a young couple in love turned into a disaster neither of you wanted, a weakened man cut down by life reaches out for just a taste of the dragon, and life spirals down from there, utter depression, daily beatings, tons of lies and painful cries, and somehow she managed to keep her hope alive.
she held her hands out like a life ring, just begging you to grab on, her only desire was to save you.
her heart stopped beating after years of loving you and praying you'd get over your self destructive habit.
she begged you to love her the way you used to, although she accepted it when you couldn't.
and when your heart turned cold and icy, hers was still warm enough to heat up a room. it's too bad you'd rather be stuck in your lonely ice box that you call a soul.
battered and bruised, you're twisted and she's confused, she can't escape this place. she's too invested and in love, she prays from help from above.
all she wants is her old life back, where you loved her more than misery and smack.
blood shot eyes, one too many lies, and ******* broke her spirits and for some reason that came to your surprise,
but you only cared went you weren't high.
the stale smell of blood, constantly finds it way into her nose and drives her crazy, and when she craves a line or two of sugar her nails dig holes and lines into her skin.
she's lost all hope, all love of life, she's given up on God, and you know it ain't right.
she wakes up screaming from her dreams,
to sooth your soul to go back to sleep, you go into the bathroom in the dark, take out the band, and jab another needle through your so called heart, then collapse in comatose beside her cold body.

©

recovery is not pretty.
it is not painless or simple or instant.
it is a road littered with backsliding and obstacles and doubt.
a path marred with reopened scars and sleepless nights and feigned smiles.

recovery is rubberbands and ice cubes and pacing and cigarettes.
it is phone calls at 3am when you can barely breathe and all the walls are closing in.
it is screaming at the ones you love because they love you too much to let you break your skin.

it is long sleeves and overly-cautious internet browsing and lots of movies.
it is eating way too much ice cream and taking walks in the middle of the night.
it is hard. recovery is hard. it is messy. it is painful and chaotic. but it is not impossible.

I've been trying to pull everything apart
the echo of your steps down the lonesome corridor
the soft touch of your fingers as they twirl my hair
the soft voice you used to sing in
the scent of you on my clothes
every memory in every place
everything leads to you
but no matter how hard I pull and pull
every memory comes snapping back
every time I come so close to pulling you all out
pulling pulling
all the kisses and hugs
all the scents and sounds and sorrow
can't seem to go away

You've haunted me,
left me to wail and cry
to no end
no mercy
there's nothing I can do
nothing that will ease my pain
you're gone...
you're gone...

Army Men exploded into
green plastic pieces
on the dull, gray
comforter that made
up the battlefield.
Rubberbands flying
back and forth
through the air
like so many bombshells.

Days that I long
to fall back on,
where super heroes
had crooked teeth,
hunched backs,
and tattered t-shirts.

Lawrence of Arabia keeps picking up his tent
gathers all his jewels and wares
and moves on up the road
and the smiling faces trail along
and there under the bright dazzling lights
he sets up shop and they all break into song
the nightwatchman nervously fingers his flashlight
while Lawrence sneaks up from behind and pranks him

the Gretchens and the weary guitar player
gather near the stage
and cast an iron mask into the flames
hoping it'll melt
but its soaked eye stares out weakly
in the ashes of all Lawrence had built
but he's in the corner with Betty Boop and a
bottle of wine getting drunk
and reliving her salad days
she carries a scrapbook of naughty pictures
she keeps all her naughty thoughts in her backpack
no reason to let anyone know what shes really thinking
her fast nasty hand
is only a reflection of her nimble mind
it reaches for the absolution of innocence
full knowing that its real intent is opposite
a fast nasty piece that reeks of rubberbands and scotch tape

lots of bits and pieces here, bits of strings, pieces of cloth, laundry pegs, handles to god knows what, scattered coins from scattered lands, paperclips, brokendreams, rubberbands, scraps of life
on paper doodled, rolls of film, batteries alive and dead, scary thoughts from one's head, lego blocks, bits of wood, seashells from the seashore, keys from a life before, unknown things, important somehow, jigsaw pieces of a china dove, thumbtacks, nuts, screws and bolts, lists to do, that just did not, lids from old jamjars, spent pepperpots, bright neon plastic straws, words left unsaid, that may have started wars, little stone pebbles collected,
because, packets of seeds, vegatable and flower, the combo to the lock, of all the lost hours,  bits of the times, i often regret,  pieces of my heart, awaiting repair.....
but amongst all this
stuff i cannot find,
any leftover, clarity of mind.
rooting around in the junk drawer of life, always an adventure, not always kind.

