We had been friends.

Friends for not very long.

I had never seen you before that day,
that day that you walked into grade 11 drama class.

I only knew one person in that class.

A friend of a friend.

When we were asked to get into groups of three.

You came over and I was annoyed but like the flip the flip of a switch I went from hatred to love.

I fell in love with you faster than a green light turns red.

I was so young.

16 turning 17 when I met you.

That feels weird on my tongue.

Many walks, moves, movies, and music later, something happened.

I don't know what it was.

But you let me kiss you, and you kissed me back.

My brain traced back to highschool in those moments, and how long I  had been waiting for this.

You kissed me, and kissed me.

And told me I was beautiful.

I cannot express how that time felt to me, H.

This is one part of one story.

Why does every moment with her
burn
holes in my heart

but

allow light to seep through
till I see the stars .

Shine through my eyes.
Shine through my soul.

This is the art of not letting go.

I look past the truth
for the lies that I crave.

Twisting and changing
never ending rage.

My mind sees bike ride and grassy fields.

It started with knees and it ended in pleads.

"Stay."

Being in my late twenties is not as **** as I thought it would be.

Now I find myself waiting for my thirties.

When I'll be

thirty, flirty, and thriving.

I would at least like to hold on to the last part.

Thriving is what I want to be.

I feel like being in your late twenties is second teenage hood.

You develop new skin problems and need meds, you are also a reckless mess.

But hey at least now you live alone,
at least now you
are grown.

In a sense.

I'll try to enjoy my late twenties.

As my sisters surpass my talents.

Maybe thirty will be my year.

Or 40.

You were,

Everything and then all at once,
nothing.

Darling dear can you hear my desperate calls.

I wanted you, I wanted you all.

I laid out blankets so that we could picnic why did you panic.

We had everything.

I danced with you at prom. I wrapped my arms around you and told you I wanted you to be mine.

But you didn't understand.

And then years later I tried again and I told you.

I held you in my arms and I felt you.

And you felt me.

We agreed.

We were one for a short period of time.

I drove you home and you called me beautiful.

You said you had never felt this way before.

But then what did you do?

You betrayed me and found a man, or two.

You were here, and then you were there.

I had you once, and it isn't fair.

A part of me will,
always
love
you.

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.

I've been unpacking old things and I found a letter I had written to you.

Most likely the last letter I ever
wrote to you.

It was tucked in between newspapers
and clippings of some of the writing I had done
over time.

Even though it's been almost ten years,
reading those words
and seeing how gutted I was
by what you did then

makes me feel those feelings all over again.

This is why it's so hard
to look back on my old writings.

or really,

anything I've ever written before.

After reading the 3 page letter I had written to you,

and noticing that it was

tear stained,
written in two different types of pen,
and folded several times

it proves

I had read and re-read it several times
before ultimately deciding
to never give it to you

I realized I never want to be that sad again.

When I searched you on instagram,
I could see that I am still blocked.

Only a small picture of what you look like now,
a window into the unknown.

I tucked the unsent letter into my scrapbook of you.

A scrapbook I'm not even sure I want to hold onto any more.

But I do.

Because I still remember the smell of your breast.
Your hair.

The feeling of your eyes on me.

You forgot it so easily.

Moving on is impossible.

Forgetting is something I hope for.

But I wont.

You will always be my could have been muse.

Even though I am no longer in love with you.

I loved you a long time ago,
how are you doing now.

Clouds linger of previous times, previous moments.

Always getting caught in the rain,
but together it was
heven.

We were drenched one time and I got you a towel,
we were caught one time and we were powerful.

You gave up too soon,
my darling.

I told you I would have kids.

As if...

You are now but a memory.

A fragrance I can't grasp.

But...

You will always have a place

in this
heart.

I like it when people pat themselves down
to make sure they have
all of their belongings before they leave.

It's even better
when they mutter the words
out loud
to themselves.

Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet, and Watch.


