If I was stressed out before I am more so now.
The world is ending and I don't know how

to go on.

To leave behind familiar faces and places.

I am finally at peace.

Or am I.

I miss the days of not knowing. Of not growing.

I miss the days of being a complete fool in school.

Why do I feel so much dumber than then,
with way less friends.

I want to fill my brain with knowledge.

Itches itch and scratches scratch.

You would still relieve that urge without questioning that, right?

Well that's how I feel about my scalp.

My brain the main domaine that carries me through my days.

I don't pull my hair or wash my feet three times a day anymore.

The meds help with that.

But something I can't shake is scratching my skull.

Short fingernails because I am a lesbian.

But also has made it easier to attack my soft skin.

Blood and scabs and sore spots.

I have derma linked completely to my scalp.

Hats and beanies can only do so much.

My fingers always find a way to slip there and pick the day away.

Invisible illnesses still make you sick.
You can still fall in love with the one you didn't pick.

I am a heathen and I am an angel.

I give and I take, and I take and I breathe.

Goodnight.

Being in love with you is like being on a see-saw.

It's not much fun to ride one unless you have someone to sit on the other side.

One is always up, and one is always down.

And that's just how it's meant to be.

You can try your hardest to be on equal levels of happiness,
knees shaking and smiles failing to either rise,
nor fall.

It's never going to be like that.

One is always up and one is always down.

Feet planted firmly in the ground.

And then for a few minutes you are soaring and
looking at your parter with
tears in your eyes.

Whether of happiness or sadness
that doesn't matter anymore.

Because regardless,
there is someone who loves you on the other side.
Matching you stride for stride.

Like swing-sets at sunset and monkey-bars.

I guess we all learned love at the playground.

Trinkets upon trinkets upon cups upon glasses.

When I drive by that street I always go faster.

Another in Oakville makes me feel the same way.

About how I felt on that stupid day.

Kisses in sheets and wet rainy streets. She didn't hold my hand but she did call me sweet.

She claims that she isn't a lesbian. But you know her now and I knew her then.

Back then she was timid and giving me eyes.
Making her laugh and making her smile.

She said she'd never felt this way before.
Took off her ******* right when I closed the door.

She lied down and wind down like never before.
She opened her legs and then she asked for more.

She said that she loved me but then went away.
She found a man and said "hey is that okay."

She liked me, she didn't, she loved me, she quit it, she kind of ****** me but then said "**** oh ****."

****** tease straight girl will always **** with you.

She had, soft hands, she had big talk but when it happened, she chose  to get up and walk.

***** said I seduced her ***** thought that I used her but really she loved it and kept coming back to me. Yee.

Don't know where she's at, because the ***** blocked me. But at the rate that I dream of her I know she thinks of me.

They say don't get with straight girls but what the **** ay, it was worth it to this very day.

It was worth it.

I used to have writers block but I broke up with it.

Now I listen to sad music and upchuck ****.

I don't know where I am going or what I am saying.

But hello.

Beaches and windows.

I have never felt the sadness Mount Eerie has.

Aching bones and unsaid prose.

I was ***** last year.

He was a friend but in the end, he betrayed me.

I'm not nearly as broken as I could be.

When my hair is up, and when my hair is down I feel like
a different
person.

Closed capsules of promised happiness give me nightmares.

Medication is just another word for being sick.

Or is it.

I need medication to feel normal and even though it's been a year or so that still feels strange on my tongue.

I remember being utterly crazy and nothing could tame me. I was a beast in my own body.

Now I am, me again. I think.

I'm still not sure how anyone put up with me.

When spring comes around
I touch the flowers and they turn brown.

And that reminded me of the summer
my sister almost drowned.

Had I not been there to pull her
body from the water, it would have
got her.

Nostalgia drips like sweet lips and sunny
window sills.

Back when time would stand still and
promises were never broken.

Pinky swears and thumb wars,
basketball on the street in bare feet.

Popsicles and bubblegum.

I touch the plants after it rains,
and it feels the same as something
I've felt before.

Pictures of girls taped to closet doors.

