I don’t know if I’d really call it hope.
It’s a thought.
Growing
like a bacteria in a confined cupboard
no one opens, for fear
of asbestos poisoning.
The thought that I will one day talk to you again. 
 Maybe a long way from now.
But being able to see you,
and hold your hand,
and ask you things.
Perhaps even hear you say
that it’s okay.
And you understand, you know?
Maybe that is hope.
I don’t think it’s exactly wishful thinking,
because that’s something that’s done
if a realistic expectation had potential
to be met
but god
maybe you’re just a rotting body
shoved into the cavity of the Earth,
stowed away
out of sight
just like this one
maybe-hopeful-wishful-thinking-thought.

I can’t draw but I've sketched your name into my heart. It’s as clear as the melancholy in Van Gogh’s self portrait though you’re the only audience I need.

I feel I have so much to say,
and so many different ways to say it.

But every time I try,
I come up
empty.

I am a lion.
I am brave.
I am strong.
I have my pride,
I've carried on.

I am a lion.
My roar is a cry.
My glance is intimidating.
My life full of leaps and strides.

I am a lion.
I am scared.
I am weak.
I can't swallow my pride,
how can I go on?

I am a lion.
Do you remember seeing me cry?
I can never meet your stare.
I will be crawling until I die.

You were sleeping when I left. You told me to wake you up, but I already did when I slowly backed out of our entangled embrace and kissed you until your eyes fluttered open. You sleepily grinned, squinting against the dim light that was fighting to reflect off of your walls. I kissed you again and unsteadily got to my feet. I covered you up as you rolled back onto your side, facing me with your eyes shut and your breathing steadily getting deeper. I put my shirt, socks, shoes on. Coat zipped and purse slung around shoulder. I knelt down next to you and kissed your cheek again..and again..and again. I stopped. I waited. I wanted to tell you that I love you, but I knew you would hear me.

and

I already feel

so lost

without you.

I understand the whole time thing I do think it’s for the best but I feel physically ill

ironic

considering contagion normally doesn’t last 1000 miles or maybe its just been dormant since we’ve touched

our intentions were,

no longer.

hesitant,

it’s not selfish,

caressing one another’s insecurities

with bare hands-

the lacerations in our skin were still too raw for our adrenaline to forget

and now that we’re crashing baby i’m sorry

it’s so hard,

dilated eyes,

bloodshot,

electric lights

dying out

but there is still a flame

I see it

we can burn these trees to the ground and be reborn from the ashes

too

we can apologize until even the sky sees that we’re blue

****

just listen to my elementary thoughts

and humor my wet-glue apology

please

understand

I still don’t quite know

how to cleanup  my messes

but

you never complained about the glitter I left on your pillow.





I remember

the night

you held me,

as I was dreaming

of reality

and living

unrealistically

you

made yourself too tangible

when you touched my arm

even after the embers burned out and after it left its mark

you remained.

I got accepted into college.

And

I don’t know what to do with my life.

I don’t know

what to do

without you.

I guess I didn't consider enough the lilies in the blood.
Nor did I ever question the sun above,
til the sun burnt out, and part of that lily died.
There was never enough rain, and even the sparrows tried.
And all too late I realized the roots were in the heart,
and though some flowers bloomed late,
they were growing from the start.
Lilies toil, lilies spin, and on the swing we’ll meet again.
Through eyes full of mercy and a heart full of love,
lilies can never be considered enough.

I want to drown myself.
And sometimes, I actually do.

I take all of the people around me, the ones I do and do not know,

and let them suffocate me.

Fill my lungs
with their scent
until there is no more
room for air.

My ears are submerged in meaningless
promises, hope
and laughter. I lose myself,

in the false identities
of those who move
and breathe
and live near me.

Who have lives and
dreams and

secrets.
I take all of those things

in,

I bury them beneath

my skin

               and I sink
               with them.

I sink with all of them. But I hold my head above water so well.

The room is silent, save the heavy breaths and deep sighs.
All is calm,except for the chills you trace across my skin with every touch, whether it's light or fervent.
The one heart beating is steady, and in the blink of an eye, racing.

I can still see you across from me,
bare-chested and smiling.
I can close my eyes and feel the soft contours of your geography.
It compliments mine quite beautifully.
Shadows fall upon the creases of your skin, such as twilight upon a river. And how I so badly wish to swim those waters and feel myself indulged in all it has.

In the morning, golden light washes upon your skin as if the sun itself couldn't get under it enough.
I mimic its movements, touching upon every inch of your landscape possible, even attempting to reach into your universe and to make my own constellation.

