If you were a rose & I were too
my heart would still long for you;
if you bloomed in the summer
& I in the spring
my petals would still search for yours
through thunder & lightning;
if you were to wilt and I were too
then my leaves would still reach out to you;
if you got lost in the shrubbery and I was alone, my thorns would break down garden walls and gnomes;
because if you were a rose & I were too
something inside me,
something I don't understand,
would still call out for you
would long to hold your hand

riding in airplanes
the way everything is so small
because usually
I am the smallest thing
not just physically
but everything in my life
seems to stand above me
and for once
I'm higher than the clouds
and everything
just doesn't matter
everything
is just matter
just its simplest form
it's simplest idea
and I'm an angel in the sky
brushing the dust from the stars and the clouds and the planets off my wings

while eating some peanuts

I heard them saying:
"she goes places sometimes".
I knew they meant I leave sticky notes on their mirrors saying "I'll be back, but don't wait up".

I knew that they meant that I sometimes take the long way home for the view, even if the view is the industrial sight where my ambition died.

I knew they meant that, there are voices in my head that are screaming at me dark thoughts, so loud that sometimes they can hear them too.

I knew that they meant I don't wear yellow anymore because I'm afraid I'll go blind; that my eyes have adjusted to the lack of light that surrounds me.

I knew they meant no harm.
I knew they didn't want me to hear them.

I knew they meant that I practice holding my breath for countless minutes just incase they catch me playing dead in the bathtub again.

I knew they meant that I read the endings of books before starting them so I won't be disappointed. I knew they meant that I'm tired of being disappointed.

I knew they meant that I am weaker than usual; that I don't wear as many sharp edges or that I don't smell like kerosene after it's been set on fire.

that I don't ignite at the sound of pistols, I just welcome bullets.

that I don't walk on the perimeter of the ocean, I just drink the water till the salinity makes me see the world in different colours.

that I'm not afraid of heights, I'm just afraid of falling.
that I wear a kind of loneliness that doesn't wash off.

I knew they were trying their best to be gentle,
but I was trying my best to be tough.

but when you light the world on fire time after time, you get tired of rebuilding walls.

you get tired of looking your best; of drawing attention; of wearing yellow.

you get tired of holding your breath, and you let in the voices.

and you take the long way home, and you don't feel bad that you didn't leave a note.

some days, when the pain is bigger than before, when it manifests itself into a coyote hunting down the prancing memories of the good days, chasing the sunset,
it's these days I ask myself if it was truly worth it?
is it better to have loved & lost; to have lived and died, than to be a spec of dust on the wind, washing the sky in colours undetectable.
we painted the clouds in rosy hues,
& loving you was like painting a canvas in every shade of red from every berry in every forest.
but when the paint dried & oxidized, & roses looked muddy like they had been stepped on out in the rain,
it was days like that I felt it was not worth it.
being shackled to the ground, sprouting from the soil and instant destruction,
this love was so young, so pure, so new and senseless,
yet agony awakened as your spirit drifted away from these leaves & thorns,
& I am just a small rosebud begging to blossom but you keep picking petals, playing a game of "I love her, I love her not"
how does this flower bloom if every day she fades back into the ground, trampled by the crash of timber from the shaky earthquake of your voice.
cowering in the corners from the thunder your voice emits, from the high heavens.
so holy you seem with your voice so high, so above and beyond the trees my petals could never reach.
& yet so terribly close you feel, how your voice carries on the wind, howling from dawn to dusk.
so I understand now why it hurts so much.
how you were once all of nature, but the forest burnt to the ground, ashes to ashes,
we, the remains of nature, scattered across the earth.
you're love was so short, a glimpse of light, a lunar eclipse,
& the forgetting is so long, a year of April showers, a mourning period where flowers don't grow, flash floods in my eyes & around every corner.
forgetting is all to difficult, but I'll take it.
I'll take the rain any day, to have felt your light if only for a fraction of a moment;
if only to have it vanish like the wind.

