be the way they used to be.
I yearn to feel friendship.
My radiator hisses and echos.
the hum of outside, low and steady lulling my pulse to slow.
I hear them sing, quiet and melodic to the songs I listen to alone.
I open my door more than the crack, I pretend we are siting together in our silence again,
why was the asking for the cigarette the only thing?
perhaps both of us misunderstood.
perhaps we are both wrong.
or perhaps they don't want to speak to me anymore.
how do I ask for clarification while respecting their space and silence?
it is quiet and lulling and they're still singing.
I don't want to be anywhere anymore

I swear if I had the chance to be in her body with her head maybe I'd be happy. this comparison is not healthy for me but if I just had her curves and naturally beautiful singing voice then maybe I'd like myself. why can't I be like her. I envy her long blonde hair. I envy being looked at like I'm worth something outside of when one's in the mood to look at me even if for sake of vanity. I envy constant affection. please send me a gm text please. I want to mean something to you . I want to see what you say. that would be so nice

I want to do it.
I want to.
I want to do it slowly, and I want to lie on the ground.
I don't want to get up.
I dialed the hotline again only to hang up.
I know I can't because then you would too.
That would be worse.
Your mom and family.
I'm so far away,
it'd barely make a difference.
Why won't you talk to me like you used to.
I'm beginning to think I'm just some sort of
muse to hurt you in small ways that
turn into big ways to
turn into songs for me to
turn over and listen to
while I want to do it.
I want to.
I want to do it slowly, and lie underground.

****,
I saw you liked an insta post on
something that I might have done long ago
and you even commented on it and now I don't know
if you're annoyed with me or if you want me to go
but I'm already far away and each and every day
I've been staring at the wall for all the hours I'm awake
you're occupied with your school work
trying to pass the time
and I can't even write you a song because my
poems rarely rhyme.
I keep wondering if I did something to make you not like me
but it's kinda hard to **** things up when all I do is sleep.
I know it's my anxiety that makes me feel like this
but just this afternoon I wrote a paper about your kiss
it's probably a ******* that never could compare to
the way you make me feel, I could never even dare
to try to put exactly what you mean to me into words
and I'm sorry that I'm paranoid
I think I'm getting worse.

I know I said that I wouldn't write too much anymore but now it's all I can drag myself to do.
I almost called the suicide hotline 20 minutes ago because I was sad and the days seem to drag and I try to make myself look happy but I'm so ******* miserable underneath Especially on nights like these.
I sit and I cry and I cry and I cry and nothing helps.
I took a shower so hot that my entire body turned bright red and stood in it until I felt nothing. I picked up a pencil and tried to draw but my hand didn't move and I made eye contact with myself in the mirror and I cried again .
I hate the way I look when I cry, and that made me cry harder.
I want to eat again but that'd be the fourth time today and I'm too afraid to.
The kids across the hall are getting drunk and I can hear them stumbling around and I wonder what it's like to be them right now.
I'm not writing this to get attention, I'm writing this to get it off my chest.
I feel a little bit better now.
I'll be fine tomorrow.

i have no sort of remedy in me to relieve this madness i’ve created. my existence contributes nothing to the prosperity of the human condition. my spirit breeds discord and torture to the one i love most and that alone tosses me further into this abyss of self-loathing and deceit. i have nothing but “i’m sorry” to offer. i am utterly useless to this bustling globe

using someone until they put


out





and thinking you're better than you are.





i don't care who's the one thinking it.

let it take you

i cried on the edge of the bed and you sat there
later taking me into your arms i pushed you away
i felt like i was screaming but i don;t know if you could even hear me
i was screaming on the inside, rather
screaming at myself

you grabbed me and hugged me and i felt on fire and so cold
i didn't feel at all.


let it take you

i couldve controlled myself and deep breathed but i was too
tired to control it so
here we were.
i cant help feeling like i did that to diffuse or if i did that to implode for once in a long while.

i sort of missed the screaming
at least i was honest with myself.

and then you finally reached into the turbulent waters and grabbed me from my sea of grey numbness. i felt warm in the dark and you followed me to the bathroom, i still felt on autopilot and you held me and i felt your chest shake like you were crying
but the lights were off and i couldn't tell.

