My heart aches for your simplicity.
Your kiss on my cheek.
Absent.
It's only been a week.

Is this what it's like
to be dependable?
Depending on your
words and lips.

love is a nuisance.
Love is a new stance.
Love is your black pants.
They are old and worn out.
They fit your legs like a glove.

The garbage can
will never see our love.
The garbage can
is recreation.

Your filthy mouth,
the night we almost
had a three sum
with the black boy
down the street.

I am so glad,
it was only us between
your sheets.

you are a book,
even I would like to read.

My name is Jaclyn,
and I have a drinking problem.
I am trying to find the courage,
to ask you to love me anyways.

My mom used to say,
Don't you dare put someone
through what you did to us.
You are not a good person
when you're drunk.

Yeah, I'll quit drinking..
Next weekend.
I swear, This is the last time.
But I'm sure you've heard that line.
I've worn out the meaning,
in the knees of my jeans.
Dry heaving.

She brings me a glass of water,
and all I gave her was a *******,
and a *******.
I just wanted to have fun.
At the expense of my love.

Here is my word:
I will never make
you be the girlfriend,
of a dead girlfriend.
Because we got too many
dead friends already.

This is my getting sober poem.
This is my "not passing out
in a parking lot" poem.
This is my "You gotta die
from something, but it will
not be an overdose" poem.

Please.

This is my,
"Please Love Me Through This"
poem.

She hardly speaks,
but when she does.
Her words are bullets.

And instead
of being filled with tiny
pellets of metal.
They are filled with seeds.
Cause she is growing on me.
Grow me into a vine.
That stretches across
the whole garden.
So when you try to take me out,
I’ve touched every part of your life.
You can’t get rid of me.
I’ll be a pain in your ***.

Attached by my heart strings.
You’ll have a huge box of my things,
buried in your closet.
With all of your skeletons,
and your dresses, your jeans,
and shoes.
And when you blow the dust off of me.
Remember my guitar strings.

The way I used the stems of flowers
as tally marks,
for all the days I hadn’t blown it yet.
So when I do.
Shoot your bullets in my dirt.
So your seeds can grow.
Don’t worry about my garden,
being over grown by weeds.
Cause I quit sewing those seeds,
years ago.

I do not rely on your happy,
to make me happy.
I know I am weak,
at the knees.
Because everybody trips
over their own feet, sometimes.
How many people can say,
they’ve seen something
more beautiful than a sunset.
April Showers
didn’t bring the flowers, darling.
Your heart did.
Your heart did.

I had a night terror again.
The one where I’m
trapped in my house and
there are giant bugs crawling
in through the walls.
I can’t escape.
The doors and windows
are locked,
so I set the house on fire.
With me in it.
And we all burn out.

I wake up,
drenched in sweat.
My white sheets,
now stained yellow.
I can’t sleep.
I have to go back to bed
on the floor.
I can’t stop crying,
my room is muggy,
no longer my sanctuary.
This is not a dream anymore.

This is real life.
The nightmare I fall asleep to.
The soundtrack of
my sleep schedule.
Wake me when it’s over.

10/1/2015
2:56 AM

A poem about ****** abuse.
I don’t know how to write
this poem yet.
But when I do,
You’ll be the first I tell.

Sincerely,
It was hell.

Consent.
What does that even mean?
***?
What is that?
If we’re both drunk does it count?
Because I am the definition
of awkward.
So a drink in me might
do her a favor.
But just for the first time.
So I’m comfortable enough
to draw my line,
Or the line of hickeys
I left on your neck.
Consent.
Because you’re awkward, too.
A lovely Shade of shy.
But all I could do was look you
in the eyes 
and say you’re beautiful.
Then a tear streamed down your face.
And all that came out was
Are you sure this is okay?
Consent.
Because I’m not comfortable,
the way you’re comfortable.
The way taking off my shirt
feels like letting the sea inside me.
So I’ll keep my pants on,
until the lights are off.
And even then,
my scars are screaming.
It’s ringing in my ear,
my biggest fear.
When she stops and whispers,
are you sure this is okay?
The first time I’ve ever heard
those words.
Was the first time I felt free.
For the first time,
I didn’t feel *****.
When you whisper in my ear.
I thought, Baby!
I love it when you talk
consent to me.

I'd be a butterfly,
For Heaven's sake.
The kind that Noah forgot to take.
But still survived The Flood...
In your eyes.
I'd build a boat.
Out of your ribcage,
To set the birds free.
You heard me!
Butterflies?
**** butterflies,
I got birds inside me.
No.
What I have to say,
comes from the rip chord
of my razor blades.
Waiting my whole life
for that rubber band
to snap back.

Thank God for my destruction.
Thank God for my ruble.
Because tree's
grow out of the sides
of stone cold mountains.
That have been blown up
by the rough hands
of people mining for gold.

And people set forest fires
on purpose.
To get rid of the dead stuff.
So new things can grow.
And Sometimes.
I pick the plants.
Just to see how much dead stuff
I can accumulate,
before I set myself on fire.
And when I do,
I swear to God.
I'll be an empty notebook.
So you can cover me with lines.
The good kind.
That come from your pencil.
Cause we don't have to roll up
dollar bills
to see the moon, anymore.