i laugh
at the naivety of a poem
i wrote when i was 8
that described what love is.
then it struck me
i’m no wiser about love now
than i was then.

how can she hate the world so much
yet still be filled with such kindness despite it?

when you miss something do you miss a person, place, or thing?

or do you miss a time?


you miss the idolized version, at least that much is true.

you miss the good times, the times when everything felt okay.


you forget the words laced with poison,
the painful moments that dripped with hate.
and i'm not sure whether that's better or worse

i hear the waves
tickling the shore from my room.
it's a lovely sound,
i just wish it would last.

last night i heard a strange type of knocking
outside the door in the floor below me.
at points it sounded like footsteps pounding up the stairs,
coming for the closest room in the apartment: mine

today i write as much as i can
before the words
s
l
   i
    p through my fingers,
like they always do,
because i'd rather write words i'll regret,
marking them up to foolishness when i am older,
than never write them at all.

Silence locks you in a room full of darkness,
blinding you from the nightmare outside.
It pulls the trigger on the gun,
while vowing it’s okay because you didn’t load it.
It watches as the world burns around the unfortunate
while claiming you didn’t strike the match.

It is too late in the evening to continue to stay
in the shackles of this silence.
The sun is setting, and you can no longer
ignore the irreversible night that threatens
to drown us in its pressing darkness.
We must allow ourselves to shatter its silence.