i never wanted you to have to see me like that but it's happened too many times now and i still feel like im never there for you when you fall .  i want your vulnerbility in front of me so i can show you how much i love you. i want honesty in emotions and i want to know how you feel all of the time
i promise it's not me just being polite.
i want to know you at every second at every time in every feeling you have

your heart was fluttering i could feel it while i was buried in your chest and i wanted you to tell me what you wanted to

i think you sometimes share the feelings that i do but you feel like you have to be strong for me, please
once in a while

let it take you

i'll come in after you
we'll be better because of it and i know this is true
but the way you said i love you when it was through.

i really wanna ******* marry you.

let me begin by saying what i feel i can't (not allowed) to say enough
(for fear of sounding forced and polite)

i am sorry

allow me to go on, please don't quit here.

let me continue with saying what i feel i should
(for fear of losing you)

i am going to choose to use my words more wisely,   now .

"i spoke to you in cautious tones"
something i have not, something i will

i thought i was the one with the roses, picking at the thorns.
i was giving you thornless roses, i suppose, because i didn't want you to get hurt by them.
i want to see the thorns as truths and yet i gave these, thornless.

"and if my silence made you leave"
that is my own mistake. that is my worst.
my silence = keeping you in the dark
(̶t̶h̶e̶y̶ ̶s̶h̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶s̶y̶n̶o̶n̶y̶m̶o̶u̶s̶)̶ ̶
i have made them synonymous.

i'm sorry.
please let me continue.

"and so it goes"
as my y-turn in the snow
i left you in the cold
to ponder
with your eyes c̶l̶o̶s̶e̶d̶  open
( i know you won't sleep tonight,
i'm sorry)

"and that is why my eyes are closed"
they are mine and you are what is s̶e̶e̶n̶  seeing

"you're the only one who knows"
more than me.
more than i.
you've always been right in opening my eyes.

"and still i feel i've said too much"
something i can not claim.
i am too careless with my words
and i've dropped my thorns
through the meadow and now you follow the trail and
piece me together
without me knowing that i've lost anything.

i am sorry
it's not okay
you've forgiven me, i suppose.

"in every heart there is a room"
and i feel i've left yours empty.

i want to fill it.

"so i will share this room with you"
as i want to
as you'd like me to (as i selfishly assume)

"but you can make decisions too"
as you do, you don't need me to say you can.
you've always known that.

"and so it goes"

i no longer write when im sad
because sadness no longer writes for me

sad in a blur in my rear view
now the occasional melancholy dusk

the rear view does not mean as much as my windshield
i drive towards the sunrise

oranges and yellows
blues and pinks

sadness blends now
it is no longer a solid hue

i have love
i have a horizon to drive towards

no matter where it leads
i am driving nonetheless

Waiting.
Watching.
The mirror in the hallway.
The sky is grey as your eyes follow the beam
of the streetlight into the
mirror in the hallway.
You close the blinds
vertical turned linear,
beams of light.
You drag your gaze to the mirror in the corner of the hallway.
You deadpan,
stare at your hands.
Raw, soft, red, frail.
Anxiety under your fingernails.
You poke at your skin,
you shove the pins
into your fingertips.
Where did these pins come from?
People call them safety pins, but now they’re preventing us
from putting the safety on these
metal weapons we point at ourselves in
deep reflection.
I DON’T KNOW MY REFLECTION.
I’ve been sitting with pins in my fingertips for years
I’ve been staring at the lights for months,
I’ve been looking in the corner of the mirror for weeks,
I’ve been gazing at the door for days.
I’ve been waiting for hours.
I’ve been waiting for myself to come home through
the reflection of the door from the mirror in the hallway
and take the (safety) pins out and kiss me on the cheek though
the glass and say
“You are enough, you are perfect, you are beautiful”
The street lights are on again.
I drop the blinds again
vertical lights turned linear.
The sky is a deeper grey.
The pins are still in my fingertips.
Death is under my fingernails.
Darkness is at my door.
Street lights can only light up so much at a time
And I’ve been in the shadows for months.
I’ll keep waiting.
I’ll keep gazing.
I’ll keep looking.
I’ll keep staring.
I’ll keep sitting.
The light has to come soon
The shadows will fade soon
Darkness will leave my door soon
Death will be cleansed from my nails soon
My reflection has to come home soon
The safety will put back on soon
I will be home soon
I swear on it.

These pins can not stay in my fingertips forever.

I will take them out for myself when I get home.

