If want was water,
I would be drowning, my head under completely
and my oxygen quickly depleting.
If confusion was cold,
My fingers would be numb and I wouldn't even
have a coat to ward off the freezing.
If youth was you,
It would be slipping away by the second,
And I can't get a hold to stop it.
Now,
my air is gone,
I'm shivering to the bone,
and can't keep a hold on.
But, this is only a poem:
I know I'm not suffocating, subzero, or slipping.
But I can't help but feel like the more I write,
the farther I get from reality
and the closer I get to metaphor mortality.

When that specific person calls your name
and you hope it’s not actually you
That’s what wanting to forget feels like.

When they hand you pictures
taken in a different dimension
That’s what wanting to forget feels like.

When they randomly message you
over some stupid **** you said
That’s what wanting to forget feels like.

When you burn every note
that they ever wrote you
That’s what wanting to forget feels like.

When you tear down every picture
you two ever took together
That’s what wanting to forget feels like.

When you delete all of the posts
on snapchat, instagram, facebook
That’s what wanting to forget feels like.

When you unfollow them
on snapchat, instagram, facebook
That’s what wanting to forget feels like.

When you hate yourself
for still drinking and eating their favorite things
That’s what wanting to forget feels like.

When even though you’ve gone through all this trouble
they still somehow find themselves into your head,
then your conversations,
then your poetry,
That’s what wanting to
(but not being able to)
forget feels like.

Poetry is my check of reality,
Where I put my past in front of me
And analyze for hours, using all my power to discover what it was that went wrong.
I wish it didn’t have to be that way,
Because all my scrutinizing does is lead me astray from the path I was meant to take,
accumulating more mistakes,
and in the end I only end up with more heartbreak.
Last time my heart was this broken,
Nothing I felt went unspoken.
Now that the same part of me is missing,
Nothing I feel goes unwritten.

Extra, extra
Read all about it!
Your daily dose of depression on the front cover—
Or maybe some celebrities just become lovers—
But whatever it is, you know you want to know about it.
All publishers as my witness,
All news is good business.

The girl in the mirror likes to scream at me.
She shouts:
"Your acne is gross!"
"Your muffin top needs to go!"
"Your ***** are too small!"
"God, look at your nose!"
in my old mirror, I could hear her.
but now the glass is thicker.
I like to smirk back at her appalled expression
and say:
"yell all you want: I'm not listening."

You used to eat all the blue M&Ms in the package last.
Now I eat all the blue ones first to convince myself I’m over you,
Yet every time I do
I only think of you.

Swimming in honey is impossibly difficult.
Unless you don’t know it’s honey.
In ninth grade I started dating this guy.
I dove into the deep end with him and broke out into a sprint.
It took eight months to reach the other side,
eight months until the sweetness seeped into my teeth,
eight months until I recognized the bitter potential of this swimming pool.
Swimming in honey is impossibly difficult.
Unless you don’t know it’s honey.
My mind has always raced and I never had an issue with it,
up until the moment I was thrown a life raft.
It’s impossible to tell how sticky your situation is when all you’ve ever known is under the nectar.
Swimming in honey is impossibly difficult.
Unless you don’t know it’s honey.
We’ve been friends for so long that’s all I’ve ever thought of you as.
Yet after my thousandth lap you dragged me out of the pool, scraped away the syrup, pointed out to the place I had been for so long and told me
“Honey, I love you.”
Swimming in honey is impossibly difficult.
Unless you don’t know it’s honey.

If time heals all wounds,
why does each day without you
hurt worse than the last?

I scream for it to stop.
Everything. Anything.
Can't it all just stop?
The madness, the confusion,
the pursing of my already declining mental state,
which only makes me more irate.
I need the noise, the pain, the way the thought of you used to burn happily in my chest--
I need it to rest.
I'd rather be drowning in the feeling of emotionless internal bleeding than burning from the inside out on your account.
You hurt me once before, and it kills me to let you do it anymore.
Save me or slay me,
but don't just sit, savoring the torture I'm in currently.

