i won't lie
and say we haven't been like two fish
swimming circles in our fish bowl

one night ago
on the eve of our anniversary
we sat in silence and ate sushi
and all i could think was -
how distant i felt from you
despite our legs touching underneath the table.

how can this be,
when we've been swimming circles
in our fish bowl?

it's been two months
since the betrayal
and
i won't lie
and say we haven't been like two fish
swimming in two different oceans
in two different parts of the world.

things are not the same like they used to be -
but i have some hope that
we will stop swimming circles
soon.

sipping a smoothie through my straw -
taste buds lighting up with how good it is.

but it's not as good as you,
not as sweet as you.

you're my favorite craving -
and i don't care about the toothaches
or the cavities
if it means i get one more taste of you.

in the midst of a dream
on thanksgiving morning
i was snoring away in a peaceful slumber when
firm hands wrapped around my stomach,
a couple of long fingers rested familiarly upon my breast

your hot breath was lighting up the back of my neck like a bushfire
your whiskers tickling the top of my spine
now i was awake.

you were breathing so heavily -
“go back to sleep” i mumbled, making myself smaller in your embrace
you got even closer against me
unbearably closer
whispering like you knew something i didn’t
“i just wanted to get your attention”

nothing was thought of that
i wanted to go back to sleep, after all
and you are known for playing games
but i don’t think i would be lying if i said that
my heart started beating like a mad drum
the hairs on the back of my neck stood up
and my whole body became the most awake it’s ever been
when you said
“i...love you”

i won’t forget that moment -
and i still have the biggest smile on my face that
is beginning to hurt.
“i love you too” i said so, so, so quietly
because i was afraid i was still sleeping in a dream
and none of it was real.
but we did go back to sleep -
and when we woke up again later
i knew deep in my heart that we had spoken those words to each other
in the world of the living.
and i am thankful for that.

hormonal surges
make me, force me, pain me -
they hold me by the back of my head
and spit nasty words at me
but all of that is routine.

the worst thing of all is -
they remind me
of how much i need you
they sneer at me
for crying when i have to sleep alone
they laugh at me
when i want to hear your voice just once
they yell at me
when i search for your scent on one of my old t-shirts

hormonal surges
bleeding from between my legs -
all of that is routine.
but how deeply i miss you -
that is something that makes me hang my
head in shame.

we've been talking for 47 minutes and 33 seconds
we already talked earlier today
i like listening to you ramble
makes it feel like you're actually next to me

i can see the way your mouth is moving
your hands lifting higher, higher, higher
as you get more animated
i can see your floppy, straw-colored hair -
your long fingers brushing it out of your eyes

you're talking about politics right now
and i'm really not a huge fan of politics at all -
it bores me quite a bit,
but i wouldn't mind listening to you talk
for the rest of the night.

we were sitting in my car
eating food that we shouldn’t have been eating
a comfortable silence existing between us
a single overhead light illuminating us

you looked over at me, gave a quiet smile
“you’ve got something on your face”
i shrugged and replied, “i know, i’m enjoying my food”

a delicate hand appeared, using a napkin to wipe the corner of my mouth
i chewed my food slowly, eyes blinking to the left in careful curiosity

“thanks” i replied, my stomach doing something other than digestion  
you took another bite
then looked over at me again

“can i kiss you?”
my eyes blinked to the left again
my cheeks turned a shy shade of pink
**** it, **** it, **** it

i turned towards you,
eager, smiling, wanting
“yes”

and you gave me the sweetest kiss -
there, in the silence of my car
out of nowhere, unprompted -
our food left, abandoned -
my stomach, feeling true butterflies for the first time -
an honest smile, never leaving my face.

