My body,

This overgrown graveyard,

This home for ghosts of the wrongly loved,

Doors open to broken souls,

Offering a warm bed,

Clean clothes,

A listening ear.



Most come in the winter

When the cold starts to ache and

The snow sinks through the gauze bandages and the wounds start to drip again,

There's never enough firewood,

Have to start chopping down trees,

Even the new peach tree at the edge of the yard,

So they can stay warm.

The blizzards shake the power out so they all congregate in the atrium,

Divulge tales around burning furniture

Of how they found this place,

This decrepit shelter

Turning more skeleton than home,

Their voices bounce off the hardwood floor,

Come to a resting point,

Fade out.



An old man with sad cheekbones who tried to drink his father back to life but only stumbled through the front door drunk,

A child in her Auntie's pearls led to the porch by a boy hungry for anyone,

The brokenhearted boy and the girl he could never hold tight enough who walked in on the same night but never called it fate,

The swollen lung man who choked on his words and fell blue faced in the entryway,

They all take up rooms here,

Mark their heights on the pantry door even though it never changes,

Claim ownership of these walls as they pull off the paper and paint over the scraps left behind,

The roof is starting to cave in because

They've started using the pillars for kindling.



They don't call this place home,

Don't plant any seeds in the garden that will take too long to sprout,

They call it an in-between,

Call it a place to spend the night,

Call it falling apart

As they tear it down,

Call it a place to hide while they fix their mistakes,

Leave their mistakes stuffed in the knife drawer.



When winter begins to melt

And the grass sticks up through the snow

They find their way out,

Leave with fresh pink scars,

Leave their used bandages in the bathtub,

Take a strip of wallpaper,

A peach from the tree by the edge of the yard

To remember it by.

My brother told me
that if I keep dressing the way I do
and cutting my hair short
I'm going to look like a man.

I hope so.

Maybe, if people think I'm a man,
no one will tell me I can't
listen to Van Halen because
"it's guy music".

Maybe, if people think I'm a man,
they won't think I'm the antichrist
when I kiss my girlfriend.

Maybe if people think I'm a man,
they won't expect me to shave my legs
and arms
and every other area with
"unsightly hair".

Maybe if people think I'm a man,
my teacher will not tell me
to make sure I marry someone
who can support my family
and will start telling me
how to ******* support my family.

Maybe if people think I'm a man
they won't get angry at me
when I refuse to send
pornographic photos of
my body.

Maybe if people think I'm a man
I will be able to walk home
at night without pepper spray
on my keychain in case
I look too "provocative".

Maybe if people think I'm a man
I will finally get treated
with some *******
**respect.

When you decided to stop smoking
you kept buying cigarettes,
still carried them around in the
pocket of your jeans
but told yourself that
every time you lit one
you'd have to put it out on your hand,
and so you savored every moment
that smoke rushed through your lungs,
let them all burn down to the ****
before you took a deep breath
and pressed it against your palm.
You still smoke.

This is for the girls that have ****** you. This is for the pale girls with short hair, the "she could be a lesbian but I'm not sure" type, the beanie wearing bad ******* with heavy baggage and a surplus of bandages. This is for the sad girls, the shipwrecked sailors searching for a beacon, the bruised rib cages and ****** knuckles. This is for the condoms, the purple box you keep in the drawer in your bedside table that we have all seen, the repeated observation that you have no ******* clue how to put on a ****** without looking like a child trying to stuff a water ****** into a sock. This is for the silence, the overwhelming quiet made quieter by skin hitting skin, the active avoidance of eye contact. This is for the fact that you consider foreplay "stalling," the speed with which you can please yourself via another person's body, the ******* that we have all faked at least twice. This is for the general consensus that your performance in bed can be summed up in three words: insecure, selfish, and pretentious. You are the Kanye West of ***; I'm not sure if you are going to let me finish. This is for the sore muscled sweethearts that saved your self-esteem and reassured you of your ****** orientation, for the courteous cuties who carried on until you came, this is for the girls that have ****** you. Godspeed.

if I promise I don't love you can you hold me again
can you trace your fingers over my thigh and pretend it's not a sin
can you hold my hand and pretend that it isn't too cold
like we used to do before I got too sad and you got too old
can you kiss my neck like you just want to touch me
can you press my head to your chest so I can feel your heartbeat
if I promise I don't love you will you tell me that you love me

On the floor
in my living room
with my head on your chest
and your arms around me.
The tv was on.
I don't remember what show.
I remember the beating of your heart.
I remember how shallow your breaths were.
I fell asleep.
When I woke up,
I rolled over.
Glanced over at you,
said good night,
walked upstairs.
I wonder how you felt.
I don't know why I keep doing this to us.

