sometimes her face is like coming home
and sometimes it's like returning to a burnt down place.
sometimes her face, looking down, looking away,
makes me hurt in old places. places that shouldn't.

and i wish i was ready. god i wish i was ready.

but it's dark and im drunk and im crying because that's the only time it's safe.

where do i begin.

how do i tell her that im nothing. a person made of smoke. and how do i wake up one day and decide im free. nearly two years down the gutter and im still there.

and he put a heaviness in me that pains me still. like old battle scars that all have stories i can only tell after the sixth beer.

and she's looking down away from me with her hair tucked behind her ear. i remember the moment exactly, as her eyes relaxed and swept across the page. she didn't see me watching her but i did and i wanted to cry again but it was too bright for that; she tilted her head to the side and i saw her neck and the collar peeking up through her sweater. her face was so clean and bare. i wanted mine to look like that. i think it did once.

god. where do i begin.