Can we sit,
and watch the sky?
The sun will pass,
just like your fingers through my hair.
It will kiss each inch of skin,
almost as softly as you did.
The wind will caress your face,
I wish I always could.
The clouds will be kind,
and let us have the moment that we won’t have again.
We will find images,
attempting to make sense of what we see.
But eventually the sun will set,
just as we did.
And the sky will grow dim,
just as our affection.
And we will be left
alone.

Loving someone who abuses substances is a love that lacks romance, but still maintains.
The moments of their sobriety are the ones in which we’re killing ourselves this time,
because we’re holding our breath.
Because before we have the chance to open our mouth again, we see you
going through your withdrawal,
the anger, the hate,
the hurt with no real blame but always consequences.
Nothing changes.
Loving someone who abuses substances makes you question
What else they abuse without realizing it. Or, at least, without admitting to it.
Television shows and magazines portray children and teens ‘finding their way’ through life,
when in reality they’re just another ******* crutch or pillar conveniently rooted
to a source that’s destroying itself, regardless.
It destroys us.
You throw the word down and out
Love
Wrap it around your bicep, constrict
Feel the resistance and call it
Love
Feel the blood stop and call it
Passion
feel the skin burn and call it
forgiveness.
Withdrawals are apologies
For being sober.
There is no room for who you are, when you love someone that abuses substances.
There is only room for the excuses they save for their moments of ‘clarity’ still
under a bell jar still
Wrapping plastic around lose particles they think will stabilize them
Or pouring a glass just to finish the bottle
Instead of themselves
All along never realizing
each pull tightens our ropes.

Like waves crashing
Down Down Down
until
SNAP
goes the branch your nest was
so safely set upon
SNAP
goes emotions that were once there,
they're gone
now all that's left is the
tide slowly receding
revealing the life underneath
unseen.
What was so full is now barren
until the
waves crash
again.

I'm in a snow globe that you're always shaking.
Look at the glass.
I think it's breaking.

The snow settles around me like my heart in my chest,
As I realize I failed, though I tried my best.

Sometimes I hope my snow globe falls,
so my world comes crashing to an end.

Other time I wish the glass would break,
and I'll be free.
So i won't have to strive for you to be proud of me.

But for now, I'm content
in my cold, dim dome.
When will I please you,
or make you proud?

Who really knows?

My room

                                              is a work of art

on the unvacuumed           canvas

lies heaps

of U.C.S's

(unidentified clusters of                ****)

heaps                                   ­           that are only destroyed

during nights             ...                                 ...                                     .. .    .  .

that are fueled with       anxiety

or

just pu re
                    r
                   
                                      estles snes s  .

These imperfect     shapes

scattered

in comforting patterns

my          compiled life

in pieces   .

But I'm st ill restless.

The artist

is

never truly satisfied with

her

work

the mes s of          my                     life

tossed comfor tably to the ground

until i am provoked by                       ...                              ...               .. .

...

Each Article

I nd i v i dually held

Set    in   place

Stumb

                                               ling upon

Lost object  s       ... .             .

forgotten   fabrics that

held you unquestionably.

a nostaliga

art

revealing things

you were probably already looking for .

one time
you told me
there's something in you
that will push
and ****
until someone cries
until a part of them
crumbles beneath you

i remember this
spoken
the thing's you have said
to me
i can't remember
your lips but

ive had boys
who've dismissed my
nos
my
ouches
my
me

boys who held me

after

it’s really hard to breathe.

I can’t eat anything, I’m starving and nauseous.

and I wish maturity was a thing

but instead,
i’m stuck defending myself

against cell phone applications
that find you affection
from someone just as infected

and you already have that low of an opinion
to believe

these are the kinds of people I want to share my death bed with

I wanted to remain friends
but I don’t think that saying
*******
is effective
when
I already have

and when I did

you held me above you

and told me you loved me, I didn’t realize

you were trying  to pull yourself up too

your own reflection masked
with my skin

this false perception
you knew

you lacked within

There’s a 7-11 by my dads house.
At that 7-11 resides
the worlds last pay phone.
On the pay phone is a sign that reads:
Need help? Call God at 777.
Each time,
just for good measure,
I pick up the receiver
and dial the three holy numbers.
Each time,
I hear
“The caller you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.”

Night time, when we were dancing to a cacophony  accompanied by the distinct voice of Frank Sinatra, the rapping of my high heels across a wooden floor as you spun me around, an intoxicated giggle and slurred “I love yous” and I did love you, the person you were in that moment, as we unsteadily held each other. The yellow lights and your sandy hair and the bitter wine and the city alive, but our singular hearts beating in unison for once made me feel the way I thought I was supposed to and it was beautiful and we were beautiful in that
moment
In time.
That moment in time where you cried because there were 52 things that I loved about you, clearly displayed,and I thought for a moment that you might get it, that you might change but, not surprisingly, to my dismay you went back to your ways and my sock fell off again.

