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Feb 2016
And my problem is that i don't know
where to start or how to end.
I live in ellipses,
commas, and dramatic pauses
and I pretend that I'm doing it on purpose.
When you saw through the blur in my head,
you told me all about my heart and
how out of sync it was with my mind.
And I was sitting right next to you when
I hid a letter in a box,
tucked it right between your running shoes,
but it's December,
and you don't run when there's snow on the ground.

I told you I was a baseball field,
empty at two in the morning,
dust settling, but I don't think you
knew what I meant.
So I told you that my bathroom sink
has swallowed more demons than gallons,
and that I lay on my kitchen floor
more often than I sit on my couch,
and that I am hemorrhaging indigo
and dry-heaving maroon late at night
when you are asleep,
and maybe you only pretended
to understand what I was talking about.

They're all sick of me
ending statements with "never mind,"
downplaying my madness to keep them calm.
I told my dad I loved him for the first time
in two years, and followed up by
stealing my grandfather's anxiety medication
to sedate the butterflies in my stomach.
I like to think I know what it feels like to be dead.
Like sleep, only colder. Darker.
Less and less until I only exist as
stains on people's brains.
I always liked the number zero.

I am the journal I threw out two nights ago
without checking the pages for things to keep.
I am three days awake, bloodshot eyes,
six cups of black coffee first thing in the morning,
and black-out curtains at three in the afternoon.
I am a suicide car and a pedestrian who never looks both ways.
I'm my own worst enemy.
Someday, I'll light a few candles to set the mood and
take a bath with my toaster.
I am an appendix; nobody needs me.
I'm full of **** and I need removing.

And I guess you should know that I am not sorry.
You're going to find that letter tucked between your shoes
come spring, written by someone who isn't red stains
on bathroom linolium. She was
rainbow streaks that the sun plastered to your livingroom walls
at eight in the morning.
At least, that's what you told me.
I don't think I knew what you meant.
Written by
kas  24/F/Nebraska
       chai tea, Luca C, ---, Emily K Fisk, C P X and 8 others
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