I am almost home.

how i wish i could take the love i give you and make it visible outside of us so we could enjoy it together and plant it deep in healthy soil and watch it bloom so we both know what is true

One of my favorite songs is by a guy named Watsky, it’s called sloppy seconds. It used to mean so much more, but I’ve grown . And now I’m here, and you ring, and I pick up, and it’s all for you.
You told me that it's your fault, but how I have to do this for you. I told you
“But you’re my friend, so I suppose I owe you trying to clean up this mess”
I need to pick up your pain. I’m listening to the song and thinking about all the times that have numbed me to taking up other people’s sloppy seconds but the song always told me
“I don’t care where you've been, how many miles, I’ll still love you”     and so i did.
I still do for some others. Please understand, this is not all  ̶f̶o̶r̶  you.
I stopped you.
I caught this one.
I’m holding this a dustpan for the cremains of this mess and picked up the shattered urn of feelings.
I handed you the broom. Whether you use it or not is your decision.
It’ll get cleaned up in the end, either way.
I WANT TO DO THIS OUT OF LOVE NOT OUT OF PROTECTION.
WHAT THE ****.

there's this idea



and that's about all there is.

i took the different way to school today,
the way through town roads and lots of stop signs,
no ditches to be found.
had I taken the way,
up country roads and
down outskirt streets
with a crevice ready to become a casket
at any ****
of mental path or
steering wheel.
i suppose i could be dead
in that casket right now
but i was driving the safe way-
still looking for a ditch,
I'M MAKING DITCHES OUT OF FLOWERBEDS
AND HOPING THEY'LL HURT AS BAD

to be in love is such a beautiful thing
if you are unafraid of the heartbreak
that is sure to come
one of these days
when the realization that keeping secrets of our
own means that they must have
some secrets they are holding from you on
how they act and they talk when
you’re not around
and it ***** and it hurts
almost as much as when you realize that


being in love can be a beautiful thing
if you don’t mind the occasional
one sided worshipping
on the broken pew of your heart
thinking about the future and the possibility that things might
or will
fall apart


being in love can be a beautiful thing
as long as you’re okay with constant static
lingering in the street light of their love
found flickering directly above the lonely
bench on the corner of melancholy st. where
it’s okay to sit in the haze and in the rain
because you have their love keeping you warm


being in love is nice
if you never mind being a
masterpiece never balanced, some sort
of discord throwing everything off
doomed to a composition but
never remaining composed

being in love is nice if you can love
in the dark because
in the light,
in the light there’s nothing to see
most times
if only a blank gaze at best
but you flip the switch
and love in the dark anyways because you know
it’s what you do best


being in love is alright if the
idea of having them at their worst and
not only at their best doesn’t
scare you too much
because being in love sometimes means
falling in love with them at their worst
and learning to love unconditionally


being in love is alright if
you can learn to treasure the time spent
away from them
knowing that the time apart is what makes
the time together
the sweetest
and that it’s worth it in the end


to be in love is fine
I guess
if at every notion of their success
you feel a happy sadness in your chest-
the happiness for theirs
and the sadness in finding
that the joy you
bring them might be
surpassed and the slightest thought
of that is just enough
to remind you that someday
you could be replaced


but don’t get me wrong,
please don’t get me wrong

to be in love  is to understand that
you’ll never have all of them-
to understand that in the storm of their body
and the nourishment of their breath
must come with the lightning and
maybe that’s why people call people
in love
lovestruck


but hey,

to be in love

to be in love is one of the
most pure things on earth
where the worst part is the innocence
and the best part  is the innocence
and the fragility
and the glow
and the fulfillment
and the loving in the dark
and living in the light

oh, to be in love
is the greatest thing because
somehow
loving a
silent film masterpiece
where their eyes never speak
is all you’ve ever needed

how does it feel?
to be as beautiful as you.
I'm counting the folds in your sweater on your arm.
The moon is full and you never look at me, I'm too busy counting the folds in your hand as it grips itself.
The moon is full and you never look at me.
My fingers hover over the fold in your sweater-
how does it feel?
being a silent film masterpiece, yet
never letting your eyes speak. you never
looked at me or kissed me quite as hard.
how does it feel being loved as much as you are?

From branches of lilac, the roots of the apple tree, swinging on the tire swing.
Always a square peg in a round hole in the eyes of my papa,
An artist in the eyes of my mom.
An adventurer in the eyes of my grandpa, he’s been navigating the universe for me
all the way from the stars when the cancer took him years too early.
A free spirit  in the eyes of my Gramma, picking apples from the trees and climbing too high.

