Looking at the night sky makes me think of him,
Partially because his eyes are so bright they could light the darkest of nights,
But also because he’s like a constellation;
He’s all these bright spots connected by imaginary lines in black.
He can be so far away, even when he feels so close,
And some nights he doesn’t show at all.
His smile is like a supernova,
But sometimes he moves like a black hole.
I swear I’ve seen stars die inside of him
Just as much as I’ve heard the sun in his laugh.

The first kiss with someone other than your ex,
Will be like the pages of a new book.
It’ll be something untouched by the hands that used to touch you.
It’ll be page after page of a story that’s still being written.

The first kiss after a breakup will bring the hoard of butterflies back to your body.
It’ll ignite the engine in your heart that’s been suffocating from lack of attention.
It’ll reawaken the excitement and lust you’ve been missing.

But, that first kiss might find itself blowing out the candle in your newly beating heart.
It might crawl through your neurons, up your spine, and into your brain
So that it can open up the memories you tried so hard to close away.

That first kiss might scream at you,
YOU’RE NOT READY TO BE LOVED AGAIN,
Even as it’s pushing your body for a second touch of another's lips.

The first time I saw you,
I didn’t expect to fall for the fact that you always hold my hand first,
Before you even kiss me
Or wrap your arms around me.
I didn’t expect to fall for the way you watch me when I trace the bones in your body,
Giving each its specific, anatomical name.
I didn’t expect that every time I looked at the stars,
I’d try and find Orion’s Belt
Because you have these three freckles that connect like a constellation on your chest.
The first time I saw you,
I didn’t expect to find myself thinking about your voice,
Or the scruff on your chin,
And how it felt when it’d brush against mine every time you kissed me.
I didn’t expect your smile to become a force
That could weaken me to my core,
And fill me with warmth and a quickened heart beat.
I didn’t expect that every time I saw the lights from Hartford,
I’d be thinking of your laugh when I couldn’t stop admiring the view from your house.
The first time I saw you,
I didn’t expect I’d fall so hard for you.

I keep wanting to write about you,
And I think it's because we haven’t talked in a few days,
But honestly I’m not sure what to write.
When I think of you,
I see your smile grinning so brightly at me,
And I feel your hand holding mine tight.
But I don’t know what to write,
Because when I think of you I just want to talk to you,
And hear your voice and your laugh,
Even though you’re usually laughing at me.
I don’t know how to write about the respect you show me,
Or the fact that you always want to know more.
I don’t know how to put into words the way you make me forget about the bad,
And fill me with good.
I keep wanting to write about you
Because I met you at the wrong time and I fell too hard.
I want to write about you because I don’t want to let go yet.

Saying goodbye to you is like getting hit by a train;
Not because it hurts, but because it could mean the end.
The mortality rate of being hit by a train is 90%,
So I've decided that the likelihood of never seeing you again is like that.
There's a chance that I may say goodbye, and that will be it,
But there's also a chance that I may say goodbye and will leave only with battle wounds.
My last kiss with you could be so painful that it will leave me with scars forever,
Or it could stop my heart in its tracks.
I could hear your voice whisper my name in the dimlit dorm room one last time,
And feel all of the bones break in my body,
Or my spinal cord could sever and leave me just like that.
Either way,
I think I still want to take my chances,
Because scars fade
And bones heal,
So there's a 10% chance that saying goodbye to you,
Will not be my last chance to say it.

My mother always warned me about the boys whose palms were made of calluses,
And whose hearts held a shield of armor so thick that even the brightest flames couldn’t weaken it.
She always told me that they would string you along and make you feel so full of love and brightness,
That you would become blinded to the truth of what they felt within their heads.
Even though I listened to her, I still found myself trapped by boys who saw my heart and my sexuality as the same thing.
I still wound myself tight around the boys who made my bed smell like ***** and ****,
And I caressed them in the same way mothers do with their children.
But every time I found myself broken again, my mother would tell me to scrub my skin raw and wash away every part of these boys that I let near me.
I had to wash my mouth out with soap every time I let their name slip from my lips, as if it were the dirtiest of curses.
She said I needed to burn every memory of them; literally and figuratively.
I needed to let flames grasp up towards their pictures,
And erase all the messages they sent with hearts and smiles.
My mother told me that she wouldn’t be upset if these boys dragged me in,
Because she had been there too;
Chasing the boys who thought they were men because they had cigarettes dangling from their lips.
She told me that everyone learns from their past lovers how to detoxify their bodies once they leave.
It’s not with water and cucumber mixtures or baths made of roses,
It’s with fists clenched as tears stream down our faces,
It’s with our voices screaming and our hearts beating strong.
When we are broken from these boys, whose mouths are filled with sut,
My mother told me, we fight to build ourselves back up.
We do not suffocate on their weaknesses which they blamed on us.

I hate you because you made me feel so full even when I was starving.
I hate you because my bed smells like you and no matter what I can’t get that ******* smell out of my sheets.
I hate you because I don’t want to lose your ******* scent but I can’t sleep now.
I hate you because there isn't a thing in my room that hasn't felt your hands against it.
I hate you because there isn't a part of my body that hasn't felt the warmth of you.
I hate you because I left my window open for you and it's February.
I hate you because I watched that stupid movie and all I could think about was how passionate and caring you were.
I hate you because you made my twin mattress feel like the most comfortable and spacious bed in the world.
I hate you because the only time I ever got the sleep I needed was when I had you to lay on.
I hate you because you were honest from the beginning about what you wanted and I still ******* fell onto my face with feelings for you.
I hate you because I just want you to make it better but you're the reason I can’t stop ******* crying.
I hate you because I stopped writing.
I hate you because I thought it would be different.
I hate you because I don’t think I could ever actually hate you.
I hate you.