If you love me,
Or ever did,
I beg you to stop.
Usually it would be the opposite
But as much as I hate being broken,
I hate being the one to break even more.
Before, I encouraged you to take the leap—
As long as it’s not me,
Be my guest.
I know how much loving in silence hurts,
But if you love me so much you’d understand why I value your silence.

Knock,
And you will be called in.
Talk
If you are prepared to listen.
Every

Action you take creates friction.

You took my soul with you when you left
You had lost yours so you borrowed mine
apparently.
Now I’m just an empty shell
The sweet nut taken out and treasured
And the crackled shell left to disintegrate.
My body decomposing,
I walk around becoming a zombie,
filled to the brim with anxieties and lost hope
lost hope for a future with you
because there was so much more we were supposed to do
but of course you took your heart and soul with you when you left this earth,
and decided to take mine too.

hopeless romanticism
is an endless pit
of effortless falling
but reckless hypnotism

your instagram posts
are they carefully chosen
like mine are for you?

maybe if I'm distracted by loving someone else
I won't have to learn how to love myself

I stand naked in the wake of the mirror,
criticizing everything about the way I appear.
Everything seems just a little off, misplaced maybe,
like a baby did a jigsaw puzzle
shoving pieces that don't belong together.
My small chest superimposed on my thick stomach makes me sick to it
My dimples indented on my cheekbones and not next to my crooked smile are anything but picture perfect
The list goes on and on
I criticize myself about everything under the sun for so long
I run out of things to say.
I wish the ugly parts of me would just go away.
I stare into my own ugly eyes with ugly tears in them and scream internal ugly words until I can't take the ugly hurt, and I cry out:
"I don't want to see my imperfections!"
My wish rattles against the glass.
I blink and gone is my reflection,
then all too quickly I beg for it back.

Jesus, stop changing
whenever the lighting shifts
you chameleon

Pretend
Like everything’s the same
Pretend
I’m not going insane
Pretend
This Sunday’s just another day
Pretend
I won’t be crying your name
Pretend
I never had a dad
Pretend
Because then it won’t hurt so bad
Pretend
I haven’t bought presents in the past
Pretend
Cause Father’s Day isn’t supposed to be sad.

do you have any idea
how ******* good it feels
to see that smiley face
and know you might be imitating it as we type?

My grandmother gifted me a jar of buttons when I was little.
There were so many inside the jar that it was impossible she collected them by accident; impossible that she had collected them for the purpose of sewing old clothing back together.
Her button jar serves as a reminder to me, a reminder of how perfect she was that she never needed them to mend old shirts she had torn,
because she was too perfect to have torn any in the first place.
I wonder if she gave them to me on purpose, or on accident.
If she had given them to me as a keepsake of her, to show all she had collected,
Or as a precaution, because she knew I was going to need to mend so much of my future.

is there a reason
is it for pleasure or fun
that you mess with hearts?

Turn the channel but it’s still static
So far away that you can’t hear the panic
And maybe I am a touch dramatic
But that doesn’t mean that I’m not problematic.
Not saying that my whole life is tragic
But having you in it was a little traumatic.
Despite all the times it felt like magic
Looking back now pushes me into a havoc.

I know, I know, I know,
We both made mistakes, and
I know, I know, I know,
We never meant for it to be this way.
I wish, I wish, I wish,
We had told more truths and not buried them,
I wish, I wish, I wish,
we would’ve had more of a grey area.

Writers block is just a giant wall
blocking an even rockier path than the one you're on
Once you find a topic,
you can't find the first word,
the first rhyme,
the first line,
the first stanza,
and I throw my hands up in anger
because I end up writing words in order random
or words to make the lines rhyme sandal

My search history is 99%
"words that rhyme with this or that"
Search results: sat, flat, cat
well that doesn't make sense within the context
but ***** making sense or metaphors or deep lore that you have to analyze,
why can't I just write out my feelings without the right rhymes?
I thought poetry was my remedy,
but it's also my demise.

my socialization meter is down to zero
I’d be happier if I was the only one
but no one else thinks that two.

they’re right when they say a crowd is three.
but what am I asking four?
loneliness instead of a high five?

haven’t been this antisocial since age six.
I’m supposed to be there by seven
but it’s still the morning; maybe eight.