Talking about different identities within.
Mine are like the tides.
One minute, I’m fine. Happy and laughing, smiling and talking,
and then slowly the tide recedes.
I sink as the ocean does,
revealing the less than radiant depths,
without the water to illuminate and reflect the small imperfections
and magnifying them as something glorious
and as a wonderful mystery of nature.
No. There are holes that dark creatures hide in,
and when they’re stepped on,
their retaliation is a spout just high enough
to drench your favorite white shirt in the murky bile
that is generally not spoken of.
I sink as the ocean does, alone.
Sometimes what is harbored beneath the waves ends up beached and stranded.
Alone. Left drying over in the sweltering sun,
helpless. I’m so sorry,
I asked you not to venture too far.
I warned you of the harsh reality
of my inability to remain stable enough
for you to stay happy for too long.
I rise as the ocean does.
An unexpected lift in hopes,
the broken shells beneath the tide are concealed.
The glimmering waters are blinding,
almost so much to the point where
you can’t see.

I hate these moments
of hours
of ours.

I have a hunger for you,
for a way that I have never had you,
to sit in your head, to plant my feet in your veins,
and feel the essence of you wash over my skin and being.
My lips trailed your skin,
but I imagine  nothing tastes as forbidden
as the depth that you covet unseen.
Your eyes are compelling me into oblivion,
lost within searching for something
I didn't even know I was looking for.

The impact was sudden. I flew back and hit the water with a loud crash. I quickly knew that I was sinking. The water was frigid, compared to the heat I was standing in just moments before.  The pressure in my ears was getting painful, but it was like nothing that was happening to my chest. My body soon found the floor of the pool, and for a moment there was an eerie silence…but the weight kept working. I felt the cuts in my skin stinging because of the acid-like chlorine. Then it got worse. The sound of my cracking sternum traveled through my body and the water, amplifying the effect. I was running out of oxygen. I’m pretty sure my adrenaline kicked in by now, because I can’t remember feeling a thing right then. The water lightened the weight, so with my remaining strength I shoved it off of my torso and to the side. My vision blurred, I see the rays of light reflecting off of the surface, an illusion of it being more brilliant that it actually is. I move me arms, and the agony finally shoots through my being. I bend at the knees and the pain is less intense, though it still demands to be felt. I place my feet beneath me and try to push myself up.  I know I won’t last much longer. I feel broken from the inside out, I’m tired. I look up once more towards the light. I slightly bend and push from my left foot, ready to kick with my right. I involuntarily gasp, my body’s plea for surrender. I shut my water filled mouth, my lungs burning.

Hospitals are filled with dark crevices.
The white washed hallways are flooded with fluorescent lights that do not reach behind closed doors.
Whispers reverberate off of the walls, reaching to the darkness, making it grow.
It pools on the bleached floor, mixing with the ammonia that rises up to my nostrils and suffocates me.
The fluorescent lights in the hallway do not reach the light at the end of the tunnel.
The space between the door and the exit is a vast abyss, and no one knows where they're stepping or when they have to cross the threshold.
We don't have any hands to hold, and the whispers kiss our ears with the softest breeze.
The fluorescent lights do not reach the dark crevices within me.

That's cute, I guess.
You're..nicer, when
I hate myself.

I started writing in second grade and couldn’t spell, but
I tried to be honest about how I felt that
the world seemed just a little too unfair to
consider God
really had the best penmanship.

Because etched concrete contains my family picture, now.
And a day won’t pass where you don’t hear how
somewhere else someone else is just like you but
also just a little worse off.

I felt it first in the floorboards
as voices gave a steam-engines warning.

The wrinkles on this page weren’t necessarily acquired over time
But through frustration from lies and
that day someone said to you things were just fine
when
I felt the splinters forming in my spine, digging-

I was holding
on to rotten
ply-wood, cracking
Fingers
Nails
Digging-
Breaking.

The vacant house now has a yard full of dandelions
but I hold my breath

as I force a poem
from rigor mortised fingers:

What doesn’t **** you
Will only leave you

I don't know where to start.

Where we started?
Abandoned...together..?
Not even together! Abandoned..
and cowardly,
we met.
No, we meshed.
We conglomerated
our debris
into a living entity
of
each other?
or nothing---

In the dark I misread
in your not reading glasses
the depth you inhabit,
No, you stole
no, you scraped
no
im wrong.