“you are likely wounded by your understanding of love”

wounded like a kicked puppy
licking your wounds -
sharp claws on a marble floor
wet nose smelling someone that’s no longer there
licking your wounds -
the floor is slippery
with blood
with your messy understanding of love
licking your wounds -
no one loves a hurt animal

there are two types of creatures in the world
those that inflict the hurt -
and those that lick their wounds

you're sleeping as i write this
dreaming gentle things
your bottom lip, pouting
the last thing i want to do is wake you -
and mess all of this up

i haven't told you that i love you
i'm sure that's what i feel, but the words
themselves
feel
meaningless

i love how you look when you're sleeping
i love your bed head -
straw-colored hair having a mind of its own
i love the gentle rise of your chest -
tempting me to come over and listen to your heart's voice
i love your big dumb feet sticking out from underneath the blanket -
probably deathly cold but still belonging to you

i love this boy in my bed
dreaming gentle things -
being a gentle thing himself

we've made a crevice in my bed
and i'm worried about falling in
and taking you with me

we've come too far
and i don't see where we're going
we need to find our way home

that place in the dark
where the tree lining says goodbye
to the moonlight.

a voice in the room that says -
dream lofty dreams, and as you dream,
so shall you become.

we don't talk anymore
but i don't need to hear your words
when i feel it on the inside.

kissing you burns me
fingers covered in ash
eyelashes singed with hot tears

i cannot love anymore
lest i lose myself
inside the fire

i don't have much to say
except
i still feel your skin on mine
i still see your eyes in the dark
i still yearn for your fingertips everywhere

i'm not a forward person by any means -
but i find myself wanting you,
wanting the quietness of it,
the familiarity of our touching.

and i'm not a selfish person by any means -
but god,
i want all of you and more.

we are live wires
and i'm trying my best
to not catch fire
after you spilled your
affection
all over me.

it's only been two weeks,
and i thought i would forget
the striking blue of your eyes
your straw-colored hair
the quiet, yet loud gaze you give me
when you think i'm not paying attention.

maybe i'm wrong,
maybe i'm only seeing what i want to see,
but i hope you're patient with me.

gentle calloused hand -
on my stomach,
rubbing and stroking.

gentle hot lips -
on the back of my neck,
your whiskers feel
foreign
yet
familiar.

i feel as if
i've looked into your eyes before
i've stroked your upper brow before
i've felt your hair between my fingertips before
and i've done all of this already,
yet it all feels so new.
it's very nice to meet you.

little girl with the cherry in her mouth,
i feel sorry for you and your big brown eyes.

little girl with the brown sandals
and hair so messy
it could be a wasp's nest -
i swallow my regret because i know,
i know you are enough.

little girl,
you with the skip in your step,
and skinned knees
and ugly birthmark on the back of your leg
and big - fat - ugly - nose
and hairy eyebrows,
you are braver than i am.

your soul has a piece of the sunrise
that i witnessed this morning
and it has the same sound
as the wind i hear howling outside my window at night.

little girl, what you are on the inside
will never die -
cherish it well,
it has more meaning than you could believe.

i see her standing there -
and i'm wondering when she
will come inside.

it's below forty outside -
and the tears have frozen to her cheeks
and i can tell that she's becoming numb.

when will she come inside?
i wish she would -
so that i may wrap a blanket around her shoulders
and give her something hot to drink
and let the tears melt down her face.

i wish she would come inside.
but her and i both know better,
than to believe that we have any control -

over
this.
this.
this.
these feelings, i should say.

she'll come back inside -
when the feelings pass
when it's safe again
when i'm me again
when the world is righted on its axis.

i don't cry -
not in front of others
not at any time during the day.

but at night -
when everyone is dreaming
i can't sleep
because my own dreams are dead
and all that's left is my wet pillow.

i wish i could dream again.

make the pain go away -
by any means possible -
because my bed is forever indented with the shape of my hurting body -
and i don't remember the last time
i opened my curtains.

but i do remember
when you held me tight -
and crushed me to your chest.
or when you buried your face
in my neck
and left it stained with warm tears.

i want to remember how much
you really cared for me -
but it gets more difficult with every passing hour.

memories don't just dissolve into thin air -
i must unwrap the tendrils of fear that have made a home in my mind.
maybe i'm afraid of remembering -
because i know better than to believe -
that forgetting is possible.

i have a dream in the future -
of a sharp, obsidian blade
that makes a home for itself in the palm of my hand.
and when i swing the blade,
it connects with my father's neck -
and makes a swift entry and exit.

my father's head rolls on the floor -
and i watch in curiousity as old vines and blue tulips
sprout from his severed neck.

who knew that those things lived inside of him?
well, i guess i know now.

when i was a little girl,
i used to lay my head in my father's lap -
and his wrinkled, brown hand would hover above my face.
and i would close my eyes,
as his thick fingers traced themselves over the contours of my youthful skin.