I might be over it a little by nine,
but I’ll never feel like a full ten.

I'm the poet.
You're the puppet. I
    control
                       where
                                                       your
                                                      eyes
l­ead,
when and where you

                                  read my words
with my spaces and p
                                      auses,
drive you crazy with nonsense clauses
that don't always rhyme.
But they do some of the time.
Or I use alliteration around absently,
leaving you wondering what my next word will be.
And by making it to the end of this poem,
you have proven how poets manipulate your thinking through the use of poetry puppetry.

I miss not missing you
I miss not thinking of you
Go back where you belong,
Anywhere but my thoughts

We’re all just chameleons
Blending into the common trends
Nothings truly original anymore
But conforming is too boring
So then we encourage the parrots
Who cut through with their loud colors
And unique patterns
but they’re too different
even though everyone knows
Parrots are much prettier than chameleons
Soon after they arrive they are forced back from where they came
Different is good, but only if it’s the same as everyone else’s different.

It’ll get worse before
It gets worse
Once more

selfless until I want you to be
always thinking of me
until you realize you can be selfish by slowly killing yourself
"nicotine is nicotine is nicotine" :
words from my own mother
holding me to a standard she won't follow.

lip syncing snapchats
lyrics that might be a clue...
but probably not.

You put words in my mouth through thoughts in your head—
Thoughts that deserve to be head.
Why, just why the hell would you believe your mind rather than mine?
I did everything for you.
Rearranged my priorities,
Took control of some of these
wild thoughts in my brain.
Make time for you.
Kinda upset that time is wasted now
But you wasted your time too,
Arranging a script for me out of your distortions. Go on, take a bow!
You did such a great job at flipping and folding and molding my words into something new.
Anyway,
It’ll be fun to see what I can do
now that I know I don’t need you.

hey, you.
this is new.
i should've expected this, right?
as soon as anyone says they're bi
i suddenly assume i have a chance
but under no circumstance
is that actually true.
...but it could be with you.

Happy birthday to you
Did you know we love you
We miss you, dear father,
And we hope you do too.

Live it up in heaven
You should visit us again
We think about you always,
And we hope you do too.

I might lava you
but my eruption could burn
you’re safe somewhere else

Got an email from someone I thought I knew
Curious to know what we were up to
Clicked on the link, but it was just a ploy
To hack into my life and use me as a toy.

Broke into the hardware in my head,
Consumed my credit cards, ushered me into debt
Hacked into and manipulated all I felt
Controlled and restricted the hand I was dealt.

Even with my new passwords and new email
The scar of the hacker will never fully heal.
Blamed it on them being the stone cold *****,
But I’m the one who let them hack with a single click.

Draw me closer
Paint my scalp with your fingertips
Sketch my outline with your palm
Color in my smile with yours
Glitter glue our hands together,
Intertwined forever.
Use your most vibrant shades to shade in our eyes—
Trace the way they look when we gaze at one another—
Wild, excited, loved.

You may not be the artistic type,
But everyone can draw to some extent.

You say you’re over me
But the number of times you check my Instagram say otherwise

You say you don’t think of me
But all you’ve written has us forever memorized

You say you don’t care anymore
But your mind still wonders if I’m doing better without you

You say you don’t want me back
But to get me back, you’ve planned what you could do.

my sister's room is a time machine.
I walk in and she has decorated her walls with the memory of our father
her desks covered in the confetti of his life
her jewelry all gifts from him
she wears three necklaces at once because he gave them all to her
her phone case has a picture of him and her
I walked in on her once sitting on the carpet
a picture, a box of ashes, and something silly her gave her all laying in front of her
in her hands was one of the necklaces, and her thumb vigorously rubbed it like a lamp
begging for a wish
a wish she had planned:
bring him back.
my sister's room is a time machine.
she harbors his spirit in her room
because it doesn't live anywhere else.