I never wanted to be a statistic that was plastered onto a wall and screamed,
“Every 1 in 4 teens experiences some form of depression!”
It just ran in my family.
So, of the three children that my parents had,
One of us was bound to grab onto the DNA strand that had ‘mental illness’ etched onto it in the form of a pill.
It was the luck of the draw and I was the one sentenced to life in a hell that my own brain created.

What does heart break mean,
When you don't want to let yourself feel?
Does the emptiness in your chest scare you?
Are you worried it means you're not alive?
Did he take away your ability to scream with tears
When he left without words?
Or do you think he turned your voice into a whisper so he could strengthen his into a howl?
What does it mean when there's an ache in your bones?
When you can feel everything while feeling nothing?
How do you stop the tremors that reverberate within you,
When you tried so hard not to let them begin?
Where do you think you went wrong when all the air left your lungs?
Did the cry that expelled itself from your body surprise you?
What does heart break mean
When you didn't want to admit he broke you to begin with?

If you tell your friends you want to **** yourself,
They'll either leave or tell your mother.
By telling your mother, then at least they did something,
By leaving, they won’t have to deal with it.
But once they leave they’ll push you to a breaking point,
And you’ll find yourself clutching the gun to your chest.
Because they left, they’ll have to tell strangers why they didn’t stop you.
They'll eventually find themselves thinking the same way you did,
Because their used-to-be friend tried to killed themself,
And they acted as conspirators to an attempted homicide.

When they see the scars for the first time,
Don’t expect them to understand.
Those white lines that trace across your thighs are not a symbol that means anything to them.
They are not a release,
They are not an opening where pain can scream its way out of your body with blood.
Don’t expect them to look at you with love or admiration,
Because the first time they see those scars all they will see is mental insanity.
There are so few people on the planet who understand the inner workings of a blade that’s been dragged across skin,
So few people who know that being addicted to a silver razor is a real thing.
When you try to explain to them why your body is like a freshly trampled battlefield,
They won’t want to hold you close and try to make the wounds fade,
But they probably will anyways.
They won’t understand why you have to give them your x-acto knife and extra blades that you bought for a class,
They won’t understand why you can’t just keep them in your room.
The first time they find the scars that you thought were so well hidden,
They might break inside,
Their heart may shatter and for a second they may feel everything at once.
Don’t let their shock and fear pull at you;
When they see those scars, let them know how intimate a moment they’ve just experienced.
Open yourself up to them the way you did with the blade,
Let them hold onto your hand as you trace each thin slice with your finger and describe how hard it is to not do it again.
When they see your scars, that’s when you are an open book.
Let them read you slowly or quickly,
Help them turn every page and explain the paragraphs that they missed when they lost track of the words.
Don’t let them become another reason to retreat back to your old wounds and new scabs.

Please do not call yourself a rebound.
A rebound is a disgusting sound that screams out after a breakup,
It’s a call for attention to the heartbreak.
You were not that.
You were the first full breath of fresh air after running a marathon.
You were a resurrection, an awakening.
Yes, I was fragile.
Yes, I was vulnerable.
But you did not take advantage of me.
Your touch didn’t take me from my body,
It grounded me.
Your mouth did not shrink me down,
It allowed the confidence to bloom inside of me.
With you,
I saw my five foot frame grow to heights I never imagined reaching.
With you,
I was not a hollowed out shell of a love that used to exist.
With you,
I was a human who owned their body,
Who could fight wars with her words,
Who could live forever.
So, please, do not call yourself a rebound,
Because a rebound does not bring comfort,
A rebound does not bring light,
A rebound does not bring growth,
But you,
You do.

My mother always compared my anxiety to an idling motor.
It runs through my body when I’m not moving or in a complete state of calm,
But then one thing triggers the gas and the motor is jolted into an angry roar.
They say that the body can only panic for a maximum of 20 minutes,
But my body stays in a constant buzzing of anxiety.

There's something special about falling for a boy who's leaving.
By knowing he'll be gone,
You'll take your time to memorize the shape of his face and the way it changes with his mood.
You'll study his sleeping body as he rolls away and then back into you,
And you'll look at his bare chest in a way that you didn't get the chance to before.
You'll feel every inch of his body against you and you'll dream of his lips lingering on yours.
By knowing that he is going to be thousands of miles away,
You'll be able to laugh with him as you tell him all the things he has to do for you,
Like trying an authentic Italian cannoli and describing the taste of every sip of wine he'll take.
You have the chance to let his voice reverberate within you,
And you'll hear him laugh from his stomach and love every second of it.
By falling for a boy who's leaving, you get to experience little things that wouldn't go noticed otherwise.
You'll get to see how his eyes change when he tells you about his family,
And you'll watch how his entire body softens when he talks about how loved he is,
Even though he doesn't necessarily see it.
You'll find that writing poems about him is easier than writing about the boys you've known your entire life,
And it's probably because you didn't have all that time to learn about him.
Falling for a boy who's leaving is special because it'll make you realize all the things that you didn't think were important before.

You told me that I had a great smile,
And that my little crooked front teeth were cute.
You told me that you liked my laugh,
And you’d imitate it in a voice full of admiration.
But then you kissed me and things changed;
You were distant and I couldn’t ignore the bounce in my giggle.
You didn’t joke with me and I started hiding my grin.
I started to hate the way my name sounded on your lips,
Even though it’s still like a lullaby in my head.
Your voice does this thing where it makes my heart beat quick,
And my eyes start to water.
I didn’t think it was possible to find love and hate in myself,
All at the same time,
Because of you.

They told me not to get attached to you,
But now I keep writing poems about you in my head.
I said the first time would be the only time,
Until it turned into the second time which turned into the third,
And now every time I see the skyline of the city,
I think of you.