tremors from the albuterol
two puffs was enough
to loosen my chest
after my fourth maverick
cheap smokes
but not cheap enough
to fill you full of fiber glass
and cat **** chemicals
my lungs call me a hypocrite
can't help but agree
i'll get one of those digital cigs
to avoid the nightmare patch

captain's log, #6

3/7/16, 9:17 a.m.

i woke up to the sound of rain and birds, it's almost spring and i'm nostalgic for something that i'm not sure has happened yet. 

captain's log, #7

3/11/16, 2:35 a.m.

at this point i don't even know why i still grieve over you. i've taken back what was once mine, to the best of my ability, but i think that you still have a tight grip on the parts of me that i'm not able to grow back. or maybe it's because i can't remember a time before i was either madly in love with you, or mourning the loss of your interest. me being "over it" means nothing when those words are still etched with traces of you. i can tell myself to get over it, that you have, that you're in the past, that none of this was ever real, but it was. it still is, somewhere. and in that somewhere, it grows. you will never be just, gone. 

captain's log, #8

3/11/16, 4:00 a.m.

let's go somewhere. somewhere far away, just for a while, where everyone else looks like ants. i wanna hold your hand there. i wanna go somewhere with you. 

captain's log, #9

3/16/16, 6:00 a.m.

it's only the beginning of a creation, but i already have that feeling in my gut, the one that can only accurately be described as nostalgia for the future. i feel things that don't make any sense, but here are some things i know; the weather's getting warmer, the days are getting longer, the flowers are tearing themselves open, and when i close my eyes i see your hand in mine. often times i'm not sure that i remember how to not be afraid, but i still find myself diving in head first. i can't stop thinking about two days ago when my therapist told me that it seems as though i like torturing myself. 

(EDIT ON 3/30/16: stop forcing yourself to like girls, stop falling in love with love.)

captain's log, #10

3/28/16, 7:04 p.m.

keep forgetting to write when i remember how to be happy. when she left, she didn't close the door, and he walked right in and turned on the lights that have been off for too long. his teeth are a little crooked, and he's only got one dimple, he hates these things but they make my chest flutter like it'll burst into a thousand flowers any second. i've waited months for this. i wish on every 11:11 that he won't be as fleeting.

A girl will stand on the edge of the
Brooklyn Bridge at 7pm,
The water will stare back
at her
as the cars will glide past her,
(the rejection of her resume meant nothing
in comparison to the rejection from her lover.)

A man sits in the car in his garage
a capsule in his hand
and a gas leak in the trunk.
(no amount of promotions
which earnt him that car
could keep him afloat
as tax collectors harass his neighbors
for a tax return they are not going to
recieve.)

A woman will stand on a 2ft high
stool,
a rope in her hands
and a letter on the bed.
(the unborn child she caressed with alcohol
poisoning lingers in her mind
as she cannot bear the thought
of telling her husband that she loved whiskey
more than she did him.)

A boy will reside
in his fathers study,
his favourite book rested on the desk
and a gun in his hand.
(it never really was quite the same
after he left.)

The rain hits the window with a peculiar pattern
which reminds me of the way your fingertips
would tap
tap
tap
against the firm structure of my ribcage,
that one night in August.

poetry is addiction, more than anything else
just substitute the smoke of a cigarette
for the eraser shaving of my thoughts
and instead of scarring my thighs once again
i cut open the wounds of my heart
bleeding my thoughts into words on a page
and just like any addiction
no one truly sees
that writing relieves
the constant pressure of trying to be something*
i am not

I watch those who consume
to feel colored
in the lines
with the edge of  my eye
it’s the slap
heard at the end of a fight
its hitting me
but I’m only holding the bottle

people tease me about
being a coffee addict

and i do drink coffee like
a crazy person or
like an alcoholic
drinks alcohol

but you see
i am not in fact
addicted to coffee;

the smell of coffee
reminds me of you
and i have indeed become
addicted to you