you don't see colour anymore,
maybe you're looking at it all in the wrong light.
you say optimism is a shapeshifter that makes you think a blade is a rose stem.
red, like the petals you use to place in my hair that now look dead.
I use to write sonnets about your cupids bow and eyelashes, but the child who never felt loved doesn't believe in details, doesn't believe in the fine lines.
so when you ask him to tell you why he never cries when he has every right to, he tells you it's because he can't feel.
and you wonder, if he means he can't cry anymore, or ever.
but he just can't bring himself to let emotion fill the vacant waiting room of his lungs.
he has dirt on his knees & a cut across his lip.
now I write about mending beautiful things that I know can't be fixed.
he can't help but smile, a habit he declares a flaw.
he's the only person I've ever known without laughter lines, who puts his dimples to waste.
he still looks for a home, though he thinks he can find it in himself he's forgotten he's not the only one who never felt comfortable in their skin, born and abandoned.
but maybe that's the difference between us,
orphan by chance, I scraped the walls looking for picture frames filled with memories that never existed.
orphan by choice, you crumpled all the images of me & through them I to a pile labeled "I'll get to it one day"
I want to know that love can be a fairytale, that I can roll out of this tomb I named my body, to turn a page and know that there's another chapter.
I want to know he cherishes these moments by pinning them to his wall, but will he ever look up?
is he afraid there are no longer walls to keep his home together?
or does he live in a glass house?
transparency makes the perspective set in,
but the rain is coming down outside blanketing his home.
he can't see.
he can't see me.
waiting on the front porch.

the real storm is inside, darling.
you can't escape the hurricane in your mind.
it tells you you're unloved.
oh, how the world can be so unkind.

never again will I look into your eyes like they are the ocean.
you're not the ******* ocean.
you were never mysterious and charming
seashells pressed against my ear only muffled the words you said, what sounded like the soothing whisper of the ocean waves, were really the tides crashing violently onto the shore.
I lay now on this beach, I wait for a storm to follow me to my spot here on the sand, but I am left dry.
I see the water steady, and you are so far gone past the horizon, that when the sun sets, your silhouette is all that appears.
perspective sets in,
and I remember how you were a poisonous creature captivating me with every lethal injection the power of your words compelled.
I remember I'm alone.
I know that it's okay.
because you are not the ocean,
you are only one of its inhabitants,
and there are so many more creatures worth diving in for,
there are so many reasons to swim deeper.

navigating the linoleum tile barefoot and gripping the floor to feel the sand in my toes; the sand you told me would be here.
the fluorescent lights didn't warm me like the sun that tanned your skin but rather emphasized the lack of life I radiate.
I feel the ocean waves of paperwork flood my spot here on the beach where I sit next to you. I watch you tackle and surf each wave with breeze while I drown in the tides.
my fear overcompensates me and I stay on the edge of the beach while you swim in a deep blue abyss light years away from me.
the sharks ride under your board but you dodge their bite, the bite that keeps me from stepping out into the ocean.
and from miles away, I see the sun set over the ocean you've made your home, and from  my place on the shore, I can see the waves calm down for this moment. this moment where I no longer long to be a fish in your oceanic tank, but rather the salty sea breeze that lingers in the air even after the waves have fallen.

chalk outlines where I lay in the center of yet another linoleum tiled floor
brown eyes never looked so wild
& I was always told never to care for a wild thing
but you are captivating
and damaging
you take masochistic pleasure in watching me swim in this ocean of doubt you made for me
confusion sweeps me up in her arms and carries me up into the clouds, my vision blurs more so now, the fog creeps in on this island.
canopy beds snap at the sound of exotic birds buzzing in the background;
background, can't you just act like the island is deserted?
can't you just imagine their voices are further away?
we walked on soft seaweed but stepped on sea urchins along the way, and you couldn't heal both of us.
you can't always heal both of us.
sometimes the tide comes up to the palm trees and sometimes it only goes so far that we have to walk to it, meet in the middle
but all that matters is that there is still an ocean right?
would you even care if there wasn't?
would you still be doubting my every word, as if it was nothing more than the sound of sea breeze?