There were moments,
days,
months
when I didn't think I would make it this far.
I keep thinking back to when everything broke,
to when I started sinking,
and I am wondering how it is possible
that I haven't hit bottom yet.

I'm wondering if there is a bottom.
I'm wondering if maybe,
you just keep sinking,
and sinking,
and sinking,
until eventually you run out of breath
and your lungs force you to inhale salt water
because it is the only thing left around you.

You're supposed to let out little bubbles of air,
never all of it at once.
Your body can keep using the oxygen left in your lungs
and you can breath out the carbon dioxide,
but eventually your chest will be empty.

And then you will swim.

That's when you kick,
pull,
claw at the surface,
drag your water-saturated body
toward the place you used to call home.

You will not make it.

You have been falling for so long
that it is impossible
to make up for the time lost.

Keep swimming.

As you get closer to the surface
your lungs will ache from oxygen deprivation.
Your legs will not be as fast or strong.
You will begin to lose consciousness.

But the sunlight will start to break through.

Ultraviolet rays penetrating the surface
will caress your arms,
you will remember what safety feels like,

you will smile.

You will close your eyes.

You will stop fighting the pull of gravity.

Corpses float.

I've got scars on my wrist
I've got scars on my wrist from the time I got too drunk
I got too drunk because I wanted to be brave enough
To be brave enough to tell him I loved him
I told him I loved him in the same breath as I told him I was dying
I was dying because my eyes wouldn't stay open
Eyes wouldn't stay open because I kept closing them
Kept closing them because I didn't want to see the blood all over one of the good white towels
All over one of the good white towels because I tried to wash it off in the shower but it kept bleeding
Kept bleeding because I cut deeper than I thought I had
Cut deeper than I thought I had because I couldn't feel it
Couldn't feel it because I was too drunk
I was too drunk because I drank all the beers left in the fridge and the ***** in the freezer
The ***** in the freezer because the beer wasn't strong enough
Wasn't strong enough
Wasn't strong enough

just lie to me and say the emptiness will go away someday,
tell me it gets better,
tell me I won't always feel like this.
I need something to hope for,
something to look forward to.
I don't want a light at the end of the tunnel,
I want the tunnel to be lit on the inside, too.
I don't want to wait until the end to finally be able to see.
improvement is not getting used to the pain,
improvement is the pain going away.
if you had a hole in your hand your entire life
yes, you would get used to it
but there'd still be a ******* hole in your hand
and I am trying to hold on but everything keeps slipping through the ******* hole
and no one is telling me how to make the hole go away,
they just keep saying I'll learn how to live with it.

That first puff,
the first sip,
the burn in my throat,
light headed
and shaking,
another hit
another shot,
I remember when I promised
never.

I am not
the person I used to be,
I am not
a beacon of hope,
I am a shipwreck
and I can see
the smokestacks falling
into the sea.

Sometimes I have to
remind myself I am awake,
that this is not a dream,
maybe one day
I'll wake up
and it will be.

Do not look at me
like a sob story,
do not ask
for a happy ending,
there is no ending,
this is my life
and it is
ongoing
smoke bumming
***** stealing
blunt passing
cold turkey
relapsing
screaming
screaming
screaming.

Red ribbons
and markers on posters,
this is not
the person
I was
before.

They keep telling me there is nothing I could have done.
They say that I couldn't have stopped it from happening,
as if that is supposed to make me feel better.

As if the fact that horrible things happen
and there is no way to prevent them
should come as a comfort to me.

There is evil in this world,
and you can either
ignore it,
attempt to banish it,
or try to save those you love
from it.

There is no correct choice.

You will fail,
regardless.

I still don't know
how much of us
was real

I swear to God I am not giving up
but every breath I take feels like smoke
and I am not sure how much more
my tar-stained lungs can endure.

