I forget it all for a while-
until I get in the shower and feel the sting.
Little vibrations move along my hips, like a lover's hands around my waist.
I ease into the embrace, feeling the warmth of the only consistent in my life.
Everything else is a moving blur.

Water mixes with rain, from the morning's drive and when I pull over,
I realize that it was never rain, but my own tears,
and the tears I thought were rain turn into trails that twist and turn down my cheeks trying to find their way back to you.

And so I try walking down one,
but I stumble and fall,
and I would think to be lost in the forest
if it wasn't for that self inflicted stinging pulling me back to my shower turning cold.

White lined paper
coated in ink and sweat from my palms-
shaking anxiously as my hand floats in the passenger seat,
I close my eyes and pretend I’m holding yours.
They keep telling me to focus my eyes on the road,
but little do they know, you’re really the one behind the wheel.

They say that stars are just little ***** of flaming gas
so basically, when you look at a star, you shouldn’t see its beauty,
you should see it at face value.

I started doing this when I looked at your face’s value,
and I think that’s when things started falling apart.

When a star’s life is ending, it becomes heavier with chemicals,
so I think when I started getting that suffocating feeling in my chest,
I should have dropped your hand,
but I read that it takes stars over a billion years to die, so I figured you and I still had some hope.

Supernovae are explosions that outshine entire galaxies,
reds, blues, purples, shimmering colors of every hue streak the otherwise black canvas of outer space, dusting every corner of the explosion site with magnificent shockwaves of intergalactic light.

Eventually they fade out, and you can never see them again,
but despite that they are still arguably the most important stellar event.
They are so powerful the Earth’s sphere can literally be affected if the explosion is too close,
sometimes they’re so powerful, when a supernova fades, a black hole is formed, because all the energy has nowhere to go.

I think I’m in my black hole stage now.
Everything is quiet-
except when the memories of our time together forcibly make their way on the planetarium ceiling,
and I just can’t look away from the twinkling stars that shine in your eyes for me.

And here’s another fact, stars only appear to twinkle because of the way the Earth’s atmosphere deflects light,
so maybe I should have turned up the brightness and realized the facade of your flickering eyes.

I remember sitting on my bed, and letting you trace the freckles on my cheeks with your fingertips,
forming constellations with your mind and when I asked what you were doing,
you replied with “stargazing”,
like I was the most beautiful galaxy you had ever had the privilege to study.

Galaxies are formed by gravitational attraction,
so without that force of intensity pulling you back to the linens on my mattress,
I think our binary star system fell apart, and a supernova of our own occurred between us.

A galaxy can hold up to one billion stars in its hands,
which makes it so hard for me to understand why I sifted through entire tons of burning gas,
just to pluck your star from the masses and add it to my horizons,
and then lose you in a shrouded nebula cloud.

Holding your hand never felt so right while we were watching the night sky in my backyard,
I’ll never forget the way you turned to me with your bright brown eyes that made every one of those stars look pathetic, and confessed that you had just seen your first shooting star.

I couldn’t help but correct you and say that there is no such thing as shooting stars,
only meteors, that somewhere along the line,
were granted the romanticized name, making them much more intriguing than they really are.

I can't tell if I'm shivering out of coldness or fear
or fear of being too cold.
Our bracelets broke on the same day.
The bittersweet irony is like swallowing a rose full of thorns.
My favorite shoes are getting holes in the toes-
you love something so much you **** it.

The first time she told me I was perfect,
I told her it was the *** talking.
but by the fifth time, the tables had turned,
except
I wasn't under the post ******* influence,
I was, in my own mind, completely sane.

Every single "you two are so cute"
is-
no, was-
a candy coated suicide pill-
sweet with a bitter aftertaste.

Fire rains on my skin
red ants trail in lines where her finger tips grazed my arms.
My eyes are burning and whether its from lack of sleep or I just got some reality caught in my iris,
I'm not quite sure.

Hurt, anger, uncertainty, betrayal-
at the hands of the one person I lent my knife to-
my own self.
The sheer stupidity of allowing the free thinking, independent rifle of my pen to be settled for even a minute.

So maybe I did nothing wrong,
and maybe soulmates just isn't in the dictionary-
but neglect sure is.

And unwashed hair smells a whole lot like yesterday's feelings and burnt coffee,
and maybe if I wash out today's feelings tomorrow, I'll be left with just keratin.
Or maybe perspective, masked in an intoxicating rose scent.