the female adolescent is beautiful
in black and white
colour loses depth
we see everything like a small puppy
isn't the what you want?
innocence?
naive little girls who can't hold their own?
who can barely stand on their own two feet?
the female is a miraculous creature
she carries herself like a feather on a cool breeze
maybe because she's so frail & the wind is so loud
oh the feeling of hunger pains on a cold winter morning
wondering if maybe im small enough now to feel the wind in my bones
freezing my enamel
wondering how many calories are in toothpaste
or the bleach we swish around in our mouths to whiten our teeth
we eat pills for breakfast
anti-depressant
Prozac
laxatives
Xanax
and hair & nail supplements
so we can look beautiful while dying
dabbling in hobbies like
shopping
buying makeup
fainting while walking to the bus stop
hunching over the toilet while top model plays in the background
shaming our metabolisms for not being able to burn through a tic tac fast enough
yelling at our doctors for claiming that our
"hearts are too big for such a small body"
boys think we dumb ourselves down to make ourselves more appealing
little do they know the number of times we bang on our heads to knock out the unclean thoughts like
food or
sleep
how our brain cells die each time we slap away our frowns & replace them with painted smiles
small dumb Barbie dolls
plastic
easily ripped apart
we hide our pain with concealer
bruised from bumping into counters
purple knees
carrying a rubber band for months till that rubber band is carrying us
slapping our wrists to warrant authority
because beauty has power over everything
measuring the space between our thighs
yanking at the skin that will never leave
measuring the space between the blade and our wrists
remembering that scars will only make it worse
measuring the space between now and never
realizing life is a thing
realizing life would be better without you
realizing you haven't weighed yourself today
gathering your fears in mason jars
collecting your tears & mailing them to places far, far away
the female adolescent is beautiful
but only in black and white

gracefully,
standing upon discarded bodies as the world casts a shadow on the tasteless display.
a girl,
watching herself like strangers do in tall buildings through windows,
the lamplight being the only echo of familiarity; a sense of safety,
flickers off,
leaving the cold grey of the night to be her dearest company.
the peoples faces, frozen beneath the hem of her dress, read a quiet howl that makes the silent night turn away.
voices in her head replay the same dull, lifeless film:
"you can't keep pushing us away"
"we can work this out"
"it will be okay"
she locks herself behind puffs of smoke,
and somewhere in the clouds it's always raining a slow and endless drizzle.
and she keeps burying,
burying it all away,
till the morning sun sheds light on what she refused to believe; that it was all her fault.

do your hands understand the laws of space?
they seemed to find the stars even when the lights are out.

in all the universe, you found my small galaxy & held it with your nimble fingers.

I felt it in my core where my sun lies, dim and weak, waiting to ignite

why the core?

why does something tender strike so deep?

when you let go, did you reflect on your work? I mean, you left a hole in the universe…

did you ever stop to marvel at the vast emptiness?

how could you walk away, how could you hold me and not see my colours?

of all the hands that have felt the warm touch of your fingers, was mine not worthy?

it was cold, limp, brittle and breaking by the burn,

but I held on, knowing deep down, in every star, that it wasn't enough, that you would eventually let go

and so you did.

leaving me floating in search of another star to devote myself to.

you have to understand
you must read me very carefully
place me in your hand,
under lamplight,
in the quaint corners of this small house that was once home
you can still see my smile
if you flip to the first page
you can still hear my laugh
thoughout this book, I marked it more than once
you can still touch my skin
within the bindings of the paper
and on the last page, you can see
the little girl you wrote so eloquently

there are so many beautiful things in the world. I sometimes wonder if maybe it matters. like when I see the rain collecting into puddles on the sidewalk and children splashing around in them, or the sun when it shines through my window on a Sunday to wake me up. or the stars when you're deep in the country, miles away from the neon signs & pavement. or the sound of leaves cracking when you step on them in the fall. the way people's faces look when they're laughing, it's always different. the little crinkles & laugh lines. beautiful. they're all beautiful things. so spectacular that they hurt me, like you do. I can't love you, because just as the sun comes out, the rain disappears, no more puddles, and i also watch it set outside the same window. and the stars go away, or I'm reminded that the light we are seeing from them is so old, that those very stars are gone & you start to question what is real. the leaves & the people. what are they worth? we love to hear them both break. and I know you can't help but find satisfaction in the sound of my heart breaking as you step on it.

so sad is it to hear
the wailing of the car radio
because what's sad is not their tears
but the ironic pain of which they don't know

you can write about love and happiness
those are life's simple pleasures
but the the depth I have from this emptiness
can not possibly be measured

you think you've felt pain
when the tide in your eyes come in
you think you're insane
because society played you again