Pencils
  And papers
    And fancy erasers

Rubberbands
  And soda cans
    And ratty old pairs of Vans

This and that
  Or 'maybe' something
    Equaling all sorts of nothing

And then I met Winona Ryder...

It's not letting go,
I'm thinking more of like stretching.
Rubberbands the stronger the friendship
the stronger the band,
some will snap,
some will break
but then you'll know which ones were fake.

-JGuerra

Early morning before
anyone has ordered coffee
and I feel delicate in the dewy
sun with the heater on low
at my ankles, I reorganize
the drawer below the register
gingerly feeling at staples and
rubberbands, Caleb watches from
the corner on tea with raspberry
in doc martens and ***** trousers
I wonder if I seem as pretty as I
feel or if he feels the staples too and
the dust from gift cards, if my hair
flares out in the light, if I am a brilliant
solar eclipse.

i've done it so many times, missing people
missing love. it's become a profession for me,
missing people who i separate from -

i've come to face these bitter feelings of
abandonment, being forgotten -
like, i, was ever someone to remember in the first place
years and years ago -

10-years-old and missing the other little children
who tugged on my clammy hand but laughed anyways
at my shy eyes and bugged out baby hairs
because their sandy hands dried out my nervousness
on the playground among giggles and "sandman!"s
their hair whirlwinds on their heads as we spun around
on tire swings until we were scared we'd throw up on ourselves
and we'd smell the whole way home
together

i still remember the day that i told you that your
bracelet of popcan tabs and little hair rubberbands
and dollar store beads and bells was
cute - i liked the way that it weighed in my clammy palm
and how colourful it shined,
how stretchy it stretched and never threatened to snap in
my tiny sticky fingers, it was the loveliest thing i'd ever seen.
and i still remember the day you showed up at school
with one for me, too, because it was only the next day
and your fingertips were raw with little cuts from yanking
aluminum tabs off of cans and black circles ringed your eyes as
you smiled and held it out for me

i couldn't ever remember feeling any warmth like that before

why was i ever so sour in the first place
of being forgotten anyways? maybe it wasn't that i was terrified of
being lost among people's "remember that one girl" and "what was
her name again"s, but perhaps i was just horrified of the things that
constantly switched up around me, and these warm memories
were the only things that would never switch up on me
without me being able to catch my breath first.

i still remember the day we skipped down high school hallways
with our eyes drooped and red and our mouths bone dry,
smelly hoodies draped over our uniforms,
i couldn't believe how clammy
our intertwined hands were but we still laced our fingers and spun
in sharp turns, laughing down quiet corridors  -
"did you know that i'm gay? i've never told anyone before."
you whispered in a rush to me, and you confided in me like
i was important -

why did i call it being abandoned when i was just as near
to you to reach out and grab you as you were near to me?
you've reached out to me and tugged on my sleeve but i'd sit
there and watch you and i'd feel your warm fingers slip away from my
skin,
i'd never felt your skin on mine again.

and i still remember the times we'd laugh and share jokes,
make personal whispered secrets, "we'll probably only
have time for each other again after work when we're career women,"
but even as i sit here in the same ******* room
of the past week and a half of wallowing in wonder,
wondering why i feel so empty and at a loss and like a hole,
my hands are clammy and miss the warmth of a pretty bracelet in my hand-

"you never wore it anyways."

-and your fingers between mine-

"you never text me back when i want to see you!"

i feel so lost,
i don't feel missed
although i probably was,
but i missed
something
and miss it so much