do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.

and here i am again
at the intersection
of pedestrian language
& old wives tales
swallowing gum
like 7 year memories
opening umbrellas inside
cause i can't seem get away
from all of this rain
i ******* with my left hand
cause i was told
back in highschool that
"it feels like someone else is doing it"
it gets me wondering
about the difference between
losing you and finding out
that some one else found you
or my sleep
or lack thereof
its starting to tear me apart
i keep having this dream
where you are in
an unfamiliar body of water
trying to wash my poetry
off of your hands
or the one where
something happens in my chest
every time you sit
on someone else's bed
i'm tired of feeling like something you've misplaced
but don't have the heart
to look for anymore
tired of you saying my name
like you're trying to bury it
i'm tired of wondering
if you can tell the difference
between the absence
of my voice & silence
the other day
i almost started sobbing
at work when a woman
asked me about
our equipment
i was explaining how
things come apart
and almost mentioned your name
it made me think
of how you used to say
things like "what would you do
if i showed up on your doorstep
one day?" now, i haunt
the windows in my house
i don't leave for weeks at a time
i sit on the porch like the dog
you didn't shoot behind the shed
the one that refuses to die
until you come home again
i told somebody once, that
you didn't even know
what my voicemail sounded like
i wonder if they thought
it was because you
are so important that i never
let it ring that many times
before picking up
or if you dont know
what it sounds like
because you've never called
you can't be the ****** weapon
and the search party
i'm tired of all the seats
to the ferris wheel in my chest
being empty
tired of your voice
being the one i look for
in abandoned places
that one sound i beg
to bounce back
down vacant hallways
i just seem to stand there
in all of that quiet
like someone looking for a mistake
on an eviction notice
so i guess the hardest part
isn't letting go
it's forgetting
you ever had a grip
in the first place
and since you've been gone
i wonder if when
you pushed yourself away from me
you used your left hand
so it felt like someone else did it

Is that the lowest moment?
When you don't dare to wear shorts because of the scars that cover your legs.
And then you're sitting there at the dinner table with your family,
And they keep on telling you to eat,
But all you mutter is "I'm not hungry",
When you actually are.
You're starving but your image is worth more than a meal.
You eat a few bites just to shut them up,
And then run to the bathroom to rid yourself of it,
To make sure you can fit into those jeans,
The ones that could stand you losing another 5 pounds.
You get used to the lies of:
"I'm not hungry"
"I ate before I came"
And "oh yeah I'm fine, just tired".
Is that your lowest point,
When the only food you're feeding yourself is lies?

"Don't purge"
they say
"It only makes it worse."
Oh, if only they knew.

That rush,
that physiological sensation
that accompanies the mental one
is all I need to breathe.
So why must it be wrong?

The calming motion
of sticking your fingers down your throat
until you gag
until you cannot breathe
until you feel that acidity
crawling up your throat
as a demon emerges from Hell's depths.

It is as if you are allowing a well-kept secret
an abundance of pain
to be released
to meet catharsis.

So necessary,
from an inside perspective.
So beautiful,
from an artistic one.
So cold,
from any sane person looking in.
They can never understand
how crucial it is in fighting the breakdowns
that plague my life under stressful circumstances.

I know,
it is hard for you to believe
or comprehend.
But this
painful yet pleasing obsession
is keeping me calm, keeping me okay.
And, quite possibly,
keeping me alive
month after month
week after week
day after painful day.

Today I screamed at the wall.
It was broad daylight.
I bet the neighbors heard.
I threw your pillowcase across the room.
I couldn't breathe.
I wonder if you do this too.
I slowly sunk to my knees.
It kind of felt like a prayer.
Lying on the floor I pull one of your letters close to me.
You called me starfish.
It still smells like you.
I can almost see you writing it in your horrible handwriting.
Five more weeks.
I have had this headache for three days now.
Stuck with writers block since I left.
Sometimes I can't close my eyes.
Your blue ones are so beautiful.
My heart still pounds in my ears.
I wonder if yours does too.
I must have memorized all of your letters by now.
It really hurts.
I try to claw my heart out sometimes.
I think I'm crazy.
You must be lying on this floor with me.
I can feel your thumb brush over my thumb.
Your heartbeat is slower than mine.
I'm not sure if I want to wrap you closer to me
Or push you away.
I could drown in your memory these days.
I'm afraid I won't get back up.
I wrap you closer of course.
I'm wearing your T-shirt.
And the smile you gave me once.
I've spent the day on the floor.
It's Sunday.
Pancake day.
You always made them the best.
I think I'll scream at the wall some more.
Nowadays I can't go to bed without a cup of tea.
*It kind of feels like your lips on mine.

I wish I could break
Shatter into a million pieces
Of sharded glass, waiting to be stepped on.
Causing you to bleed wouldn't hurt me
Because I would already be broken.

This universe doesn't give a ****
Whether we're moving
Or camping out on life's sidelines.
The doers, in the end
Meet the same fate as the dreamers.

I want you to break me.
Work me until I fall apart
Until I can't take it anymore.
At least then
I will overdose on my need for perfection
Before I die of it.
You can take my needle from me
Before my heart stops beating.
Before it turns my blue vein black.

Then maybe I can stop craving
Everything that hopes to **** me off.

"You know what's just as addictive and twice as expensive as a line of coke?"
You slip out of my vision like a fallen credit card.
Your eyes touching my thigh and
your nose a smoke carton's width away from the coffee table
"Two lines of coke."