it felt nice.
his fingers would sweep underneath my chin -
across my forehead -
but i loved it best when his touch made itself known,
with light fingertips fluttering over my closed eyelids.

he was the magician -
healing my eyesight of the world i'd seen -
the sights i'd witnessed -
he was making me feel pure again,
touching me into sleep,
making it known that i was safe.
that i am safe.

it's like when you have a terrible dream -
of a monster lurking in the shadows -
waiting, just waiting, for you to get close enough.

and you're scared -
and you know the monster is there -
and you know that there's no way out of this.

but then something happens -
there's a blood curdling scream -
and you understand that the monster has been defeated.

and you see the darkness being lifted away -
and your parents are there!
and you have never felt so overjoyed in your life, to see the two people you love most in the world standing there.

and they come to you, and they say -
"don't worry, the monster is gone. we got him."
and they hug you, wrapping you in warmth and love -
and the world is fine. everything is as it should be.

everything is as it should be.

the fact of the matter is -
the stars will continue to paint the sky every night even if you're gone -
the sun will continue to lick its flames upon the earth even when you become a part of the ground.

a bullet in your heart doesn't care -
rain falling from black clouds don't care -
the stray cat pays no mind as it passes your empty house.

is that a bad thing?

does the world have selfish intent,
by forgetting the harvest that it sows?
do i really mean nothing enough,
to be forgotten when i take my last breath?

i expected more of the world -
i expected more of this life -
i expected more of what love i had left.

sadness is not a strong enough word to describe how i feel -
when i think of the sun continuing to rise and the moon keeping its shine -
even if i am not around to see it.

i'm bleeding diamonds -
twinkling and twinkling as they shatter on the black floor -
shining like falling stars as they leak from my ***** body.

i'm wounded,
can't you see?
you kissed me on the forehead,
and i fell to my knees.

the diamonds spilled from my open mouth -
the diamonds spilled from the corners of my eyes -
the diamonds spilled from the fatal wound in my chest.

i don't know where the crystals came from -
but i think they must have come from you.
you kissed me on the lips,
and caused these little stars to be cut out from inside of me.

it burns so much -
but -
it feels like i am being cleaned from within.

he calls me on the phone,
says he's leaving in a few days.

what's new?

the tears that threaten to escape me aren't new,
my clenched fist isn't new,
my picked, bleeding lower lip isn't new.

you've always left me, dad.
even when you said you were coming back,
even when you said it wouldn't be for too long,
even when you said you loved me more than anything.

your actions betray your words -
the silver shavings in your hair betray the test of time -
the wrinkles around your eyes betray the man i used to take you for.

i hate this time of year -
because all i want to do is hold your face in my hands -
and feel the skin that belongs to me -
and look into the brown eyes that belong to you -
and i want to tell you -
how much, how much, how much i love you.

how much i love you -
despite the hurt -
despite your absence -
despite you being a man that doesn't know he has a child that loves him so much.

i still love you, dad. i'll be waiting for you to come home.

black roses wilted on an indented bed,
a sheen of sweat on the back of your neck,
a frayed photograph on the empty wall.

there's a strange sound coming from outside my window -
is it the wind or is it, is it me?
trying to get back in, trying to return -
begging to be invited back into its heavy body.

i'm not scared easily,
but i was scared the day you left.
i'm not scared easily,
but i was scared the day you returned.

a flash of light outside my window -
a growl of thunder that demands your attention even while dreaming -
i think it's beginning to rain.

did i mention that it rained on the day you came back?
i'm scared now.
it might be time to get the roses off my bed.

tell me where to go
because wandering is what i know
tell me where to stay
because leaving keeps a light on inside of me

tell me what to do
because i've been laying in this bed for days
tell me what to be
because i believe this woman in the mirror is the one who won the part

tell me, tell me, tell me
won't you show me the way?

The world will burn -
our eyes will close,
and our lips will forget each other's names.

Every lover's whisper has been lost to the wind -
every sweetheart's kiss has been long forgotten.
Isn't that the saddest thing you've ever heard?

Why should I tell you my name when you'll forget it?
Why should I whisper secrets to you when they'll become lost in all of the noise?
Why should I kiss you when even my touch isn't permanent?