My GG called me beautiful girl,
then a more beautiful version of herself after the brain stent went in and she forgot how beautiful she was when she was my age and could only tell the same story about the milkshakes in her prom dress.
It’s one of my favorites.
My grandma Wheeze grabbing my cheeks from her walker while lizards crawled outside her house slightly further in from the gulf.
Gumbo and rice in the kitchen, a separate pan of buttered shrimp she’d sneak to me while my siblings were not looking.

The whisk in the drawer where it sits unused since that winter sunday morning walk home.
The tiny clock on the shelf, nostalgic off tempo click, Minnesota evenings. It broke on the move.
Cat Stevens on the ride across the state and into Wisconsin, Bob Dylan on my papa’s guitar in the hot kitchen and the broken clock on the counter.
Gnocchi for dinner, cafe au lait on the porch.
“Basta” mom would say, yet never enough.
An early caffeine addiction.

A tabby cat and an unfortunate end in a risky fight with a squirrel, “Basta”, but never enough.
A calico replacement, a companion to the present.  
Protector of the house when we are away,
Mardi Gras every year, beads adorning the Christmas tree, shifting to the epiphany.
God protecting the house.
French Quarters and VooDoo protecting everything else.
In my blood, I have both.

Somewhere over the rainbow still makes me cry,
Death doesn’t make me cry, only the fact that someone is dead.
Sometimes I don’t see shooting stars and I don’t see the fireflies and I feel abandoned by them.
A broken white chair in the corner of the yard from a night of not feeling enough, “Basta.”


Tire swing no longer on the apple tree, run down trampoline, a broken leg, I never came out to my
GG, she was on her deathbed when I went to tell her and I couldn’t do it.
My grandpa was on his when I feared death last. I’m sorry.

Anxiety coupled with success doesn’t feel like much, maybe that’s why I drink too much coffee.
I’ve gotten better, a family of champs. Loud, passionate, winners.
I’ve stopped living for someone else, I live for myself.
I transcend. I’m Mr. Brightside, I am that chick at that concert, hand on the barricade.
I am a future world changer, I am a drum major, I am an artist, I am love.
I have love.
I am in love.
In this cage some songs are born, I am Bukowski before the alcohol.
I am inside the inkwell of Poe.
I am the verse rewriting itself in Whitman's lines.
I am Emerson when I say good-bye to this proud world.
I am the dew on the edges of Walden within the pages of Thoreau.

I am a poet and every poet all at once.
I am an artist and every artist all at once.
I am positive film, I still keep the negatives, I still develop.


I am a prism, I am a bearer of light.
I am everything.
I am nothing.
I am.

driving late night
moon low, lookin like a street light
slow down, got some red lights
caterpillars growing up and startin to take flight
hand on your hand got me feelin right
and god, the feelins so ****** tight
thinking about your lips how i bite
when we're drivin late night.

and you've got this glow.
this halo
around you.
and my eyes should be on the road
but god knows, I can't control myself.
like wanting to taste the lemon
when i've got theses cuts on my tongue.
like gasping for air
when the room feels too tight
and all these ****** feelings
and we're just
driving late night

she keeps telling people to come and find her,
but she was never there in the first place.
she's always been gone
and she's just left the most useless part of her
behind because
people always told her that's what they liked most.
she's been sending you postcards in the form of the sun,
she's been writing you letters and signing with love.
she's so far away and
she's leaving a trace
but no one was ever looking for her in the first place.
they were looking for a home in an empty shell and
found a walk in closet that was just "good enough" and
gave her their laundry to hold until they found
newer clothes and moved away,
she's still holding them, pretending you stayed.
and to your dismay
she managed to leave
and still carries your baggage inside her shirt sleeves

there is.
a ladybug on the ceiling.
there is nothing more.
maybe a lady on the negatives
on a 35mm in
a pawnshop.
but there is
a  ladybug on the ceiling.
they are the same

I wanted to fix things but all my change fell out of my pocket and I have nothing else to give away, I guess i'll have to stay the same

boys with big hands to hold me or a guitar.
to reach around my waist or to caress the keys of a piano.
quiet, soft spoken deep voiced boys with a celestial moan saved in their chest
and the warmest timbre when they say my name.
a boy with an ear to my chest and a hand on my thigh to tap the beat of my heart on chilly summer afternoons.
a boy like mine

i'm sitting on windowsills like they did
and now i'm in the same trap
a small room of a universe/
purple fairy lights and the warm glow,
i'm ready to go home to the sky.
a soft death and bad habits to kick
from touching myself to recreate physical touch I don't receive to
crying over the friends in my head and
writing daisy petal eulogies on a deathless flowerbed.
sleeping on them like they're still living.
I'm alone and it's the same as death=
just let me die.