I like it when people's faces light up
when they are waiting for a friend,
and finally spot them.

I like it when people get startled
and apologize for it.
Like their fear may have
inconvenienced you.

I like when people look around
and make eye contact with strangers
when the subway slows down
or stops unexpectedly.

I like it when a large group of people witness something strange,
so strange
that they are forced
to talk about it
with people they may never see again.

I like it when somebody drops something,
and a stranger chases after them to return it,
even if it's just a mitten.

I like it when someone asks for a light
from a stranger, and they get one.
Even better if the stranger
lights their smoke
for them.

I like it when people ask for directions,
and the person giving them
uses large hand gestures.

I like it when crossing guards
protect grown adults.

I like seeing a couple during their honey moon phase.
All over each other and a little bit
inappropriate.

I like ti when babies make eye contact with you
as they pass by on their parents back.

I Like when several people stop
to admire a cute dog.

I like it when pedestrians
are nearly hit by a careless driver,
and all stop to talk **** about them
for a moment.

I like it when people casually
sing, hum, or whistle.

I like it when several people
have to gather around a small device
because they all want to see what's happening
together.  

I like seeing children I don't know
trudging home
in the snow
with toboggans,
rosy cheeked
and daydreaming of hot chocolate.

I like catching someone taking a selfie.

I like it when people open their palms to check if it's raining,
even though they can probably see that it is.

I like seeing people reading on the train.

I don't know.

Human's can be cute.

I'm getting mad and sad all at once.

Is that allowed.

Memory is like a tornado these days.

All I want is a cat.

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

In the theatre,

two years of knowing her.

I was in love,
I was in
love.

She was serious and so delirious,
She got good grades but couldn't tell that I was
crazy for her.

Crazy in love.

And then she started inviting me over,
house of cats and parent's leaving.
I though there may have been a reason.

It took almost five years, but we kissed. I kissed that mistress.

That untouchable soul, the guarded.

It wasn't until she sent me songs that boys sent her.

I only realized that in the future.

Dear H, See how strong your pull is?

It means nothing now.

Just sirens,
in the distance.

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.

I can’t believe this will be my last night
in the room I grew up in.

The room I cried in and laughed in.
The mattress on which I vomited, and masturbated, and had *** for the first time.

The window where I smoked **** against my parents wishes,

and the room that I drank myself silly in.

The room I fell in love in,

and was brutally heartbroken in.

This is my last night here.

I write so I don't slice.
It keeps coming back to me.

That stupid demon that tells me to beckon a knife.
And to just make one small slice.

God I hate it.

One moment I am fine and the next moment I don't know whats come over me rhyme or reason but I wan't to take my blade.

And...

I don't know.

When I go to work my manager bought us box cutters.

And although they are convenient I avoid them.

And when he asked me why I just chuckled and sighed and said I don't know how to use them.

When the real reason was
every time I held one
I was
contemplating how deep they would cut.

Blocks, cells, and blocks,

we are all cells.

In cells.

Cells of ourselves.

Cells of sides of someone
we thought we knew well.

I can hear conversations echoing
in the hallways of my hair,
or perhaps

It just coming from upstairs.

We can't see each other
but we can hear each other.

We can blow bubbles from the bottom floor
and know that they reach the top.

I can hear people telling their dogs to stop.
Telling children to stay back, and be careful.

All these sounds ringing.

Apartment quarantine.

Home life limousine.

Someone plays music for all to hear.

We stand on our balconies,

We applaud, we cheer.

From this tiny lonely life that we are all now living.

Remember the happiness, remember the giving.

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.

Imagine where you would be,
if you were on your own.

Would you be dead?

The people in your life is what kept you together.

If may say so.

And you should say so too.

You would not be who you are, if it's weren't for somebody.

Because love, is a sweet thing.

Love does what it wants to do.

Love, is the way I feel for you.

We're family.

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.

Shifting thoughts like melodies,
songs we once sang in choir.

As happy as a bee returning to her nest,
to her queen.