I remember you -
sitting at the edge of my bed, staring at the floor.

I remember you -
stroking my hand, thinking about something deep.

You didn't know I was awake,
and when I uttered your name,
a drop of crystal spilling from my cracked lips -
you were startled.

You fell to the floor and I reached out for you -
please, come back to me again. Caress my skin again. Look at me again.

You stared with big, black eyes -
and hissed at me -
and my heart submissively crawled back into a dark place.

I'm sorry, I tried to say.
But you bared your teeth at me -
snarled a lip that used to be so tender -
and left me once again.

Not for the first time.

Over the years, I've had a reoccurring dream that makes me startle awake in the middle of the night -
that makes my heart pound faster than the beat of a Shaman's drum.

In my dream, I am underwater.
I've never been a particularly good swimmer in life, but in my dream, I float effortlessly under dark waves. Everything is dark, perhaps it's nighttime above the surface.
Most of all, I am scared.

Wherever I turn my head, I see nothing but darkness. I look down and see an abyss. I look up and see the possibility of escaping, but my heavy body can't move.
I'm suspended in space - looking to my left and my right, extremely aware that something is coming and I cannot see it.

I don't know what it is but I am deeply afraid. I can't get away, can't swim to the surface, and cannot see anything. It's getting closer.
It's going to devour me whole.

And when I'm almost to the brink of insanity because of my fear, I suddenly realize that I can't breathe -
I've been in this godforsaken water for so long that my lungs have begun to strain from oxygen's absence.

What can I do?
I have nowhere to go, no way to breathe. The hidden danger is coming closer, possibly circling somewhere beneath me, and everything is getting darker. I'm tired. It's as if exhaustion is pulling me down further, whispering to me that it's okay if I want to fall asleep.

I want to fall asleep, I really do -
maybe it would be a better fate than the one I would be faced with if I were to stay awake and deal with the monster that's lurking in the darkness.
Just fall asleep, leave what's unimportant behind -
you'll finally have some peace and quiet, won't you?

Either way, I'm faced with an inevitable choice.
And in my dream, I choose to leave it behind -
I hesitantly open my mouth and begin to choke and sputter when water fills my lungs and burns, burns, burns me up to the brim.

I am burning, burning, burning from the inside out - tears would be streaming my face if the ocean hadn't decided to steal them away and tuck them into its pocket for safekeeping.

I guess this is death, but all I know is that I am grateful -
my eyes close against my own accord -
and I never have to see the terrifying thing that wanted me as its prey.

I feel saved -
except when I wake up and my pillow really is soaked with tears, and I still cannot breathe properly, and my heart feels as if it's burning up, and I am still surrounded by darkness.
Nobody wins - especially you.

And one day you'll wake up with a heavy weight pressed to your back -
with the sound of rain and someone else's breath keeping you company,
you'll blink away nonexistent tears from your eyes and wonder where you are.

You won't know now but you'll understand later -
this is where you are meant to be.
Meant to be is tucked safe and sound in the arms of your lover -
with rain washing away all of the bad things in the night.
Things that you won't remember when you wake up again in the morning.

But for now -
have the courage to keep sleeping alone -
because there is someone else out there who is fighting to stay strong, too.
Fighting to find their way back to you.

In the land of the dead, there is a little girl who remains bare from the inside out -
a little girl who knows nothing but a black rose that remains gripped in her tiny hand.

A black rose that cuts into her palm and spills blood on the bare ground -
drip, drip, drip - losing something that is already gone.
It's a flower that you can only find in the land of the dead, among spirits that know terrible things yet give black roses to little girls.

The little girl has found herself here - eternally lost and young for only a split second of time - but this can be home.
She has seen terrible things, too -
but there are worse things than finding yourself with a black rose.

There was no time for the heart.
The heart had to be buried somewhere safe and sound, somewhere dark and quiet and possibly unknown even to me...the heart needed to survive.

So it was put in the ground.
And now, it is banging on the door, clawing at its coffin, panicking and screaming to be let out.

It can't breathe. It can't breathe. It can't breathe.

I think there comes a time when -
you know you're exactly where you're meant to be -
but you also know you're needed somewhere else.

