I don’t know why I don’t love you like I used to.

Time has passed and I feel less and less strongly.

And you say you haven’t changed

But maybe that’s the problem.

I feel like I’ve changed,

I’m not exactly sure who I am right now,

Not that I’ve ever felt very sure.

I feel like I don’t know anything.

This no longer feels exciting.

I no longer feel like you’re helping me grow,

I no longer feel like you’re part of what helps me

Be me.

I feel like I’m shedding this skin,

And you’re still wearing the one you were nine months ago.

It feels rough to my new skin,

Makes me itch,

Makes me restless.


I don’t know why I don’t love you like I used to.

Maybe I’m not the same me I used to be.


I’m looking ahead,

And you’re still looking at me.

I'm cheating on my
boyfriend with the moon. It moves
me how nothing does,

Pulls the tides within
me, makes my heart full with joy.
Ours is secret love.

The moon and I talk
sometimes I cry or I laugh,
and the moon beams back.

And like me, the moon
can be half full on some nights.
Born from the same light.

I got kissed goodnight
and felt butterflies in my stomach
for the first time since I lost you.

I was so happy that I danced
and I called my best friend
rejoicing over this small triumph.

But I might have cried wolf.

The difference between
shiny new love
and tried and true love
is what keeps me up at night.

I'll be seeing you.

I'm so tired that my eyes hurt.
they feel dull and heavy.
but,
I can feel the tears building in my throat.
it's not often I can go to sleep
lately
without thinking of love lost. better to have loved
and lost, than never to have loved at all,
right?
I can't sleep without wanting to
press my nose against your back again, and breathe you in.
without
wanting to press my lips against your shoulder,
run them across your warm smooth skin.
I can't
fall asleep and not think of bumping
my toes up against yours in the middle of the night
and
smiling, half-asleep, to myself then
curling up a little bit closer to you.
desperately
I wrap myself around a pillow
hoping I'll fool myself, knowing I won't.
guess
the pillow works anyway, to bury
my face into, and soak up my regret

A craving sits deep, heavy
in my stomach
And slowly crawls up, up
into my throat.
Spreads its arms out and
Wraps its viny fingers around
my collar bones.
Rests its left elbow
on my heart,
Casually.
I try to feed it but
It rejects my offerings.
I'm trying my best I tell it.
This isn't what I want! it hisses back.
What you want isn't so easily attained
Then I guess you'll have to starve it says
as it takes a bite
of my inside
and grins.

I fall asleep
With thoughts of you
Floating through my head
Lying in my
bed.

And my words stop
Just trickling
Dripping through my teeth
Falling on my
sheets.

8:02 am
November 12
There are snowflakes falling outside my window
I couldn’t be happier
Welcome winter!
I’m so glad you’re here
I’ll give you a hug,
But just give me
Five mo
            re min
                     utes….

Me encanta el sonido de la lluvia.
Llena mi cuerpo con un sentido de calma,
y me recuerda del bosque y la naturaleza.
En mi pequeño mundo de solo casas y calles
y jardines bien cuidados,
me recuerdo del mundo
salvaje,
y maravilloso

We drove through rain so torrential that we were blinded for quick moments.
Moving down the road as if frozen in pieces of time, a strobe light illuminating a second at a time of our journey, making it seem as though we moved in slow motion.
And now that it's cleared the sky stands like a softly glowing film backdrop while the trees on either side of the highway approach and disappear, the car on a gigantic treadmill getting no closer to the horizon ahead, while the one behind seems to continually fade.

Sometimes I get goosebumps all over.
The strange feeling that someone just hugged me
And now I'm left cold, in the empty air
where their arms once were.

I got a beautiful journal for my birthday.
Red leather, small enough to fit comfortably in my hand.
I'm too afraid to write in it;
The pages feel special,
Like they deserve words
That are pure and beautiful.
I can't pencil in words that would
Desecrate the ****** smoothness of those sheets.

I'm afraid to write something that doesn't
Live up to what I think
Is worthy to grace the insides of that
Beautiful journal.