It tickles the back of my throat
and inches up my spine,
sending shivers down
the nape of my neck.
Gnawing on the tips of my ears,
like the mosquito
that just won't quit.
It's this constant itch
that makes me bite
at my fingernails
until they bleed.
Knowing that if I treat you
like an addiction,
that means that I can be cured
and the pain that aches
deep inside my veins
will fade away one day,
and I won't crave you anymore.
Or maybe you'll haunt me
like the notebook on the floor,
the last time I called my dad,
and how I don't visit back home
for Christmas anymore.
This must be what recovery feels like.
There will always be
a bitter drip that seeps
all over my tongue and gums.
Then down into my lungs.
Reminding me of the
broken window and
the time we tried to start all over.
I'm 177 days sober from you,
and if you knocked on my window
in the middle of the night,
for a little taste,
I think that I would have
the strength to say no.
This must be what healing feels like.
about my struggle with substance abuse and someone I once knew
this time last year, i wrote about apple cider,
the smell of bonfires in the air,
and midnight walks with you
I sat at the cafe on the wobbly stool
with coffee a bit too burnt
in my favorite yellow sweater
I caught a glimpse here and there
of strangers walking hand in hand
through crowded streets
some were lovers, other just friends
and the girl smoking on the patio
looked unsure of either
i wish that i had held onto that moment
a little longer because this
past October was not like the rest
the streets are empty and so is my mug
the air has gone stale and the leaves
don't fall the same when
no one is watching
the melodic tune of the wind
passing us by is a distant memory
we stumbled, tripped, and crashed
into november without warning
all we can do is hope that
the winter snow cushions the fall
and buries us beneath
it all so that we can
you made me feel
so stupid for waiting
on you to grow
or to care
or for you to shed
the slightest bit of skin
to prove that you're at least
human underneath that
scaley shell of a body
that you call home
i never wanted it to go this way
but even a sculpture cut
from the finest marble
and crafted by gentle hands
will inevitably break
the elements will
claim it over time
it will crumble and fall
to its knees until all that
remains are ashes and dust
mixed into the cold hard
soil of the earth
but knowing you
you'll put up a fight
will **** me dry
jagged nails tearing
into my flesh
begging me to stay
until there is nothing
of me left
i keep thinking that
if things were different,
we would still be in love.
we’d have moved to the city by now
and settled into that loft.
the one with the terrace for my plants
and the window nook
for all of your books.
though it was 12 minutes
from the train and
6 blocks to the bus,
you said it was better that way;
and more talking.
i remember the best part
was the view.
stretched to either side,
four walls to make up the bones.
our bodies in the center
to make it a home.
our fingers interlocked
and my head to your chest.
nestled in linen sheets,
we watch the sky fall
as we drift off to sleep.
i keep dreaming,
of the sunsets we’ll never see,
the promises we didn’t keep,
and the lovers we’ll never be
This life will break you; it's funny like that.
And despite what our mothers said,
no one can protect you from it.
You could wrap your heart in the softest silk
and place it in a box lined with
cloud-like foam, and you'd still break.
Nothing leaves you more vulnerable than an empty chest,
pitted with the fear and loneliness that the darkness brings.
Some would argue that you only need love to survive.
But what happens when the heart aches?
When you've fallen in so deep that you can no longer see the surface?
The truth is, the only protection against life lies in the soul.
It's in the bones, the very fibers of who you are.
Your body is the house, and your soul is the foundation.
The heart is the fuel, and your soul is the fire.
You must feed it, nurture it, indulge your inner child.
Most of all, you have to be patient and kind,
for nothing is more dark and lonely than a person
who let the embers burning in their chest grow cold.
there's a war waging on in my head
as it turns out, staying inside these walls while the world passes us by
isn't the best for our creative minds, or is it?
3 am often hits me like a brick and is met with tired eyes and yet another restless night.
crumbled, torn up pages collect in the corner.
the contents will consist of unfinished pieces
and disconnected thoughts;
acting as a representation of my muddled mind.
and it could very well be the wine,
but this state of being is beginning
to feel all too artificial.
its almost as if we were programmed by our creators only to be destroyed.
and those of us who lack conformity are sent down an assembly line labeled as ‘defective.'
Our box will read, "Lonely twenty something-year-olds with mild to moderate ******* addictions. CAUTION: has a temper."
But darling, don't be fooled:
for we are all the same.
We may be hiding behind
our individuality or lack thereof,
but we are, in fact,
only pawns in a game.
I had three cups of coffee for breakfast.
I slept in a t-shirt two sizes too big,
and I took one too many Adderall (i think).
I sat at the table with the same book
I opened a few months ago,
reading the same few pages from yesterday,
hoping that today would be the day
it all made sense (much like you).
I started to wash the dishes,
but I only got a quarter
of the way done
before I ran out of soap,
much like my effort, or lack thereof.
On these days, my anxiety
is less of an adjective
and more like a state of being.
Everything has become exhausting,
waking up, going to sleep.
Yet, I do it all so well, and nothing
seems to satisfy the insatiable
hunger of the constant chatter
in the back of my head
that screams, “Go”
leave this place with dishes
in the sink, and half-filled
coffee cups behind
and never return.
I [think] I took one too many Adderall.