we are all born addicts
        addicted
        to love
we crave those chemicals
coursing through our blood
beating in time with our heart
engulfing our mind
love tearing us apart
letting sanity unwind
but it will all be worth it
if we can just get our fix
that sweet taste of love
and the pain it inflicts
because we are all addicts
        addicted
        to love
and once we get a hit
we can never get enough

s.s

I get sad, I feel anxiety
on anything I interpret from you
I wallow in sadness
over anything you did or said
“It didn’t feel good, it didn’t feel right”
I drown in sadness
It’s becoming hoarding,
overspreading, excessive,
invasive
Growing everywhere,
anytime
Then you come again
You peace my mind
And I’m restored, until my next time.

welcome, welcome
to the poets parade
please join us now
and never be afraid
we welcome you
to march your words
across the screens of hundreds
to make your thoughts heard
we will stand with you
through thick and thin
and we promise to make sure
you don't feel alone again
we will be with you
through the good and the bad
and help you create art
out of the experiences you've had
yes welcome, welcome
to the poets parade
please join us now
and never be afraid

s.s.

my “best friend” does not care
and my best friend is not there

s.s

it's not me
pushing you
away except
it actually is me

it's the kind of
morning that the
wind is blowing
just right so that
the open flag
flutters in front
of the window
where i can see it

the kind of morning
i don't need coffee
and i try not to
think about

it too
much

(i just wanted to
be the girl in
an owl city song)

pacing back and
forth in straight
lines and gritting
my teeth against
an onslaught of
small town gunfire

(i'll bet annmarie
never had scars
or scratches
brielle didn't cry
and shake for
hours thinking
how to end it all
it turned out
okay for anna
and vienna probably
knew how to dance
between the snowflakes
and underneath her regret)

i've never been good at
drowning out thoughts
they just get louder the
longer time rolls on

good at rolling out
cookie dough and
good at drowning
in dishwater when
the brownie batter's
baking and the bowl
needs washing when
nobody's looking

(i've had moments
here and there in golden
sneakers and navy blue
lace covered dresses
but i'm not the girl
in an owl city song
not something worth
writing dreamy poems
about not so lovestruck you
replace your words with dada)

girls like me wear flannel
khaki too much day old
eyeliner too many day old
scones have half heads of weird
colored hair and spend valentines
day alone watching tv

so maybe why i'm bitter
as the inside of a lemon is
that i'll never be able to change
to someone drenched in verbena
spinning through the sunny
skies between your fingers