My heart thumps to the beat of it's own drum.

It remembers,
it breathes,
it renews.

Knowing that I was in" love" with her.

And knowing now
and truly
being in love with Vanessa.

It makes sense to me now.

How the heart can expand and change.

I will always have love for her. The girl I fell in love with ten years ago.

But now I can cherish it. And look at it fondly.

While I gaze at my sleeping wife.

Her physique,
her peaceful face,
her beauty.

I think this must be the lesbian experience.

The sun sets in the east.

and,

the weeping willows are starting to cry.

I drive past flowers, across rivers, across lilies

Nothing will ever be as sweet as you.

Butterfly shoulders and waterfall heart.

It's all in the beginning.

Can be the scariest moment of your life if it is true.

The scariest time.

Yes you are in love, but you also fear for what could happen if you lose it.

I'm not talking about cheating or disconnect,

I am talking about death.

The worst thing you could ever imagine, is your partners death, and what you would do without them.

It's an unbearable pain. Even if hypothetical.

It's tragic, it's lonely, it's toxic.

You start thinking of all the things you would do if you suddenly found your boo dead.

It's such a particular dread.

I know I have anxiety.

And that is what causes these thoughts.

But still I think about what would I do,

I she were to leave this earth.

The funny thing is we have this kind of suicide pact. If she were to leave I would follow and vice versa.

Sometimes I wonder if that is really true. And I picture life without you.

And all I see is me

drowning at the

bottom of the

ocean.

I would happily gulp down waves of salt if it were fact that I could

never see her again.

I know her and I love her.

To the point that I dream about her and look for her.

Nothing feels right when she isn't there.

She is my everything she is my..

I can't go a day without talking to her.

We live in the same house and I could not imagine greeting anyone else in the morning.

She is the sun and the moon.

She is a sunday afternoon watching cartoons.

She is the love of my life.

She is everything and all of it she is my wife.

Being in love is like winning a game,

You feel so proud and you never feel the same.

You want to scream her name from high buildings.

She is my angel, she is my baby.

There is a tattoo
of a wolf
on my thigh.

A tattoo I had been planning,
for a long time.

Underneath is not what I would call
bare skin.

It is graced with
and possessed with
scars.

Of one kind.

That kind.

I am grateful that now
when I look down

I am not met with harsh lines,
but instead the eyes
of a kind wolf mother.

She now bares the scars that I carved.

Be kind to yourself,

she says.

Its strange that people
are capable
of storing memories

about you
that you have since forgotten.

I have this one friend who tells me things about myself that I never knew.

Be it a story I told or a joke I pulled.

I was quite the jester.

It weirds me out that there are people who hold memories of me
be it fond be it
friendly.

I made an impact,
somewhere.

At some point in time.

I think he remembers so much about me because we were best friends once.

I feel like I have betrayed a lot of people.

I've never quite fit anywhere.

Like those japanese games shows where they have to bend their bodies to make it through to the next round.

There was no next round for me.

I am neither black or white.

Neither Trinidadian or Polish.

According to my family and friends.

Apparently I don't belong anywhere but the arms of my lover.

Only there does it make sense.

We are designing our own flag.

One for mixed lesbians.

I think I can wave that one proudly.

I love that the button says write.

Yes ma'am.

I feel like I feel everything.

Every thing at once.

Every sound, every smell, taste, and touch.

I am but a new me.

Shedding my skin like a lizard starved for water.

Starting again like becoming a father.

I feel like I see things in a different light.

For the first time in a while, I feel like,

it's going to be alright.

I just knocked my vape off my desk with how viciously I am typing but the reason is that I am just so ****** happy to be writing
again.

It's really ****** up when a moment steals your voice.

A moment, a person, a day or a  
year.

It happens to the best of us.

Cascading somewhere

between the
depths of
reality,

and the skin
beneath your
breast.

Old memories lay dormant
in the spaces
between
my ribs.