Post cards cannot build a body
it took me too long to realize this
I thought I could write love letters and somehow the words would come off the page and make me real again
but you cannot build a body with stationary seasoned by my perfume alone

it took over 14 almost near the edge could have should have been but weren't breakups
for me to realize her eyes did not shine galaxies for me anymore
that when she stared at me she no longer saw an imperfectionist's masterpiece
the replication of her own self, a carbon copy printed from too much time spent together

ink fused molecules made fingerprints through my fingertips,
but instead of a distinctly swirled thumbprint,
I saw only an oval shaped splotch that was supposed to represent me,
like I just slit myself open and let ink pour from my veins,
let me tell you that does not make you anymore real than the hypnotic pattern spelled out on those letters

I finally realized that as much as I loved her, I love myself more

that those galaxies that went darker than her pupils dimmed out because she could not find the strength to love me anymore
that these calloused hands of mine could no longer intertwine with hers
because my anxiety caused them to tremble far too much for her liking,
that when I offered my palms up to her one last time she cast them aside and insisted she could write scrawling calligraphy from her own ink

when I closed my eyes, I couldn’t see her quill rowing waves on blank paper,
I only saw her tipping over the well of black tar onto my own,
and every time I try and purge the shimmering oil from my page,
I only end up past my elbows in her mess

for hours, I scrub and scratch at the skin on my arms hoping that somehow I can remove her from my body,
but all my attempts end in vain, because she’s made her way into my veins,
and I cannot let her out
because every time I try and write her off,
all that comes out of me is tainted ink.

She climbs on top,
She has lied in waiting for too long
Her gorgeous smile infatuates me
She is shining so much, I do not recognize the gleam is coming not from Her eyes,
but from Her knife.

how stupid to think that She would bow down to me.
how selfish to believe a simple me, could tame a wild Her.

She found weakness in my humanity,
She found strength in my pride-
She fed off both-
even as She watched a rapid red river rush from my neck,
She lapped as a parting gift from that gorgeous mouth that crawled on top

I told myself I was being crazy
I told myself lots of things
Instead of joining for the upcoming weekend,
I did what I always did.
I didn’t want to,
I’d move in a daze
Feeling more and more uneasy,
It was over before it could even begin.
If only I had stopped when I had the chance
None of it made any sense.
The only thing I’d seen was despair
My mother echoed wonderingly-
it would finally die down

The happy carefree girl that is roaming the outside
is no match for the demons living within
and while she tells herself she’s not crazy,
everything else convinces her she is.

I can’t count the days on my fingers that I didn’t want to care
I can’t tell you how many times I said it’s not worth it,
and I certainly can’t tell you the number of days that I pushed on,
because those, are still being counted.

And while the pain and anger is still being mounted
I just can’t see the light.
For every “It will get better,”
all I want is one proof.

One proof, that will make me see that staying is worth it.
One proof that will make this dark cloud part.
One proof that's’ cry is loud saying,
“You are strong, The end is near.”

But I live in fear.
Everyday I live in fear
that my tomorrow won’t come because my only enemy,
was the one I couldn’t stand up to.
That the only reason I couldn’t confront it was because it was inside me.

The fear slowly turns into a lurking shadow surrounding me,
The shadow of anxiety relentlessly digging its claws into my heels.
The cold gnarled hand that grabs onto my arm and pulls me around like a rag doll.
The same shadow that makes me feel like I’m 10 sizes too small.

And the shrinkage continues
as the judgmental looks of my mother and so called “friends” pierce me
like I will later do to my skin with the blade,
liberating me of the heavy cloak for moments at a time.

And the cries that scream are all but silent,
sometimes they reach the surface and although a hand is offered to save me,
I bitterly refuse it, because I’m all too stubborn to admit I need help.

Deep down that strong girl is still there
She waits in a cage longing for the day she is set free.
Her soul aches to fill the body of that happy carefree girl.
She begs her captor to let her again give insurance to that personality.

Silently she prays to the God she long gave up on.
One that the person she so desperately wants to embody, does not believe in.
Yet that God seems to be too busy,
creating bombers and their victims,
mother’s separated from their children,
and most importantly, ones suffering from none other than themselves.

Don’t try and tell me I’m not crazy.
That I will get over it,
that’s it’s just a phase.
Because now, its more than just a phase.

Depression has become my full time job.
One with no health benefits
and long grueling hours with less than no incentives.
Depression has become my full time job, and as much as I want to quit,
I have no idea how to write a letter of resignation.

The leaves are changing as am I

Thickness of eyeliner, correlated to sadness

Willing to talk, but too proud.