I woke up. it was Sunday morning and the air was cool. I wanted to move but the air seemed heavy and soft.
So I laid in bed for a while. I wanted to rest my spine.

the air feels warm as I move into the upstairs living room. I sit in the rocking chair and deep breathe.
I will go downstairs. But I wanted to rest my spine.

I made my way to the stairs when I heard arguing. The kids were in the car and my mom and papa were arguing about something.
I didn't go downstairs, so I sat down and continued to rest my spine.

The door slammed. I got a text from µˆ˚´ . I replied and looked out the window. My mom got out shortly after.
I wanted some coffee while I rested my spine.
my breathing is quiet and deep. my lungs are full of the strange haze and my stomach is aching.
I made some toast with my coffee and sat down at the dining room table,
so I could rest my spine.

The door burst open. I set down my coffee.
my father walked in and the air got slightly colder,
"the family is gone for five minutes and that's when she gets up."
I looked at him and said words. He slammed the door to his bedroom. I sipped my coffee again and held it to feel some semblance of warmth.
I continued to rest my spine.
He came out of his room and slammed his door again. He went through the others to leave and slammed those too.  
He got in his car and left. I watched through the big window and laid down in my chair so he couldn't see me exist.
I rested there with my spine.

on days where the sun sinks quietly into submission and allows the moon to conquer the sky, the trees revel in the dull yellow defeat as and the horizon waves a colorless flag or a nod to the sun and the lonely sunset. over the pond , life will cease until morning and spirits will dance among the trees, cold. ∆¨®ˆ˚∂ßπ until the battle returns and the sun takes over with it's dull brilliance. the tears from the oh so lonely ghosts will turn to dust until the strength returns. this is the cycle

his face is so delicate
his cheeks are so ******* red

i realized that i have the power to take the things that oppose and depress me and banish them after i force them into a physical object into the astral realm.
that being said.

I'm gonna roll up your words real tight and I'm gonna smoke them until I'm high- enough so that I forget what you even said in the first place.

And the smoke will enter my lungs and try to choke me but i don't mind being choked-
and i'll blow out your words real slow until they dissipate.
they'll disappear into the air and though i'll be slowed by a cancerous death, I will have controlled it myself.

in other words,
"*******"

I want you to know I got home from work and I saw your house had a ton of cars out front.And I wondered about the last time I'd see your (her) car up front. Or the last time I'll feel your sadness. or the last time. but you are not yourself, you see. You're a slave to it. You're entranced by the euphoria of the past. You hate being alone. so much that you leave your friends for a little lingering feeling of love. A memory.  Pictures last longer and you have plenty of those. I made a copy of a poem for you that you may or may not have read. I realized my hand was stuck in the printer. whoops. I know you probably didn't read it or ever will read it. or this. but I have one question,

when are you going to become yourself again?
I don't know how long it's been since you've talked to or even met yourself as yourself. And I think I could've introduced you but I'm gone and you're farther away.
and I want to make myself throw up so you can actually see how ******* sick i am of your *******. I want to have a conversation in person so you have to see me as real. Not a picture-less "helena" or perhaps, now an email.
so you'd have to tell me why.
I need you to tell me why.
I think you owe me that.
you owe yourself that.

the lilacs are bleeding into the color of the sky and I can almost smell the apologetic feel in the atmosphere as you watch from across town and I imagine you whispering "i'm sorry"

the hesitation because of how it makes my blood run cold. the way it clouds up my eyes. the way we hold the world on our tongues or the truth or ourselves. the restraint. the internal fight of the clear outlook and the dooming silence. the way the beast grows inside. the way it /lingers/ over your shoulder. the ache. the way it grips your stomach.

and the regret

the way you miss the beast. the way you miss feeling alone in it's presence. the way you miss it's (my) claws gripping your neck and tongue and spine and brain. and you just want it back . .  .   .    .     .      .

i'm
sorry

your sweet seductress is spite and fear of the unknown.
I'm here
I'm stuck.
Why have you condemned me to be left as if I am expendable to you?
As if I am expendable.
I am expendable.
Why is it fair that I've become a loss to a bet against a part of yourself that will always win?
Why is it fair that I've become the item between a bet that is cast on something you'll never change?
I see how much (little) I mean to you.

but how dare you?
how do you dare away sentiment to make someone you are trying to free yourself from happy?
Why can't you dare away yourself?
You don't need a **** hand to hold, you just need to be set free.