I've got some news for you
I won't try to put this nicely
the pain you thought you know
is a piece of this mess that is unsightly

I won't tell you that I'm better
when genetically I'm broken
but I hope that when you read this letter
you won't try to leave it open

I've shown you my crazy
a number of times
my thought are a mess and often hazy
but I'll be out of them in no time

how come everyone talks about their demons like they're their best friend ?
I mean I go everywhere with mine, don't get me wrong, but it's not like i invited them.
sometimes I turn a corner and there's a sign about Victoria secret lingerie and then in a glass window of a Barnes n noble I see one of my demons pointing at the flaws I wear so pathetically on my skin. I try to laugh it off, like when your friend tells an offensive joke but they're your friend so you try your best to find the humour in it.
but now I'm just laughing at myself and there's nothing funny about carpooling around people who hate you.

you hold sparkly things like they are candles burning a timid flame
you held me like I was the flame
too hot to hold
and no not like I was some goddess you found in good faith but more like my passion was too strong for you
didn't you know that shiny new things all break the same
my flame may be the size of a cosmic flare but it burns out just as the small match you let go of years ago did
we let our ashes tell our stories for us
we promise to burn and burn and burn
but we are all burned out so what's left
what's so special in the rubble that brought you to your hands and knees?
what made you dig in the ashes?
would it hurt if I told you it was nothing at all?

when he asked if I wanted to drive deep into the mountains
if I wanted to go down back roads and across forgotten trails
if I wanted to drive past every lost monument that wasn't littered with the names of children who let go of themselves, etched into the cool pavement with black ink,
I said no,
because those names,
those monuments,
spark of a memory I don't share a psychological bond with
it brings me back to days I didn't walk through
the smell of the paint almost dry
carries me on a breeze that's cold as ice from the lack of my touch.

I didn't live in those memories.
but the stain they leave behind,
the valleys I walked through were covered limb to limb in the acrylic drippings of time
and I am here just moments later
moments after the show began
the finale lingers in the leaves
covering each berry in hues of gray

I didn't live there.
but I won't go further from this spot till it returns.
so when you ask me to run away with you,
I only wish you could hear the sound my nails make, the scraping and scratching,
clawing at years I didn't live to see.
air I wasn't there to breath
footprints that were walked over many times before my arrival.

when you ask me to let go,
I only wish you could hear the earth telling me to stay.

I softly run my fingers along the covers,
a barricade from the darkness that sits,
patiently,
lurking in the shadows.

I know that I have to get up, have to get up,
because if I don't then that will be it then...
he would have won...

my fears don't overcompensate for my pride, as I climb out from my hiding spot.  

my feet hit the cold tile floor, and it somehow seems to burn,

like how as children, the ground was the lava that you avoided while jumping from couch to chair to couch again.

only this time, I plunged into the lava, knowing it's safer to burn then to freeze in your cold hostility.

I'd rather turn to ash, be a piece of dust in the wind, then stay frozen in time.

my hands ball into tight fists at my sides, anxiety travels around my insides, down my spine, and quickly circles my brain a few times before plummeting into my stomach once more.

I know what's on the other side of the door. the door I've hidden behind for too long. the door that I've slammed into countless faces. the door that I slide down each time I cry. the door that doesn't lock, so I have to put a dresser in front so my demons can't get in. the door... the same door that I'm opening now for the first time in days.

I step out into the dimly lit hallway... and there he stands. ready to kick me down. ready to see me fall. always there to catch my tears, then slap me around for crying in the first place. there he is. only he's something I can't fight back. he's everywhere and he's nowhere to be found. he's in front of me, but also inside me. he watches me while I sleep. he walks by my side down dark city streets. he carries me to the water, and feeds me to the sharks. he feeds me lies that are laced with poison. he has expectations, but won't tell me what they are. he has rules that I'm made to follow, but are invisible to the mortal eye. he's ruining my life, but he's all I am.

he's reality...

and **** can he be a *****.