I am walking toward mirages
with the knowledge that they are fake
but with the thought that
moving to a new area of the desert
will not hurt anymore than remaining sedentary,
and I am thinking that maybe
if I walk far enough in one direction
toward these delusions
eventually I will have to reach something
other than sand
because this wasteland cannot be infinite and
I know these visions are malignant figments of my imagination
but one day there will be an oasis
that does not disappear at the touch of my dusty palms
and this will be what I have been walking toward
all this time
and these mirages are not lies,
they are promises,
they are foreshadowing
of a place better than this and
I cannot ignore these signs
because they are the only things
that keep me from sitting so long in one place
that I erode my own grave into the dirt.

I cannot tell you I love you,
cannot let you know what you mean to me
because it will only make it harder for me to leave,
cannot give you the burden of my last sentiments,
cannot curse you without your consent
and God forbid you say it back,
God forbid you shorten the list of things this place lacks,
I just want to go,
want to get out of here on my own,
want to spoil my own reputation
so you will not curse the earth for my disintegration,
I cannot leave you with anything to miss,
cannot let you regret the moments we did not kiss,
I cannot tell you I love you.

His tales of a place he once called home, now reduced to ruins and smolder, carry a weight he has become accustomed to straining the muscles of his back against. He keeps postcards in his wallet, folded and creased in the center to the point of perforation, pulls them out when he is homesick or when anyone asks about his origins, always tucks them back into the pocket with more spite than he cares to portray. Most observers simply nod their head, "how beautiful it is," –was– "you're lucky to have been a part of it." He smiles, the genuine kind of smile that takes precise attention to detail and years of practice to counterfeit, says "I know." Some bold and curious or ignorant and inconsiderate listeners poke their furrowed brows into his upturned palms, ask him, "did you see the fire?" They want to know –must know– if he could smell the smoke from the next town over, if he could see the sky illuminated in the distance, the red hue seeping into the blue-black night, they want to know how big it was, a house fire or a holocaust, if he tried to put it out or if he stood idle, looked for faces in the flames, if it left anything but charred floorboards and fireproof safes, the combinations written on scraps of paper now insignificant. You can see him fuming from across the room, his face illuminated, the red hue dripping down his neck, his voice becomes victim, tries to keep it steady but you can see losses on his tongue, he trails off into silence, leaves nothing but stubbed toes and sentiments, "I'm sorry I asked." When he talks about the people he knows –knew– there, he always starts with a chuckle, a little grin as if something had just reminded him of them, they were all kids back then, his eyes turn child again while he talks about how they played in the storm drains and then he snaps them shut, remembers the cigarette butts, remembers the lighters they bought at the drug store, how they had loved to see things burn until they couldn't stop it. He talks about this place he used to call home, doesn't know what to call it anymore.

Yesterday
I cried myself to sleep
at the pain in my head
the pounding
the twist of my stomach

Today
I wear dress instead of bow tie
don't think I can stand the stares in the hallway
don't want to explain to my dad
get called cute
force a smile
remind myself they say it as a compliment
turn red anyways

Tomorrow
I will lie to my therapist
tell her I'm improving
say I'm 3 months clean
won't tell her about the drinking
won't tell her I almost killed myself
won't tell her I still want to
won't cry

You

All pierced ears
and tattoos
and walking out of classrooms

Me

All thumb rings
And flannel shirts
And anonymous emails

You

With strong arms
And scars
And a smile like a rainstorm

Me

With bony knees
And freckles
And chapped lips

You

Your dilated pupils
Tar choked lungs
Stories from rehab

Me

My slurred words
Empty bottles
Hangovers

You

Saying I miss you
Please kiss me
I love you

Me

Saying I'm drunk
Please need me
I'm empty

Why the **** do I care about you so much?

Maybe it's because you've been in my life for so long

Or maybe it's because you were almost my first kiss

Or it's because of that night you held me

Or because I think I was the girl you talked about in that letter

Or because you were the first person to ever claim to be in love with me.

You were drunk when you first said it and I didn't believe you

Until three years later when you told my best friend about it

And you said the night you held me was the best night of your life

And I believed you.

I don't think you know what love is.

I don't think I do either.

I tell myself I love you.

I convince myself I don't.