Thank god I finally opened it.

Snowflakes feel like gentle cold kisses
like the calm after
Christmas but the excitement of
what's to come.

I used to do
something horrible
to myself.

I am sure you have heard of
self harm.

I've been good for as long as I've met my wife.

But for the first time in a while I feel like
dragging that blade across my skin again.

I have used a marker to mark where I would like to hit.

And so far it is not working.

Why is sickness as deep as it is.
Why do I still feel like slicing me flesh to feel something.

I would say everything is terrible but it's not.

I think I might have just forgotten to take my meds for a few days.

My aunt died last night.

A part of me is Trinidadian.

My aunt died last night.

I am half Trinidadian.

Her name was Aunty Rita.

It was a common,
family joke

to yell her name.

Like this,

RITAAAAAAAAAA.

And now I don't think I'll ever hear that again.

My mom is going to Trinidad for a week.
And I wish I could go too.

Is it ironic that I dreamt of Trinidad the night before.
Is it ironic that I dreamt that a dog died or almost died and I cared for it.

My aunt died last night.

Aunty Rita.

to still love the first love of my life.

Let me start by saying that I am a girl.

Who loves girls.

A lesbian.

So you say.

Am I allowed to feel sad about the
first girl
I ever loved.

Am I allowed to be mad that the first girl who ever loved me transitioned and became a man who only wanted to see me suffer unless he could make it better.

Wow.

The last few days have been weird.

I love one girl.

Her name is Vanessa

Yesterday I went into a store
where they were burning incense.

And, in an instance
I recognized the smell.

Sweet, sweet nostalgia filled my nostrils as I remembered
riding my bike so many summers ago,
down a road that at the time felt like I was riding
into a different plain
of existence.

It was quiet and the streets were paved with concrete
as opposed to the ashy asphalt that covered the rest
of the small town
I grew up in.

Something about the way the neighbourhood was lined with colorful bungalows and huge trees
where the wind danced and sang
as I peddled past.

I once longed to live in a place like that.

Sometimes life is perpetually the calm before the storm.
Everything can be fine,

peaceful silences, and
glowing sunsets

but you always feel that tug of regret,
for what is yet to come.

Living life in this state of unknown
can grind you down to the bone.

Can make even the most familiar of places,
not feel like home
anymore.

Time passed, drama class.

I didn't know who I was or what I was.

But I was in class.

The only friend I knew was one who I wasn't fond of but I latched on anyways.

And then, someone else. A stranger. I had never seen her before.

Although we had gone to the same high school for the past 2 years.

We were told to get into groups of three, and I spotted her, coming over to me and at the time I was mad.

Like who is this random person invading my space.

I reluctantly let her join our group.

But boy was I duped.

That was the first time I saw the first love of my life.

The first knife in my back.

The first girl I look back,
upon.

It's all fine now, and everything is well and good,

But back then, it seemed like all I could do was grieve.

And misbelieve.

And be lead on.

Had that drama class not happened, had we not had the same lunch period for two years to come.

Would she still have ended up in my bed? In my head?

We've been classmates for like ever.

And I guess you've been around for better or for worse.

You were always in the background but I remember getting blackout drunk and asking you to tie my shoes. It was only you who seemed to make the most sense.

Flash forward like five years later, we were all in highschool and all pushing paper I threw a party, with my best friends at the time.

That was honestly a moment I will never forget, never regret, how we told everyone we knew to come through and **** did they.

By midnight the house was full, skateboards in the basement jackets on the stool.

And I watched you as you found a mans.

And sure, your relationship was good for as long as you can expect, until he hit you.

I'm so glad that we are passed all of that.

And Jessie, I don't know why I chose to wrote a poem for you,

but ****...

You should feel special.

It's been going on like this for days, weeks, years.

I can't seem to bring out the best of me.

Although words broadcast like teleprompters I can't bring them to paper, and often can't remember.

What I said.

I used to be able to ***** out such wisdom with such ease.

These days I feel like I am mocking my own talent. If I even have any.

I am a poet but I can't write poems, I am a writer but I have never finished a story.