It feels like nothing,

nothing.

Incredible.

I don't know.

The demon is gone, but I still have to medicate.

The girl is forgotten,

but sometimes I still remember.

But it's okay.

It's like sweet honey on a summer day,

It's like warm hot chocolate on a winter night.

It is spelling everything right.

Do not worry, do not frown.

Because the dead are always around.

Just don't make a sound.

It's okay.

It's okay.

Breathe.

And listen.

There are signs of you

all over the home now.

Little memories
and little mementos.

Clues and reminders that you are real
and not
just a
concept.

I cannot wait to meet you,

little one.

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 really love this platform, I do,
I do.

But have you ever noticed that they censor certain things?

Words like **** and ****, sure why not.

But words like lesbian?

Lesbian, lesbian, lesbian. I am a lesbian.

And I am trying to prove a point.

Can some one do me a favour and comment lesbian and we can see if we get blocked by stars.

Blocked by stars like curse words like the word lesbian should be bad.

I don't know about this algorithm anymore.

There is a pigeon at my doorstep.

Right outside,
on
the balcony.

I am writing a novel about pigeons.

So I approach.

My girlfriend tells me not to.

My fiancee not my girlfriend.

But I do anyway.

I come almost beak to beak but he fled.

Angry with me.

He is back tonight,

with a girl under his wing.

They have lost their home, maybe children

Or maybe she is about to lay eggs,
pregnant.

In the animal world, they bare babies and that is life.

But in this human world we have a choice.

Or at least,

we should.

I don't often get Political.

But the world is burning.

**** whoever let bills pass that **** woman over a fetus.

Watch them make gays illegal again because

I am

*******,

and bleeding out,

all my "children".

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.

Like the cicada,
I awaken once a year
to scream and then die.

Choking,

choking.

Never mind.

I'm okay...

The blue has turned to grey.

There isn't much more to say.

Do you remember those ****** skies.

Do you remember the hellos,
the goodbyes.

Do you remember  
being my first love,

Do you remember the face you made
when I told you the above.

We were smitten then you were gone,
We were right and then we were wrong.

Talent show,
pavement,
basement,
precipitation,

Questions, answers, after school choir,

Hand brush hand, you are a liar.

I know you and you loved me too.

Still I don't know what to do.

You asked me about Sam Mcgee, and how his cotton blooms and blows.

And when I said I wanted you, all you could do was let go.

I'll never forget you, cicada lover.

I'll always remember you.

First loves are hard.

The never really,

go away.

Darkness after light.

Cold passageways
and roads
I used to roam.

Streets I once lived on,
constant drone.

I hear the
pacing, pacing, pacing.

I am not alone.

I look past the screen
above the tunnel.

Someone is there.

Why oh why did I get high
before coming down here.

Coming down here to the silence.

I never understood the term
"silence is deafening"

until I started waiting for lonely trains
in lonely subway stations.

I used to live around here.
And yet
it feels foreign.

The cold rushing in
from the outside.

If I need to I could run.

Bike in hand,
up the stairs.

I hear the sound of the train coming now,
see the lights
enveloping that dark tunnel.

I'll be safe now.

Once I find a seat.


Commuting.

I love how nothing changed.

Oop, and then it did.

You're too young for this.

Stop.

Why can't I tell you not to do how I used too.

I had you and then I didn't.

I swear I did my best.

I wish I could protect you forever.

From what?

From men.

I don't want you to get hurt.

You are very smart and I trust you but,

It won't be long.

Stay strong.

Punk rebel daughter.

I am chaos and I am desire.

So say my dreams.

It's always between the two.

Last night I had a pleasant dream that I was dating her.

It was sweet.
Precious even.

But when I awoke I had to deal with different things.

It's stupid that I still write about her, but what can you do.

The heart wants what the heart wants, so someone said.

Right now my heart only seeks friendship from her. Ot at least,
closure.

She didn't even want to give me that.

Dear H.