I'm starting to think that it's rare to find someone who doesn't have a piece of their heart left in someone else's hands that maybe there is no such thing as a true love just the love that comes last just the love that nobody else has to try to one-up I'm starting to think that maybe my dad is still in love with my mom and his new wife doesn't mind because maybe when you get older you realize that there is no such thing as wholeheartedly loving someone only loving them with the pieces that are left and maybe my girlfriend is still in love with her best friend because I saw the way he looked at her and I tried not to be jealous when they went off on their own at that party and I heard a girl say that she calls their relationship "complicated" and what the hell does that make me am I the complication and I'm trying not to be jealous but I've never made her laugh like he does and I'll probably never know her like he does and maybe all I can hope for is for her to love him from afar and love me up close maybe he is her house back in Mississippi and I am her new apartment maybe if she puts up curtains it will feel more like home I cannot explain the aching I felt in my chest when my last boyfriend said I reminded him of his ex it feels like the piece of my heart he was holding starting bleeding like maybe an artery sprung a leak because I am like her but not quite she is mural and I am replica she is mountain range and I am photograph she is morning walks on the beach and I am jar of sand I knew he was in love with her I could tell by the way he said her name after he ****** me I thought maybe second best was good enough I thought maybe if I do my make up like she does he will call me pretty today the ****** up part is that it worked the sad part is he didn't know why it hurt so bad maybe I am just hypersensitive maybe my girlfriend only loves him as a friend maybe by complicated she meant he loved her but she couldn't love him back but that's what I've been saying about that boy that said he loved me I keep telling myself I don't love him but on lonely nights he is the one I want to talk to he is always there in the back of my mind I wear his jacket when I want to feel safe because my girlfriend will probably never know me like he does maybe I will love him from afar and love her up close maybe he is my house before my dad moved out and she is his new place maybe if I hang up some paintings it will feel more like home I cannot explain the aching I felt in my chest when he said he loved me

My stomach growls
so I get another cup of ice water.
Please,
let me feel pretty.
I'm trying so hard.

I have been told by four different people that I'm not really trying to get better, that I'm just wallowing in this sorrow and letting it swallow me, like bleach, but from you, I think was the worst. No, no it wasn't, the worst was the first time, from the first boy I ever kissed, I remember how sweetly he said it, "I just think you let it get the best of you sometimes," and how I exploded, and so I was prepared when you said it, had been through this fight before, had a witty retort prepared for every "well if you just did this you could fix it" you threw at me, I have years of experience in defending my sadness. So when you told me that if I have lived this long just so I won't break any more hearts than I have to then I should just keep going, and I said "Good night", understand that I only left because that poses a question that I have not been brave enough to answer yet, that I know to you it makes perfect sense but there are days when the only thing that keeps me going is the promise that I will eventually die, and when you try to push that back, try to tell me that it will not happen as soon as I have been promising myself, I lose hope. So yes, you made some valid points, and yes, I probably could be working a little harder, and, yes, I am still mad at you. You're an *******. Good night.

Sometimes I wake up in the morning without the knot in my chest but I feel off balance so I try to put it back there, feel off balance like tilted bottles of triple sec sliding down my throat, feel off balance like waking up in a place I don't recognize.
Sometimes I smile when I'm sad but I'm scared my demons will feel betrayed so I try to hide it, scared to stare into the sun for too long, scared I'm not going to be able to feel anything anymore if I lose that.
Sometimes I decide I want to love myself again but I remember how I broke my heart before and I put walls up so I don't get hurt again, put walls up so I won't be surprised when I'm still lonely this time next year, put walls up so when I fail I can at least say I was never really trying.
Sometimes I think I'm getting better but I don't know where that leaves me so I think myself out of it, think myself into watercolor guilt, think myself into dying.

I relapsed in every way I could last night and when people ask about my scars I have trouble saying "I used to cut" because I feel like I'm lying to them and when she asked me why I did it I didn't know what to say other than "I'm drunk" and it was one hundred and one degrees Fahrenheit today and I wore a flannel shirt so my parents wouldn't see the canyon I carved into my arm and I didn't get out of bed until four PM because of my hangover and my mom brought me Advil and seltzer water and it breaks my heart that she helped me and I couldn't tell her what was wrong and I don't know how to ******* help myself anymore I feel like such a lost cause and I think it might be better if I just killed myself because then I wouldn't have to deal with this and I wouldn't keep hurting people and I'm sorry I keep doing this I'm sorry I don't know how to handle this I'm sorry I'm a bad person I'm sorry I stole your ***** I'm sorry I got blood on the sheets