And I am sorry,

But I feel like a phony.

At least right now.

Is that normal?

I always feel cold when
I watch it snow.

Outside windows,

white sheets sleet like linen sheets.

Textile worshipping cults praise Satin.

Maybe we're all better off believing in something,

getting down on our knees,
and phalic objects.

Because in the end
none of us really know
why we are here?

But does there have to be a reason

Can't it be enough to watch the seasons.

To fall in and out of love,

to have feelings.

You were, you are.

Amazing.

And when I think about the bones of the past, the time lapsed.

Notes in lockers notes in hand.

I only joined the choir because you were in it.

Night bright star light, you ashes your scent.

The sunset.

The truth is I don't think of you,

don't think of old concepts.

I'll never forget how we almost had ***.

I was the first girl you had ever been with and you thought
I was beautiful.

Fingers over ******* you were so worried.

You never let me come
and then you stopped coming
around.

Never fall in love with a straight girl.

There were a few.

Let me say some key words.

Mall, Down Fall of rain. One umbrella shoes off.

Totoro, I already loved you.

Lockers, notes,

I asked you to prom.

Talks of *** and talks of love.

I finally made my move.

Hand on your knee, you saw right through me.

Kisses after dark getting no sleep.

Goodbye, goodbye.

You found a man.

Goodbye, goodbye
why are you still in my bed.

Goodbye, goodbye hannah.

I'll probably never not have you on my mind.

First love, you.

Blankets by the stream, lunches outside.

I took your side against my best friend when you threw a banana peel.

Anyways. My dear. My could be best friend.

I still see you in my dreams and I guess thats enough for me.

If I could,

I would like to capture that summer.

At least, what I can remember.

Right now I am drunk and thinking about you.
And even though I know it's over and what happened for a reason I...

I don't know Hannah, maybe writing to you like this can help with passing by you.

They say time heals all wounds but it's been a thousand moons since I've last seen you.

And don't get me wrong, I'm not singing this song because I still want you.

I mean I still love you but I also love someone else for the right reasons.

For sure.

But still, I can't get the colour of your hair and eyes off my mind.

Sometimes... Anyways.

If you could have at least given me the common decency to let me down easy.

You didn't have to drop me like a beached tree after Christmas.

I think the reason I still think about you is because you never said goodbye.

And although I don't cry about it anymore...

I still think about it.

Thanks for the poems I guess.

It's interesting.

Falling in love for the first time?

As many years can pass, and the memories you make, and all the lovers you take.

You can never quite shake,

that first time.

That first smile, that first feeling

in your gut.

And you know what
I'm talking about.

Back then she was the cream to my coffee
,the colour of my world.

God forbid she didn't show up to school.

And when she didn't I would drop notes in her locker, some called me a stalker but no...

I was just in love.

Head over heals, deep in the feels, wanted to reel in that catch.

She was a catch and she had a great *** and I told her that.

At least.

The first time we kissed can only be described as bliss.
It was at that moment I knew the true meaning of fireworks.

And the last time we kissed I told her I loved her and
maybe that was my first mistake.

Because inevitably even though she knew that,
it scared her away.

Out of my grasp and even though time passed she chose to forget me.

To this day.

I don't know where you are Hannah.

But a part of me will always love you.

My mom always asks me if

I write my poems somewhere that they can be copy written to protect

my stuff.

Usually I just laugh.
I mean, it's not like it matters.

For me, a poem is like a drunken tweet that I send away into the wind.

Or in this case,
the internet.

And even if someone wanted to copy me
I would see it as flattery.

Before coming after them for a credit.

All I know is I can come up with

poems,
upon poems,
upon poems.

My new years resolution is to write everything that comes to mind.

No more wasting time or saying I'll write it later.

Because I never do.

Do you remember how christmas used to feel when you were a child?

It was magical. For me anyways.

Although I came far from a wealthy family, my parents still made it

magic.

The feeling is almost indescribable, what it was back then.

The month of December, and even November, being something I always remember.

Seeing lights, seeing trees, seeing stars.

Hearing the music while riding back seat my parents car.