A time when you are pulled one way and then the other -
and you won't win. Nobody wins.
It's a time you can't choose -
it chooses you and you cannot do anything except follow it.

You can do nothing except get on your knees and hope it doesn't obliterate you. Please, please, please -
have mercy on me. Spare me.

Our sweet mother, taken away so soon -
gasping for breath as the heavy weight of perfection sat on her chest.
Even in death, she is perfect -
used to her full potential by many men seeking warmth but not love.

No, never love.

These men nestled inside her and made her full - full of life but not the kind that makes you love yourself when looking in the mirror.

The type of life they filled her up with was the kind that nearly killed her in the delivery room - crying out as she was ripped apart and her child was taken by strange hands. Hands of men.

These men ****** her and ****** her and ****** her until the last drop of life she had left disappeared from her eyes.
These men are the ones who look into her coffin and murmur, she was so beautiful.
So perfect.

She died knowing she was not beautiful, could never be beautiful. Beautiful was a word uttered from men's ***** mouths, a word that had been tainted unknowingly.

She died gasping for breath, needing to say those words before she left this world. Needing to say it, needing to say it, needing to say it...
I am not beautiful.

Here lies love,
our mother who will never be beautiful or perfect for as long as I am breathing in this world.
Here lies death,
our real mother who was always more than beautiful. More than perfect.

There's not a single word to describe what she really was. But never beautiful.
No, never perfect.

I've never told anyone that I missed them,
never told anyone that their absence keeps me up at night,
never had the privilege, or perhaps the curse, of experiencing my heart when it's submerged in love and longing.

I guess I've been dipping my toes in the water - too afraid to jump right in. I've never been careless like that.

Love is not a game, not a lake you jump into during the summer when the sun is high in the sky and you're sweating bullets.

Rather, love is that oasis you find after walking one eternal day in the desert of life - the clear water you stumble upon and drink and drink and drink until you're stumbling away with lightheadedness.

Love saves you -
gives you a reason to say I miss you,
I can't sleep when you're not here,
*take my heart with you if you really must leave me.

There is a world where I sit in the back of a bus, going to work -
and another where I sit at a bar on a Friday night -
and another where I sit by a river in the evenings and draw what I see.

In that world, you are the woman who gets on the bus after my stop and sits in the empty seat across from mine -
in that world, you are the young man laughing carelessly on the dance floor with a drink in your hand -
in that world, you are the obscure figure in the distance that drifts by on their boat, feeding ducks and playing a harmonica as the sun goes down.

The me in that world will admire your pretty face from afar, too afraid to say anything -
in that one, I will force myself to stand and ask you for a dance -
in the last one, I will draw you as you pass by, your song leaving me in its wake.

What I'm trying to say is -
I think I got stuck in the world where I haven't met you yet and don't know if I ever will.

What you need,
is someone who will place a finger upon your heart's lips and silence the words that always tumble out.

Someone who says, shush. Don't you hear that?

What you need,
is someone who gently turns your head towards the source of the sound. The sound of waves breaking gently upon the shore.
The quiet sound of your heart rearranging itself.

What you need,
is someone who presses their palms across your eyes.

Someone who says, don't look. Just listen.
And you do listen. You hear more than the sound of waves crashing.

You hear someone's heartbeat beating faster than your own.
You hear someone's eyelashes fluttering closed against the back of your neck.
You hear someone's breathless words being brought to life against your lips.

I love you. Can't you see?
Yes, I see. Even in the darkness of my own heart, I see.

I will rip, rip, rip, you apart.
Shreds of your skin, dangling from my ****** hand -
red velvet spreading slowly across the floor and drip, drip, dripping ever so slowly.

You took your last breath moments ago, but I hold it in my opposite hand - I can feel it trapped in your windpipe. A warm murmur, a sad stirring of hope that believes it's honestly going to go somewhere. It's not.

I will rip that breath out of your throat the same way I took claim of your heart - raw flesh sticking to my fingertips and hot blood coursing down my arms. So messy. You're so ******* messy.

When I'm done taking back what is mine, I'll burn whatever remains of your body. Your love. Your hate. Your foolishness. And - I'll stand over the flames and laugh, laugh, laugh with your heart and your voice in my hands.

Mine - forever.

Little girl, I am crying for you. You should be living a life full of love - a life protected by good hearts.

