i used to dream of flying,
soaring through the air.
i used to dream of flying,
when i was young,
interested in happier times.
then the dreams used to be of flying,
but then i could no longer speak.
and even after that i began to run,
chased by things i have been avoiding,
running from ideas that could break me.
then within my dreams, i began to fall.
and then i dreamt of death.
i no longer fly,
i am merely wordless, running,
falling.

|m.s.

on this break i've designated one thing.
to steer clear of you,
to remove you from me:
my soul, my essence.
twenty one days
is the amount of time needed to break a habit.
this break is less than that
sitting at a fourteen
enough for me to sit the night before we return
chewing my fingernails on if you'll be there in the morning
if you'll be safe, healthy,
alive.
a lot can happen in fourteen days
and it's awful for me to sit and think.
so far i've done a very good job keeping you out of my thoughts.
out of my conversations.
the only time you've come up
was that a few days into this break
i saw you
and blast it
my whole body heat up like fire
i felt my skin get clammy and hot
i felt conflicting emotions.
but one thing stood clear:
i want to be done with you.
now.
i have no time
for this beating around the bush *******.
i'm sick an tired of crying over your bipolar personality
being a friend one and a foe the next
you even know that i feel for you.
i've dreamt to hold your hand
and lie beside you and watch the sky be born
and grow old,
fading into black to count the stars.
i've wished for you
on lost pennies, four 1's--two 11's on a clock,
on stars, on birthday candles, crossed fingers, christmas lists.
i've written countless poems
expressing all my anguish and excitement.
god you bring out the worst in me, but also the best.
i'm so patient with you, but jealous towards others.
i wish you knew what you did to me.
i wish you knew what you did to me over
the fact that i feel for you,
over petty feelings that i'm ready to be over of,
that i've wasted a year and a half on.
twenty one days breaks a habit.
fourteen isn't quite enough,
but i'll take it.
tonight is the first time i've actually thought about you.
and this poem of promise
speaking of freedom from feeling so awful all the time,
sounds lovely.
i'm sorry to have inconvenienced you
for a year and a half
over feelings i should of put out immediately.
but fire spreads rapidly, my dear.
and i have a low tolerance of heat.

|m.s.

today, i couldn't remember a word
a certain phrase or idea.
it sat upon the tip of my tongue
and i, frustrated
thought extensively for it.

you, my dear
were standing beside me
you told me to take my mind off of it
"think of something completely different."

i thought of kissing you.

|m.s.

i don't ask for hugs anymore
but when I did,
you wrapped your arms around me
and i just sat there for a few seconds
unhealthy pretending,
and buried my face in your shoulder.
i pulled away after that.
then i sat in the audience and cried.

|m.s.

she asks what's for dinner, already planning what she will eat. it's not that she's hungry, but to the point where she is thinking of what she can eat and not feel guilty. it's not that she isn't hungry, but she guilts herself after eating. she could of eaten less, something healthier, nothing at all. she counts the pounds alongside the tears, curses her body for being seventy percent water, curses her curves, curses the stretch marks, that discolouration on her skin. she pinches her cheeks, pulls at her shirt. the fact that her t-shirt hangs off of her is for her own comfort. she's tried being comfortable with her body, but at all instances she is hyper aware of what she's wearing, where it's positioned, what she's doing, how she's sitting. her stomach hurts at the end of the day from holding it all in, from keeping herself from expanding, filling the space, shrinking back from the eye, and crossing her fingers, hoping she's not surpassing two-thirteen. people tell her she's the right size for her body type, but it isn't good enough. she's tall, but she's still pudgy. she hated her prom pictures. she hated her yearbook photo, she's afraid for her senior photos she's trying to lose weight for. but weight doesn't just fall like an apple off a tree, it takes time and time is what she doesn't have, and the depression from the world and over herself makes her too tired to do anything more, and it's a vicious cycle she keeps swirling through.

|m.s.

I AM RIDDEN with half assed makeup
and bed head hair
and i bet i look awful today
in jeans and a wrinkled t-shirt
and clay covered shoes
but i can't just keep keeping myself
together.
i'm ready
to
     fall
           apart
schools looking to be
sadder than usual
and i count the minutes
to go by
first, second, third, fourth, fifth.
why do i count down the time to go to bed?

|m.s.

again she "charms" her way
into the hearts of another boy
a man eater
she flies between boys-
like birds on electric wires,
to my displeasure
she doesn't shock herself
and take a base,
but gets off free
another relationship passes
and it becomes their fault
she blames them,
when in all actuality,
her true colours
shown through
and she's no rainbow.

|m.s.