It all feel so far,

away.

Even though today I made new memories and new magic.

I sat around a table with my girlfriend and her family in the middle of the city.

A place I'd always dreamed I'd be.

With a ******* my side, my hand on her thigh.

This is the year I realized Christmas can have a new magic.

It's not gifts under the tree and although I always knew that...

It feels different this year, and although tomorrow feels like just another day.

I've made magic in my own way.

Happiness,

Is but an elixir.

Yet to be brewed, yet to be even thought about.

It can be so hard,

so **** hard.

And yet, for some reason we push through.

Do you ever stop and wonder, why all that is exits.

Why are we here and what is the purpose?

I hate that I hate the past.

And I hate that I can't see the future.

I hate stupid privileged kids who never have to worry about their outcome.

And I hate that I have succumbed to the sadness.

The realness, the pain.

I no longer enjoy the smell of the rain.

Everything is numb and I am dull.

Please, oh please let me get over this lull.

Life has this way of ******* you over.

People die, and people grow older.

Can I please regain my sense of sanity.

That child hood fantasy.

Something,

Anything.

All the cracks in the wall just want to be spiders.

Words deep inside her, her only provider, for all the desire, somehow

vanished.

If only she could

light,

a match.

To dispatch

the intruders.

Whispers drip down walls

like sewage

where rats crawl

and poison calls like nightmares.

In all the beauty

and all the despair.

It was her hair that

made me

wake up,

and then

fall.

Golden brown like cottage towns

her eyes like

a briny sea.

So clear and cold they

washed over me.

I am a drunken sailor sworn off from all land.

I'm a sea lover and when the siren calls

I always

Give.

In.

I knew a girl who wrote poetry, and I know a girl that died.

She was so far away, and yet her words hit close to home.

She was here, and she was there.

We went to different highschools.

I was a baby lesbian.

Barley understanding what that even meant.

I went to her show. A play. A tragedy.

Her words, still touched me.

The first time I used the term 'touched me'
I got snickers from the crowd and had to say "not like that..."

It was sixth grade.

I knew a girl who wrote poetry, and I know a girl who died.

I am glad that I told her I was there for her.

But I still know a girl who died.

My eyes hurt,

and my chest hurts.

And I know it's been many years.

I cannot begin to explain to you how sick you become when you fall for someone who does not want you.

It's strange, and it's saddening.

In my defence. She did kiss me. And she did tell me that she wanted me.

Five years is a long time.

And yet it was not enough time to let me get over her.

Even though I can be happily in love.

It does not stop the memories, the wandering.

Her eyes. Her scent.

I have never again smelt something sweeter, or more toxic.

His love was like a flashlight.
Her love is like a candle.

His love beamed,
And her love burned.

His love was like a flashlight.
False. Mechanic. Operated.

Her love is like a candle.
Dripping, Melting, Alive.

His love did not last.
Once the batteries died.

Her love burned to the end.
Sparks and embers burning bright crimson
long after the wax has melted away.

Her love whisps in smoke,
filling the entire room.

My lungs, my senses blocked.
A flame stings within my heart.

When you are the stranger in someones house.

How can it posses you to touch what you do not know.

You have come into my house and been a stranger in my space.

Do you know not boundaries.

You are a curse in the form of a damsel.

Why did you touch me when I did not ask to be touched?

And then, when, confused and...

Who are you again?

I miss the familiar. The one who made me smile. A friend, a sister.

You are a heathen and I hate that

the next time I

open my bedroom door.

You might be there,

smiling and

maybe

waiting.

Robotic legs, robotic arms some how lead me to the kitchen.
Once I get there, I mean no harm until I can't tell the direction.

Between what is right and what is wrong, and miscommunicated affection.

I drink the poison back as it beckons me and I can't find the description.

Between what is pain, and what is loss, and what is simple addiction.

Oh help me father, oh help me mother. I don't believe in religion.

But tonight I'll pray that the next day doesn't have so much conviction.

Robotic legs and robotic arms made me take the knife, and robotic legs and robotic arms made me write this fiction.