When I was thirteen
I thought that I wouldn’t make it through the year
birthdays felt like due dates
that I was never going to make
and each day brought me closer
to my ultimate fate of nothingness.
My bones felt like they were
filled with lead
and my eyelids sank as if they
only knew how to fall
like the rest of my body
into sleep.
I thought each moment was
a ticking time bomb
that was going to blow up
and leave my family to mourn
the life of someone who chose not to live it anymore.
I was so broken by my own brain
that nothing seemed worth it
and the easiest thing would have been
to step into the water
and let my leaden bones
pull me down.
When I was thirteen
I saw nothing but emptiness
within my own chest
and a body that would soon be useless.
When I was thirteen
I did not know what the future held for me
with laughter and love
and everything I would eventually dream of.
When I was thirteen
I was wrong
about most everything,
especially that I would never make it
through the year.

Where were you
when my heart was threatening
to beat itself out of my chest,
my soul was on fire
with the sparks of a generation
of hurt and pain
and you where sleeping
on a half broken couch
no care about the world
that was falling apart at my fingertips.
I was alone in the moment,
fireworks exploding under my feet
keeping me in a prison
of my own making
understanding that I would never try to run
from something so pretty.
I was lost,
and you never found me
buried underneath blankets
that strangled me in the night
layered on top of my aching body
so maybe I would feel the pressure
of someone else again.
You were never there
when I was dying for something,
last breaths clinging to my teeth
exhaling with every word
you never had the time to hear,
I left with nothing on my back
except regrets clinging to the
knives you put there.

My professor told me,”write every day”. How do I write every day when my body feels like it’s sinking. Two dark moons are pushing in on my skull, and I think it’s okay. My halo was lost long ago and sometimes I can feel the weight of where it used to be. I am a stranger to writing. It was who I was when I was broken, and then again when I was whole, but I’ve landed in purgatory where I am close to nothing. I have found myself without words in my throat, where rivers of thoughts used to occupy my mind. Now I see barren fields of nothingness, where plentiful poems used to grow. “Write every day” as if putting down words were easy, as if getting out of bed were any easier, as if loving myself enough to keep myself sane was something that seemed like it was possible. It’s not and it doesn’t. Writing means hope and hope means finding a way out, and that means feeling enough to hurt, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that. Hurting means I might be okay, so instead, I write only when I’m near breaking, just a little, and definitely not every day.

Your love was like a car crash
my entire body numb
to the moment
impact inevitable in the face
of what we were,
all twisted metal
and twisted arms
each part holding the other tight
as the world collapsed around us.
We were just teens
driving at eighty three
reckless in the name of freedom
moments passed like bullets
on the battle ground
we didn’t know was coming,
it was all broken phones
against yelling
and no way to understand hearts swelling,
crying eyes against night skies
and two wrecked cars in between us.
This love broke me
lying in the backseat
waiting for us to get home,
trying to apologize
with blood stuck in my throat,
and expectations that never made it
left totaled against each other
in the dark.