Don't know why this is so hard to write
don't know why my chest aches so much but it does
don't know why there is nothing I can draw or paint that looks like how my head feels
don't know why I want him to love me so bad
don't know how much longer I can go on
don't know if I want to go on
don't know how to tell them I have already given up when they are telling me to keep fighting don't know how to say I already lost
how to say I'm empty
how to say I am bleeding out slowly
how to peel back these bandages
how to let my wounds show
how to show them all the places I tried to stitch my skin back together
they aren't holding because my mom never taught me how to sew
don't know why I hate myself so much
don't know why he doesn't talk to me anymore
don't know if I should call him
don't know why I want to call him
don't know why she never ******* texts me
don't know why she claims to want me
don't know why she would ever want me
don't know where to put my hands
don't know why they're so sweaty
oh God why are they shaking
don't know why God never showed himself to me
don't know why no one ever showed me God
don't know why I need someone to love me so badly
want someone to hold me
why won't anyone fix me
why are people not fixable
why am I so broken
why am I crying

if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it
it doesn't make a sound but you can feel it shake the ground for miles
feel it rattle the good china in the cupboard

if a tree fall in the forest and no one is around to find use for the wood
it just lays there until the early morning damp soaks all the way through
just lays there until pieces of it start to flake off

if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to count the years in its rings
it might never have lived at all
might never have been alive in the first place

I heard that people's hearts
are the same size as their fists.

When you told me you loved me
everything was soft around the edges.
The palms of your hands were smooth
as you ran them over every inch of me,
reading me like Braille.
It was gentle.
It was kind.

I heard that people's hearts
are the same size as their fists.

When you told me I broke your heart
everything was shattered and fragmented.
Your knuckles were jagged and ******
as you turned my flesh to pulp,
beating every last I'm sorry out of me.
It was brutal.
It was angry.

I heard that people's hearts
are the same size as their fists.

i just took a lot of cold medicine (a lot of cold medicine) and i think i love (love) you and i know you do not want to hear that now and i am sorry (i am sorry (i am sorry)) but i do not know what to do, i am losing faith in everything (everything) and now you are losing faith in me, too (you are losing faith in me, too)

I'm doing the best I can but I can't do this anymore, I keep crying in my sleep, keep having nightmares. I thought I saw a ghost yesterday until I realized I was looking in the ******* mirror, I'm haunting my own house, possessing my own body, I'm ******* the life out of myself. I tied a noose around my finger just to prove that I could do it, I keep a razor in my purse just to prove that I could do it, to prove to myself that I'm strong enough to not do it, but they keep whispering my name. The bottle of mouthwash with 5% alcohol keeps screaming at me and I can't use it anymore, it leaves that taste in my mouth, tastes like hangover and relapse and accidents, and they're all teasing me with promises of making it all just stop and God it sounds so sweet, sounds so sweet, I know it's not.

Oh, how perfect it is to want you,
how perfect it is to long for that which I know
I can never have, to see
the futility in my desires and to
desire them in spite of,

how perfect it is that you do not love me
anymore,
that we will not fall into mutual complacency
which would inevitably tarnish and blanch,
that the
unknown
will remain
unknowable,
that anything will continue to be possible
because nothing has been tested against fate,

how perfect it is to wish for the infeasible,
to strive toward a goal I will
never attain, to
never lack
something to search for,

oh, how perfect it is to want you;
how perfect it is to want too much.

I am sorry.
I want everyone to know that this is no one's fault.
If anyone were to blame, it would be the universe herself,
and even that seems unfair.
She is trying to survive, just like the rest of us.
I am not sure where I will go now.
Whether it will be pearly gates
or eternal sleep
or a fire place
I am unsure,
but it is worth the risk to escape this reality.
I remember my mom holding me as I sobbed
because my best friend had been ***** and I did not save her.
My mother whispered like a lullaby into my ear,
there was nothing you could have done.
As if the fact that horrible things happen to innocent people
and there is no way to stop it
should come as a comfort to me.
I realize that this is just how life is
and if everyone else can live with it then I should be able to, too,
but I cannot seem to keep myself from trying to rescue everyone.
I am throwing myself into the ocean to resuscitate those seen drowning,
I am being swept out by the tide,
gagged by the salt water,
pulled beneath the surface by the ones I am trying to hold up.
Maybe I am weak.
Maybe I am too dense to fight the pull of gravity.
Maybe gravity will finally get what it wants
when I, in my brown box, am lowered as deep as this life can take me.
My spine is no longer strong enough to withstand this pressure.
I am breaking.
I am leaving.
I am gone.
I am sorry.