when my mother told me to get out of my own head
it was like the sound of a sudden beat in an alley way
that viscous, sinister bang of broken glass
collapsing in the forefront of my imagination
when she says to stop overthinking everything
I am suddenly reminded of the opalescent lights that corner my thoughts
the world spinning on its axis, turning my head and twisting so tight it pulls at the roots of my hair
when she tells me to get over it
I feel the weight of a textbook crushing my spine, speaking it's scripture to me like the demons that whisper through air vents
so over is not an option, mom
I've never been one to fly above the nest you'll learn that pretty quick
I am a cult of 9's, the tails whipping at the edges of my brain, it's one eye watches me stumble on division symbols, cackling at the ways I try to split my problems in two
when I tell her
I just want to sleep,
she tells me to crawl out of my bed and dance
but how come dance has turned my mind into a music box, a ballerina dances on point inside my head and I reach, and claw at the frayed corners of my skull, hoping to hold her grace
when I tell her my bed is the only thing that makes any sense,
that dreams don't come in clusters any more like the rapid cars on highways,
that they fold over into one,
that for once the calculator in my head isn't multiplying, or dividing,
that for once the number one just means one,
when I tell her that my dreams are filled with clouds of sanctuary,
or that my mind is only asleep when I'm spoken to,
that it climbs out of the covers at night to float high above the stars,
she says that laziness is a sin,
that feeding your exhaustion at 3 in the afternoon is ridiculous
but sleep is all that makes sense
when nothing adds up
so when I tell you I never roll out of bed with a refreshing, minty mind
that sleep doesn't feel like resting anymore
that it feels like sleep
that it feels like lying down after a long day and constantly crashing on to hard pavement
that falling from a 200 story building makes me feel alive
that's when you decide to tell me that I've exceeded all expectations
that I'm a shiny quarter in a sea of dimes
then I ask if you knew that all shiny things break the same
that I rust around the edges just like any other coin
could you understand my restless behavior isn't exotic but exhausted
then maybe you would too, hide behind bedroom eyes

the moon tonight has never been brighter and never will be, so you soak in its almost dim light afraid you'll get a sunburn
do you hear what you are thinking?
the girl inside of me loves to dance with insomnia but her ankles have gotten weak and now insomnia just feels like a never ending cycle, one you may relate to this moon she knows too well.
the tides don't brush against the current in a sweeping motion, they don't pull back the sand and drag you down with it.
even the moon is tired of hearing your cries.
the waves come crashing from the sky but you just feel rain
and how were you able to make the day go away?
are you really restless of has your inner clock changed its mind?
maybe this girl inside of me stares at the stars like they're gods eyes because she has no one else to turn to.  
would it **** you, or better yet, would you wake up, if I told you that you make the sun look like the moon, but that the sun will
never be the moon?
you dance on through the night and wait for day to break so that you can too.
little girl you can't keep dreaming about monsters in math class, they live in your head.
you survived so much this far and now you've decided to let it all destroy you like a delayed reaction.
how do you deal with loneliness?
someone once told you to never fall asleep upset so you don't.
do you not crawl under the covers because you know solitude is your body pillow and that you don't sleep to distract from the fact that there is no one on the other half of this bed.
are you asleep or are you awake?
are you burning daylight or does it burn you?
to the the little girl whose mind doesn't turn off when I lay down at night,
who still paces around my head and whose footsteps keep me awake,
it doesn't hurt to sleep in the middle of the bed.

statistically,
I will die of a very old age, enveloped in the warm covers, my now oblivious tomb, with my hands grasping for a year my mind ran to in its final moments,
that year would be yours,
I named it after you because you seemed to stain every sunday morning with your tears caused by our laughter, the evenings ring silver bells of your warm embrace,
I named it after you because each Monday, as I rose out of that same comforting coffin, and fell into your arms like the wings of an owl carrying me to a higher limb, singing me songs like a mocking bird to make strange voices sound relatively close,
I named it after you because Tuesday's were the days you held my heart to a microphone, you let the world hear me fall deeper and deeper in love with you,
I named it after you because every Wednesday you brought me postcards from the places you visited in my mind, the places I long since forgot in my travels, the places where you planted daisies at every truck stop
I named it after you because Thursday's couldn't be anyone else, not with the karaoke nights and discos, you barged into each door with every intention of making me dance and sing until I felt beautiful,
I named it after you because Friday's were the only days in the week where you let me take you somewhere, where I held your face between my hands and gazed into your eyes, searching for the routes to take to get closer to you
I named it after you, because every Saturday, we walked to a garden, or down a city street, or through art museums, or down river streams, just moving, moving further from the places we've been, our pinkies intertwined, stumbling on each other's feet drunk from the ecstasy of our lovers deep embrace,
I named it after you, because every day you littered these moments with memories I swore I would never forget,
so when the new year bells rang,
and you were miles away,
and I was thinking you were a drop of perfect in such an imperfect place,
and all I wanted was just one taste,
you were taking buses to get to a new mind to conquer