Big girl, I am crying for you. You should not be crying alone in bed at night - someone should be there to hold you when you are sad.

Mom, I am crying for you. Your heart should not be breaking for me - I want to be with you always. I am with you always, but we are also too far apart.

Sister, I am crying for you. I haven't done the best that I could and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please take my apology in the darkness.
I will try to bring the light back to you.

Between wet tongues and rose petals -
underneath sweeping eyelashes and fallen eyes,
I love you still, now, and always.

When I clutch the empty covers next to me, I'm really clutching you -
your chest is on mine and our hearts are beating together. Every pluck of a red petal from its stem, from its home, is me coming back to you.

I pluck. You love me.
You pluck. I love you.

Back and forth until our mouths are red and raw - petals themselves and swollen from falling into desire. Kiss me again.

Mind, heart, and body -
three parts of me that don't recognize the girl in the mirror any longer.

My mind is my mother:
a beautiful maze underneath the sun that has a pond at the center. A pond filled with lotus flowers and surrounded by stray crows that watch the calm water.

My mind is my mother in the sense that we see the world for how it really is and we love it just the same. Our tears nourish the lotus flowers in the water and the lotus gives us life in return.

My body is my father:
a figure made out of hollow bones and broken from too many beatings. Attacks that always came from familiar hands and a voice that used to sing us to sleep at night.

My body is my father in the sense that we see the world for how it really is and we hate it just the same. We neglect food and sleep because those are merely distractions. We know what is truly important.

And my heart. What is there to say about my heart?
My heart has always been unapologetically me.

And who are you?

I am...
I am...
I am...
I am not the person in the mirror. The crow cries in the middle of the night because the mirror is filled with lies. I am not that person any longer.

I am a mind, a heart, and a body in this world but you know me as I really am.

You left a long time ago -
the most beautiful part of my life ended and I was left in the shadow of a scorching sun,
in the embrace of an unforgiving ground,
in the care of a love that was no longer an oasis.

You left last night -
the sky became dark,
the ground turned cold,
and my love burned out.

All I wanted was for you to stay and if that was too much to ask for, then I just wanted to feel your heart one last time. Just one last time.

I've been in the ground for years but everything still comes back to you -
the rain has come and it's beckoning me. Come out. The sun is no longer around. It isn't cold. Rather, it is a warm night.

The rain is heavy and persistent but it only wants one thing. It wants to look for you. So what will I do? What can I do?

I'll let the rain wash me away, away, away...
and maybe it will lead me back to the ocean. Back to you.

More than anything, I love you.

When the ground beneath us broke apart and we struggled to breathe, I was glad. I was glad because you were there with me.

I wouldn't have survived if our hands weren't interlocked, if our voices hadn't found each other. Do you remember what you said?

It's going to be okay. I know it will. One day, we'll be okay.

I think you were right because the ground has stopped breaking and I can breathe evenly now. The only thing I haven't been able to face yet is the empty space beside me.

No, I won't look. If I don't look, then you're not really gone.
I'll keep repeating the words you said only because I miss your voice. Miss the swipe of your fingers along my palm.
Miss what life was like before the world ended.

Father, don't go.
Mother, don't go.
Lover, don't go.

The moment he stopped looking at me as if I was something precious was not the moment my heart broke.

The moment she stopped waking me from sleep with a kiss to my forehead was not the moment my heart broke.

No, neither of these were the moment. I did break, yes, but I continued to move forward in increments.

When I gazed into the mirror and didn't recognize the face looking at back at me...

That was the moment.
I stroked a hand across the glass, touching the stranger's skin.
But that's all she was to me. A stranger.

Between cold sheets and two words that sound close to something like harsh wind, between loud bangs and flowing tears that will never end.

Between all of these things, I'm calling out to you.
Between these two worlds, this precipice, you still belong to me.

You belong to me. Where do you think you're going?

I'm tired of waiting -
waiting for the person who will take my hand when they see my downcast eyes and my bated breath.

I'm tired of waiting -
waiting for the person who will kiss me until I'm breathless, breathless with rebirth and filled with an ache for more.

I'm tired of waiting -
waiting for that person who will soothe the ache with three words.
I love you.