I held a match to the rose you gave me
but it wouldn't
*******
burn.

I tried so hard to leave you
but you wouldn't
let me
*go.

You said I was a god and I believed you
thought you would always pray to me
thought your devotion to me was eternal

called you crying because my word is divine
even between thunder storm sobs
called you a sinner because fear
is the root of fidelity

but I remember when you said you were an atheist
realized I was just as human as you
decided you didn't need my wrath
you walked through my fire
stole my halo
became your own savior
and now I am alone and godless

you were the only one to ever love me
but you have denounced your faith
and if God doesn't exist
then who the hell was I

I keep writing these poems
emptying my chest onto paper
thinking somehow
this will make it feel less hollow
thinking someday
these words won't be so tortured
but every scratch of pen
every patch of black or blue
covering something that just
didn't fit right
looks so vacant
and everything I say
is starting to sound the same
I am pulling words from a thesaurus
trying to rephrase the ache
into something I haven't felt before
trying to justify
why I haven't been able to fix this yet
talking myself into a fire
this ink is gasoline
and combustion
is something I am all too familiar with

Husband and housewife
He left every day
Came back at night
Wasted
She comforted him with
Laundry basket kisses
He yelled
He knocked a lamp off a shelf
She locked the bathroom door
Slept in the tub
Apologies over French toast
He left again
She swept the shards of glass
Under the rub
So maybe when he drug his tired feet
Across the ground
He would bleed like she did

I whispered your name into clenched fists
and cursed myself for letting you in.
I ground your fingerprints off my skin with sandpaper
and dug your promises out of my veins.
I cracked my ribs and ****** you out of the marrow.
I exhaled all your breath from my lungs like cigarette smoke.
I set fire to the rose you gave me
and left the notes you wrote in the rain.
I destroyed myself to destroy you
but it wasn't enough.

I called you at 2am,
I spit venom into the phone,
Do you have any idea how guilty you make me feel?
I broke my own heart over you,
I told myself you deserved this,
I made you feel sorry
oh, did I make you feel sorry...

It's 6am now.
He deserved it.
He deserved it.
I ruined myself.
I ruined you.
I made you feel sorry.

*I keep telling myself it was worth it.

Don't want to do this
don't want to be here
don't want things to get better
just want them to end
just want to drink myself to death
just want to die
want to be gone
want to slice up my arms
want to bleed out
want to wake up in a hospital bed
want to stay there forever
want to stop trying to recover
want to get worse
want to die
want to die
want to die

I have never felt more hatred toward another human being
than I do toward myself.
The only question I have been able to ask myself these past few months
is “what the **** are you doing?”
and I do not have an answer.
I have been carrying this weight for so long that
I have forgotten how it feels to be free.
I am a prisoner of war
inside my own ******* head,
and I am no longer sure of what I am fighting for.
Do not call me a soldier.
I am not a hero,
I am a coward.
I am weak.
Point a rifle to my head.
Do not prepare your bayonets,
I will not struggle.
Close my eyes when the light fades from them.
Do not let me see what I’ve left behind.

I was right there.

As he gripped her waist in one hand,
she glanced in my direction
long enough to force a nod
when I asked if she was okay.

His fingertips traced their way up her thigh
as her breath became more shallow.
I asked if she was okay.
She said yes.

With his cold breath on the back of her neck
and his arm pulling her closer,
he whispered something that I couldn't hear.
She said she was fine.

I was right there.

I followed her when she left.
I found her sitting on the restroom floor.
With every sob her body shook in my bony arms.
I could not protect her.

I was right there.

I am so sorry that I did not save her.
If her eyes had screamed a little louder,
if I had looked a little closer,
Maybe then I could have stopped him before it was too late.

**I was right there.

Jesus Christ I swear I'm trying it's just not working, everything keeps falling through, keeps slipping through, and maybe I'm not doing this right, maybe I'm just making mistakes, but I don't even know where to start, I'm trying to take it one step at a time but everything happens all at once and I'm not fast enough, I'm not strong enough to carry on like this, my feet are tired and I don't care enough to try any harder, I'm giving up, I'm sorry

I remember when I was
thirteen and my aunt asked
if I had ever had my heart broken.

