She is emptiness.
She is disappointment
and cigarettes
hiding under breathe mints.
She is hollow
and resentment resounds,
reverberating,
and vibrating
her core.
She is anger
and grief.
She is mourning
and sorrow.
She is hopeless
nothing to look forward to,
not even the promise of tomorrow.
She is loneliness
and guilt
for letting perfect love
just sit there and wilt.
She is the morning after
a night of alcohol.
She is the memories
she desperately tries
to drown in another
cacophony of music
and sounds.
She is depression
that she tries to throw to the wind
as she throws another handful of pills
down her mouth.
She is hate
and it eats away
until there isn't much left
to say.
She is you.
She is me.
She is everyone
but no one.
She is.

Here I am again.
Up all night again.
Fueling doubts again.
Daydreaming again.

Googling answers again.
Stalking social media again.
Wishing again.
Thinking again.

Here I am again.
Thinking about him again.
About you again.
Not knowing what to do again.

Maybe I should go to sleep
Instead of laying here, counting sheep
Again.

Life is…competition.
Everything starts with “She’s a good person, but…”
And what does that even mean—‘good’?
It’s such a tricky word…
It trudges and collects, rolling and sticking and melting into a mess.
It covers and confuses.
It oozes…
‘Good.’
It is cavernous and claustrophobic all at once.
Because what do you tack onto that word and what do you leave out?
And how much is too much before good is no longer good?
Before it turns to flaws and flossing teeth—
Revealing surprising grime on white napkins.
Now she’s “‘Mary,’ the kind soul with an eating disorder.”
Life is disorder.
***** fingers constantly filing and misfiling,
sealing cases closed with oversized labels that undermine the contents inside and the very boxes that hold them.
And what does it mean then?
When you are a rectangle and I am a square,
When Mary is placed on the shelf over there?
I am not scared
of the brown—not ***** blonde—roots creeping up from the top of my hair,
of the pimple on my chin.
But what makes me cringe is your satisfied grin when you notice that her daughter
is not quite as thin…
not quite as thin;
It is a sliver of a win,
Like the sliver of cake that you take to your plate
for fear that your trousers might break—
and then—
gasp you’ll belong with them,
cardboard congregated in the corner,
stacked and packed together,
the ones with jean-zippers torn asunder.
I cannot help but wonder
what life is…

How can something so bad, be so good. Your touch, your smell, your kiss, electrifies my soul. The thought of you grabbing my hair, and grabbing my heart makes me ache. "You're no good for me" I constantly tell myself. "We're nothing, and never will be" I remind myself. "You never cared, you're all wrong for me" I can hear my conscious screaming. Everything in the world is urging me to stay away, but every beam in my body is telling me to go closer. Why are we so wrong, but why are we so right?

"Look!" she said,
Proudly holding
A tiny painted doll;

"I can make it dance!",
She squealed,
Excitement in her voice;

I watched, bewitched,
As the doll danced
And twitched;

Grinning like an idiot,
I joined the dance,
Arms flailing madly;

"Now watch!" she gasped,
Taking a darning needle,
Stabbing repeatedly;

"Urghh!", I laughed,
Bending over,
Feigning pain;

The doll moved faster,
Limbs blurring,
As she made it dance;

"I can't keep up!"
I laughed so hard,
Feeling sharp pain in my side;

I tried to stop dancing,
But my aching limbs
Kept on flailing madly;

She held my gaze,
Her eyes laughing
With manic intensity;

With a final ******,
She pushed the needle
Straight through the heart,

The doll slipped from her grasp,
Tumbling to lay beside
My still twitching body;

The last thing I ever saw,
Her reaching into a silken bag
And picking up another doll.

Post a letter to
your memories
Say hi for me
Print it in italics
and go way back
Make the letters dance
like your love did for me
Say it sweet, say it beautiful
Sign it with a kiss