I should have listened to you say, "I shouldn't start the new year with you, if I can't be there by your side to finish it"

it's a terrible feeling
when you pace back and forth down a street with no lamplights
the cars on the highways aren't moving or stuck in traffic
they levitate home as its 8:30
and it's time for quiet
it's time for peace
however I hear the music erupting from the radios
"A mans been shot"
and the world goes silent
"A black mans been shot"
and for 3 minutes I hear pens and needles hitting the curb of the road
the homeless man accompanying my transparent presence whispers the words
"it's only a game of cat and mouse"
and
"no one is dead. no one is alive."
and
"what are we truly when we're running from both?"
and the clock starts to tick
but no longer for him
and my eyes stare at a locked phone screen that displays the numbers
the last few digits
all his life succumbed to 8:30
how precious a moment
how raw is history at a time such as
the streets are still quiet
now the radios play a quiet melody something like
"he was only a ****"
maybe even
"he was holding a gun"
perhaps
"his life wasn't worth it"
and it's upsetting knowing things are going to end
that you have to watch them grind to a stop and can't change it
because from birth all your life ever was
was a break peddle slowly bringing you to a crash you could only anticipate
you pulled all the right cards, took every class, and pushed down on that break
but you're the one that died
"A mans been shot"
it's 8:31
"A black mans been shot"
it's starting to rain
the droplets cover skyscrapers that reached a higher peak in their life then you ever would
it's starting to rain again
this time the clouds are my eyes
and the shock has passed
I see a cat hide in a box in an alley
the homeless man stays put and let's the water fill his mouth
everyone and everything is cold
the paper from today with the headline "America the Land of the Free"
makes my stomach twist
the black ink bleeds down the paper till the words are undetectable
till the memory of life fades and it's moments like these where I slip into a waking coma where my body moves further past buildings but my minds stopped working when the news smashed into the forefront of my brain
the yellow lights in windows turn off
everyone's going to sleep
it's 8:32
in one minute the noise will emit from bars and night clubs like a parade to commemorate life
"It could have been us so we must celebrate"
but it wasn't going to be us
we haven't been preparing ourself for this moment
we weren't born in handcuffs
the night lights will soon begin
and the city will come alive "once more"
only to break at the sound of another tragedy
but the arrows pointing me to tired neighborhoods tell me I'm where I'm suppose to be
funny how the blood still stains the street even with the rain
how the bullet left a dent on the sidewalk where he looked up at the stars
I lay down on that very sidewalk
I look at the stars
I remember there are none and close my eyes to envision a world filled with stars
it's 8:33
"A black mans been shot.
In other news...
we're all still alive."

I never liked that butterfly feeling.
all I ever pictured inside my intestines were blind moths, battering around my insides which made me nauseous.
I never wanted to have that feeling after the first time I did.
I felt *****. and sorry. and stupid even.
I don't think that's how all first crushes work.
I think that butterflies rest in cocoons inside children's stomachs until one day someone wakes the sleeping insect and the flight begins.
I think that moths were always inside of me, that they buzz around and knock on the lining of my body till I ache with despair.
I think that you weren't spring rolling in, you weren't here to open up a cocoon that was never there.
I think you were an unexpected light source;
sunshine on a day where there was 100% chance of rain.
I think that when the lights reach the moths that rested inside my stomach and mind and chest, it caused them to go wild and swarm around dramatically, just like the first time.
my entire body is a deserted island that's always expecting a hurricane.
any sign of nature hides behind brain cells and blood vessels and waits for the rain to stop.
but when the rain stops, and the moths that inhabit this body come out to dance,
I shut them down.
I turn away from the light, I pull out my darkest clouds and find shelter in the fog.
I didn't want to stop the rain, I knew I would miss splashing in the puddles.
but then you appeared, peaking from behind the clouds,
and nothing could stop nature.