There's so much love that I have to give,
and the person I want to give it to most - isn't here.
I'm a patient person, I swear I am. But -
I don't want to spend my days and nights waiting anymore.

Dear lover,

There will be nights that you won't understand, nights where I'll only want to go to sleep and find comfort in the silence of a bedroom.
There will be mornings where you'll leave the bed before I do, mornings where I might not even get out of bed at all.

I want you to know that I'm still me -
I'm still the girl that begs you to leave the house at one in the morning for an adventure. I'm still the girl that will get out of bed first so that you'll find breakfast waiting for you in the kitchen.

I'll still love you if you don't get it.
More pathetically, I'll still love you if you leave.

I like to think that someone who truly understands won't leave in the first place -
but maybe that's just me being naive.
Every person that I've ever loved has left in the end, so who's to say that you won't pack your bag and quietly shut the door behind yourself when you go?

If you do, I want you to know that I'm sorry. This is who I am and I will never change. I can't change.

It flows in my blood and makes a home out of my heart -
it's something that takes the shape of a little girl who cannot stop crying for her parents. A little girl who wants someone to hold her more than anything, but not just any person.
It's something called loneliness.

I'll still love you if you go,
but I just might love you more if you decide to stay.

What do you do when the best part of you crumbles,
tears itself to shreds,
slams its palms on the table and says no more?

What do you do when you find yourself begging that piece of you to stay,
to please don't leave, I need you so I can breathe?

What do you do when that shard of you looks you in the eye,
presents you with a gaze that is nothing less of indifference,
and murmurs who are you?

You won't know what to say -
because the best part of me was always you,
and you have chosen to leave me over and over again.

There are variations in the way we enter this world, and how we come to understand what love is.
When you're born from tragedy, tragedy is the only thing you'll learn to love.

Does he really love you if he doesn't make you cry or turn away when you want to hold him?
Does she really love you if she doesn't leave in the middle of the night and never return in the morning?
Do they really love you if they don't force you to realize that you are all alone in this world, belonging to no one, and on your last few breaths?

Tragedy has a face, and it's a beautiful one.
It's worth falling in love with - it's a face that you'll see behind your eyelids regardless if the moon or the sun is outside your window.

It's a face that has brown eyes that can't seem to stop crying -
eyes that can't believe what they're witnessing.
It's a face with a parted mouth that can't seem to speak -
but if it could, its voice would resemble something close to broken glass.

Tragedy has a face that looks like mine -
and hasn't it been said that I'm supposed to love myself, to fall in love with who I am in order to heal?

I'll hold my face in my hands and try to stop crying,
to close my mouth and not allow anymore broken pleas to escape.
Tragedy is me and she's the only thing that will ever love me in return.

The feeling that seeps inside your bones when you wake up from a dream and don't remember anything, don't remember if it was good or bad -
that feeling is me.

When you're unsure if you're truly alone and you check every room for the heartbeat that is just out of earshot -
that heartbeat is mine.

Can't you feel me?

My hands have touched many souls, many heaving chests, many dripping eyes - but it was not of my own accord. Except for you. I've been waiting for you for many lifetimes.

In this life, I know what I need to do. My eyes were meant for seeing yours, my mouth crafted for saying your name, my hands shaped intricately so they can fit between another pair. Your hands.

These are the things I need to do, but you don't exist to me yet.

I'm the one that wakes up in the morning, eyes bleary with tears and the forgotten memory of someone whispering good-bye.
I'm the one that hears a distant rhythm and has to check every corner for the source, to no avail.  

I'm just a girl, waiting.
I'm just a girl, hopeful.
I'm just a girl, broken.
I'm just a girl, leaving.

There are two pairs of shoes by the door -
one pair is clean and the other is covered in leaves and mud.
There are two voices in the kitchen -
one is singing and the other is laughing.
Both are tinged with tender love and adorned with happiness.

There are two pairs of socked feet going up the staircase -
one is confident in their stride and the other is stumbling with drunkenness.

Drunk on love, of course.

There's one voice that can be heard in the darkness of the bedroom -
a voice that says something along the lines of, You look beautiful.

There's a shy laugh. As always, the second voice will follow. You can't even see me.

Both voices will become one when they breathe into each other, disappear into one another. There won't be anything in the world that can distinguish them. They've always been the same, after all.