You just can't see
that to become free
YOU must free yourself.


but you've fallen to your flawed vices again and taken them for virtues.

dark and grey
warm and stale
the air is a rock in my lungs but i’m dressed warm in cotton and leaning against a window.
grey clouds
it’s all grey.
reminiscent.

prying fingerprints forced a premature, imaginative antidote to a continuing curse.
A false resolve, a childhood story where the grandmother survives and the wolf comes back from a lumberman’s axe and devours the wary child’s faith of happy endings.
I’ve become friends with that wolf, for I fear being alone.

i want to eat my words like pills and stand at death’s door until
i can feel my death approaching me to let me be free from this
endless hunger (that’s) making me sick
I want to be happy again
i want to be free again.

The scary part about those nights where the voices get too loud is the screaming to yourself in the hope that the demons leave. They scream at me “WHAT’S YOUR PURPOSE” and that I am worthless, but scarier still is when you start to believe them.

LET ME DRINK YOUR WORDS LIKE THEY ARE THE FRESHEST WATER ON EARTH AND LIKE I AM DYING OF THIRST.
GIVE ME A DROP OF YOUR POETIC SALVATION.

my body is suffering a battle between the destruction
from my brain and the creation from my hands
the winner constantly balanced in a tie
and my weak hands rip through the translation of
my creation that my brain fought over.

words as windows,
screen protecting the fall.
Is the screen made of computer or woven mesh?
Lately, they seem the same.
Stopping me from falling into the abyss
that haunts me with that same darkness.
her eyes were the only light that food me and
showed me how to raise my hands to the sky, showing me to reach taller.
BUT I DIDN’T KNOW I’D BE RAISING HER UP LIKE I DO.
a glance into her brain proved too orange to bear.
I was too mint for her.

I keep thinking that the reason I kept waking up that night was to see who it was sleeping next to me. I wanted it to be her, but I knew that was impossible. It was someone else + an invisible divide we were too afraid to break. I woke up much before she did + she looked so peaceful + gorgeous + too pure to be in the space with me. She rose much later + fixed herself up. We laughed a little and looked for a sock she lost underneath my bed. We searched but couldn’t find it. She explained the teas she made + slung her bag over her shoulder. She gave me a hug + then she kissed me. Gently… on the cheek. My heart started racing + I flashed back to December. The kiss on the cheek + then the betrayal. She left as I was living in a dreamscape that frightened me. maybe kisses on the cheek aren’t a good thing for me. They’re tainted with earthly lies.

sometimes the world is all a line .

and sometimes it's a million tiny orange lights as i glide above the clouds.
the perspective of my life is brought to my attention.
the woman to my right has some anxious tendencies.
she’s been picking at her left fingernails for the duration of the flight thus far.
the woman to my left seems to be coming home to her man or a family member.
they’re both watching a movie that i have no idea about.
she seems conflicted..
right woman likes coke and cookies.
she is also cold/
she rolled down her sleeves and pulled out a light button up .
she attempted to cover herself with t.
left woman has beads on.
probably coming from a reserved celebration of mardi gras.

i dont know.

my love has me drinking coffee at midnight
my love has me watching the sunset at dawn and the sunrise at nightfall.
he has me biting my own lip when i catch his scent on my sweatshirt.
my love has me crying in airport terminals and my love has me wishing for the sweet release of death where i can be everywhere at once so i’ll never have to leave his side.
my love has me dancing to the wind chimes and talking to my stuffed animals .
my love has me tracing the curve of his lips in the stars





the one that broke my heart has me listening to our songs
the one that broke my heart has me crying in airports and drinking coffee at 3 am wanting to shake to forget the lies.
the one that broke my heart has me curled up on my floor questioning the past 10 months of my life and second guessing those times i almost died.