I hate past tense.
It means that it’s already happened, it’s done, and most of the time it won’t happen again.
Most of all I hate that I’m going to have to learn how to use past tense to describe you.
You deserve to be in present tense.
You deserve to be funny, to be smart, to be passionate.
Instead,
You were funny, you were smart, you were passionate.
So I’m going to keep using present tense to describe the things you did until I can come to terms with past tense.
I do know one thing, though:
You never past-tense ‘loved’ me,
You present-tense ‘love’ me.
And that will never change.

did you ever believe me?
when I told you I cared?
did you ever realize?
how much I was scared?
of losing you, of never having you

did you ever love me?
in the way I loved you?
did you ever mean it?
when you said “of course I do”?
think I lost you— or never even had you

did you ever care?
or were you too selfish?
were you ever scared?
or even jealous?
you knew you’d never lose me; you always had me.
hypnotized.

You shake your head
as if the truth will fall right out of your ears the same way it entered
because you don't want to believe it.
You're so caught up in your own 'opinion' that you can't even open your mind up to the possibility you might be wrong.
You are given facts, statistics, news stories, yet you are unable to listen to reason.

While the straight white male ahead of me shakes his head at the possibility of being privileged,
A mother mourns over the loss of her son, a black man shot by a cop for no reason other than fear of his skin color,
another woman is silenced by her ****** through sharp threats in a dark closet,
my own mind flips back to when my aunt was disowned by most of her family for loving a woman.

Yet you, who can drive past a cop on the highway without breaking  a sweat,
can walk down the street at night alone without breaking a sweat,
can show your parents your lover without breaking a sweat,
think that you aren't any more lucky than the other people I listed prior.
Oh, if you only knew how to open your mind, just slightly, instead of shake the truth out.
Lying to yourself only makes it worse when you realize the truth.

If we lived in a world
Where you didn’t age a day until you met your soulmate
I would have gotten my first grey hair
When I met you

The moon has phases
In and out of the same cycle
Always orchestrating a reprisal
Over a number of days

I have phases, too
Yet they seem more like mazes, who
Don’t know where they lead to.
Unlike the moon,
Who is settled in his ways,
I bounce back and forth in this pinball machine,
Forwards, backwards, sideways,
Through different replays with the same ending: heartbreak.

I never know when or where they’ll start,
But I’m always the one with the broken heart.
The phases come and go as they please,
And always end up blaming me.

it was mine
all mine
poetry was mine
my "thing"
yet you took it
i'm not special anymore

you were mine
all mine
no one else's but mine
my "person"
yet you left me
i'm not special anymore

blue was mine
all mine
only my color
my "shade"
yet you took it
i'm not special anymore

music was mine
all mine
only my chords and words
my "passion"
yet you took it
i'm not special anymore

Overdramatic
Overshown
Can’t donate or share
Something I own

Overused
Overdiagnosed
But I know I have it
Looms over; my personal ghost

Overrated
Oversimplified
Not “feeling worried”,
Feeling like you’ll die

Overemotional
Oversensative
People complain
Even when I’ve got a sedative

Understand it’s not an
Understatement
When I say
Anxiety’s complicated.

Waking up with a hangover is said to be one of the worst feelings in the world.
But waking up with a broken heart from the night before is much worse.
Drinking a warm cup of black coffee does not get rid of heartache like it does a headache.

I had a reality where we got back together.
And I really wish that
I could have realized it was a dream
It was only my head playing tricks on me.
Unfortunately,
For you
It only helped me realize that I’m completely over my feelings
And my brain is lying to me when it convinced me that
I’m still in love with you
It’s true that
I couldn’t have been happier
I had a dream where we got back together.

(now read from the bottom to the top.)

Holes in my ears? 8.
But including the ones in my heart?
Or my soul?
Or my head?
Too many to count.

Didn’t realize the length of my hair determined what was underneath.

Sticks and stones
May break my bones
But words will never hurt me

And if they do
You’d have no clue
They leave no scars in reality

Yet in my head
The words they said
Are spreading like wildfire

When I explain
All my pain
They brush it off as satire

Just to prove
What they do
I paint my arms with scarlet

They say it’s me
But in reality
It’s them that are the artists.