**** the drunk, lonely night
I stumbled into your bed.
this is all my fault.

we sit clutching each other
on my ****** bed in this ****** apartment.
on the other side of that wall, there's him;
a drug addict I can't seem to get over.
and on the other side of the other wall, there's her;
a stuck up ***** you can't seem to get over.
we can hear them both, they surround us on either side.
and in the middle of these two thin ****** walls is two people,
who are trying to escape two ****** people
with the ****** comfort of each other.

on most days I feel
either nothing at all or
everything at once.

you call me pretty and I deny it humbly
then you say you wanna **** me,
so we agree to hang out the next day.

impulsive as I was that night,
I was hesitant and indecisive in the morning.
you tell me it’s hard to kiss me,
because I’m not an easy stranger like all the other girls you’ve slept with.
I’m someone with a heart and you know I have a brain.

despite my capacity and our compatibility,
you would never commit to me, it’s not even worth a try.
we both know this,
and you lay me down anyways.

while you smother me in kisses and compliments,
my mind is raking through doubts and worries.
the emotional side of my mind overpowers my need for affection.
so I pull your lips from my neck and tell you not today.

it’s always too much thought,
and not enough action.

—

a new idea pops into my head.
I can picture it now;
illustrative and colorful,
a masterpiece waiting to be drawn out

quickly denied by darting self-doubt.
I’m already questioning my skills as an artist
before I even attempt to put my pen to the paper.
I never think I’m good enough,
it’s always ‘scrap that’.

everyday it’s a battle of getting my thoughts into pictures
and quickly giving up and turning them instead into words which never fail me.
am I even an artist if I’m scared of my own work?

it’s always too much thought,
and not enough action.

—

I know the different between what I want and what I need,
yet I push aside ‘minor’ details and negativities
for a fix, a fill, a drag, a sip;
for temporary numbing and partial satisfaction.

will I ever get what I deserve?
the question is,
will I ever let myself find it?

I’m too busy wasting time getting trashed with the wrong people,
avoiding the challenges I face with my art,
and giving up my body to people too afraid of commitment.

I claim to know my worth,
yet you don’t see me dropping
or quitting lustful nights and regretful mornings.
or pushing myself to work harder instead of sulk in my bed.
when will I have had enough?

it’s always too much thought,
and not enough action.

the most underestimated beings,
free-spirited and worthy as we are,
are endlessly tied down under blanketed layers of assumed incompetence.
those feeble-minded people weighing us down with judgment
neglect to realize that our colorful souls are filled and growing
with rarities and strengths weaved into our fragile skins.
as you knew me or as you’ll know me,
I am not a victim to naivety but rather a subdued creature who chooses wisely
her battles and who she deems worthy enough to waste or spend time, breath, and energy on.
just because I bruise easily does not make me weak.
if you asked me about my vulnerabilities,
I’d display them side by side, neatly on a shelf for you and all to see.
strength is having nothing to hide from yourself or the world;
strength is acceptance and an open mind.
I know my soft spots radiate from within me
and my scars create the beautiful flaws that coat my rare skin.
I’m tired of circling around the same dead ends,
and getting lost in tiny cul-de-sacs of fear of commitment, underestimation, and lust.
I am not a catch, you can’t hold me down.
let me go or ******* fight for me.
I am worth so much more than what wandering eyes degrade me to and how carelessly immature boys handle my crystal heart.
I am not held down by any entity or force besides my own and whatever else I choose to absorb.
I am endlessly free and growing.
I am vivid watercolors and a force as radiant and moving and the moon.
do not shroud my essence or shadow my path.
either let me go or run undeniably by my side.
I am dusting off your marks and the past which has held me down and back,
and I am sprinting in the opposite direction
down a road without an end in sight.

I’d be a fool to think 
that it wouldn’t be problematic
to become emotionally attached to the
addict living on the other side of my apartment wall.

but worse than a fool;
I’d be a liar if I said
I don’t worry about him every single day.

I can hear your squeaky bathroom door shut, footsteps, drawer slam, microwave beep, hacking cough, door open when you leave for your hourly cigarette, door close when you come back, door lock, dry cough, music blasting cause you’re angry, t.v. on, light switch off.

and what I can’t hear, I can still picture, you lighting your pipe, your glazed eyes, you snorting, swallowing, dropping on your tongue; your wide smile, dimples, hair when it’s messy or pushed back; your tears, suppressed emotions, self-medication.

and what I can’t see, I can still smell, your distinct scent, **** mixed with tropical febreeze, 3 am chicken ranch pizza;
or taste, your lips, stale cigarettes, spiced *** on your tongue, fragile skin on your neck.

or still feel your silk hair, velvet skin, cotton bedsheets, the draft that leaks in through the AC unit above your bed, your touch, heartbeat, spine poking out of your back, cold shaky hands, heart drop, goosebumps, heart skipping beats, sick stomach, butterflies, my cold shaky hands, anxious worry, your words, the absence of your hand on my side…

the absence of you;
you as in the person I saw deep within those sap green eyes
in those moments I saw life in them for a only split second.
those few times you actually showed a human side of yourself;
a side of you that spoke apart from the drugs and beside the alcohol,
a side that wanted me.

I know I won’t be the one to save you,
considering that when I said
“I want to help you”
you replied
“I don’t need help” in-between sips of whisky,
before you took out out your pipe, pushed back the
vulnerable boy living inside of you
under debris of
methamphetamines, *******, liquor, LSD, etc….

how could I ever believe
that a boy lost in a dysfunctional version reality
could love me more
than he loves his drugs?

maybe next year I’ll live in a place
where the walls aren’t so thin
and I’m not in love with my neighbor,
or anyone who can love his bottle, pills, powder, and pipe more than me.