Love R,

I once spent 50 cents for
a box of a dozen used
white
candles.

I saw a new use in them.

They were from a garage sale,
up the street.

I burned those candles
for years.

Baby witch things.

I wish I would stumble across
a dozen white candles
for 50 cents now.

I again have use.

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.

Weird things,
trigger my poetry.

Weird things, weird rhymes.

Weird dreams, that get the best of me.
Weird meaning, weird time.

You can never get the full effect,
unless,
you hear me reading it out loud.

From the heart and from the soul.

You can never know where the
emphasis

Comes from.

Or where it goes.

Like a drop of sun,
on my tongue.

Change blisters like
scorching summers.

Different seasons,
different lovers.

Missing our kin,
missing our mothers.

Under the weather,
under the covers.

Sleet black tears,
****** sheets,
ringing ears.

But we've gotten over
our biggest fears.

I see you silent raver,
quaint in the night.

I hear you secret lover,
out of mind out of sight.

Bathe in darkness, reign in light.

//

I am no longer among the fallen.

When I get in this mood to write, and write, and write.

Why does it never feel right.

I feel like a writer devout of a soul.

I feel like a story that's already been told.

I feel like just another lesbian who was in love with a straight girl.
Even though we fooled around and I loved her when I first met her.

Obviously, that is all the past, but why do I feel so compressed as to only write poems about her?

It's not fair but ******* it her hair.
You weren't there.

Eyes of green and visits so rare.

I know what I felt and I know what I saw.

As nervous and young she was still in awe,

She told me I was beautiful and falling in love.
For me that was a blessing from a goddess above.

Of course she left me for a white man.

Little did I know she was just an experimental
white
girl.

Some days I want to look femme, and cute, and pretty.

Other days I want to look as masc as possible. Hard, tough, scary.

And then there are some days
in between,
where I guess I feel
most like myself.

I am learning to accept
and love all aspects of myself.

And to not hyper fixate
on my gender expression.

Some days are easier than others.

Some days I go to work in a skirt
and halfway through I feel
incredibly uncomfortable.

But other days
I feel ****.

Some days I got to work
in basketball shorts and a T-Shirt
and feel relaxed and hot

but then halfway through
I feel messy and underdressed.

I think it's my in between days
that I feel the most myself.

Little Pants, Big Top.

Big Pants, Little Top.

Big Pants, Big Top.

Little Pants, Little Top.

You see fireworks once
you see fire works a hundred times.

But I still whip around to face my window,
when I hear them.

Coming with passing seasons,
for different reasons.

What was the reason?

Some sort of holiday.

But it makes me wonder,
what exactly
people are celebrating for.

Do they even know?

I think it might just be an excuse for humans to do something that makes them feel happy.

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.

This is kind of weird.

What is the intention.

Of all that background noise and memories of boys?

When I was young I though I had to date men.

So I did.  

I mean sort of.

I had a new boyfriend every few months and I am sure as hell not proud of that.

It made me hate myself.

I had a crush on my eight grade french teacher.

To the point that I called her by her name and flirted with her.

When I told my mom that for the first time the other day,

she asked me why I didn't just come out sooner.

I mean...

If only she knew.

What I had to go through,

to be here now.

Through a frosted window,
I may have seen your face.

Once,
about five years ago.

I still have the framed painting
you brought me from
Newfoundland.

You mentioned something about the landscape.

Signed with X's and O's.

It sits in the back of my closet,
and I make the excuse
that I need a nail.

But really, I just
don't have the

desire,

to look at it.

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.

It's not like I can hide under the toadstool.

I never became cool, became hip.

But I'm nothing like my replacement.

Changing jobs, changing guys.

Changing who I can rely
on.

Today was weird.
Today was out of body.

Out of mind
out of spirit.

Am I a little daddies girl for **

Or am I
the one you can
find on

google.

The answer is neither.

See you later.
See you never.

They told me my work would be burnt to the crisp.

And yet here it is on the internet.