With the same tone of voice
I would have used if she had
told me to be safe on
my walk to school,

I said
my heart is indestructible.

Now I am afraid for my
life because they thought the
Titanic was unsinkable so
they drove it head on into
an iceberg and as the ship's
soundness was compromised
a number of the passengers were
so drunk that they decided
to stay on board.

I can only hope that when
I see an iceberg in my path I
will not let my hubris convince me
that I can handle it,

I can only hope that if
my heart begins to sink
I will not be so intoxicated with
my feeling of invincibility that
I do not try to save myself,

I can only hope that
when my ship goes down
I will not have made myself
so isolated that
there are no rescue missions
willing to find me.

I was trying to write something including the line
it kissed with no desire to heal what it had broken
and so I wrote
it kissed with no desire to heal what it had broken
but I didn't know what
it
was so I changed
it
to
he
and I wrote that
he kissed with no desire to heal what he had broken
but I thought about
him
and I thought about what
he
had done and I thought about kissing
him
and the things that were broken but not healed and so I changed
he
to
I
and I wrote that
I kissed with no desire to heal what I had broken
and I payed attention to the broken pieces that
I
had created and the people that
I
had kissed and I thought about what
I
desired and never have
I
tried to heal what
I
have broken.

To fill the emptiness with hollow things

To speak through our teeth only in whispers

To find remorse in the beautiful memories

To pour the milk ourselves

To walk away from that which we hold closest

To clog the drain with pebbles from our shoes

To hate those who love us

To hate those who cannot

To dog-ear the pages in borrowed novels

To hide lies beneath our skin

To lie thorns beneath the bedsheets

To forget to say hello

To forget to say good bye

Adding apologies to artillery shells does not amend the action,

And

My brokenness betrays me when it bellows that I have beaten bruises black and blue into your back

But

Crying is a catharsis much too commonplace to convey these casualties.



My doubtful disposition has denied you deliverance from your daring endeavors

Because

Emptying myself to entertain someone else's enormous sense of entitlement

Is

A feeling that frightens my already fragile sense of forwardness.



Glory from a god who glances generously upon us growling ghosts

Is

A Heaven that hurts like hell because happiness is heresy

But

Isolation is an independence I never intended to introduce here.



Juggling jokes and jealousy between juggernauts is jeopardizing my judgement

Because

Kindness is to knowing the truth as kissing is to your knuckles,

It's

Like living life as a lamb but loving a lion.



Missiles gone missing are making me misunderstand my own memory

Yet

Needles have never seemed so necessary as when you're near,

And

Ownership is not an option so we have both become orphans.



Praying to people seems more plausible than pleasing a perfect being

So

I will quantify rather than qualify the quaintness of this quarantine

And

Respectfully reply that paying retribution to a ***** is ridiculous.



Soon something will surface that sends shivers down your spine

But

Today there is only turmoil taking its time to taper off

So

Understand when I utter the word "unify" that I mean us.



Vain and vindictive as you have very well verified being,

If

We worship with what we wish, not what we will,

Our

Exploitation will exemplify an axis on which oxymoron is expedient.



You and your yearning will not yield to yonder threats,

Because

The zeal of this zephyr will carry us to the zenith.

Standing before a once white canvas,
brush in hand.

Paint runs together,
reds and blues and yellows
are now indistinguishable.

Stained palms are reminders
of the source of the mess.

It is so much easier to ruin things
than it is to fix them.

The black of your faded comforter
and grey walls with paint swatches in
tasteful shades of yellow
Against our timid skin
blushing with sun exposure
we have not seen in months
Dim rays slipping in between the blinds
and the rain
–in line segments–
makes its way down your window
We whisper so
the neighbors cannot hear us
pretending to make promises
Five past four
still too early

Sleep with a mason jar
Under your bed
Try to forgive all the things
That we never said

Ache within reason
Regurgitate your pride
There is strength in always
Having something to hide

Dig you claws into the mountainside
Feel slate crumble and fall
Get a grip on something permanent
Or on nothing at all

Face your fears with
Grace and poise
Use your screams to drown out
All this **** noise

Remind yourself
Of where you've been
And where you'll go
When your time here ends