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SS Mar 2019
do i mourn the death
of a person that
i have mourned the loss of
each and every day
i have lived?
The terminal illness and eventual death of an estranged parent leads to so many grueling questions and overwhelming feelings that make little sense. What do you owe someone that has given you so little? How do you balance compassion for yourself and your wellbeing with that of another person with a terminal illness.?Are you mourning a person or the death of any possibility of reconciliation. Are you selfish in your feelings or even lacking basic human empathy? Does that person deserve the feeling of hallow reconciliation at the cost of your dignity and self worth? And why can’t someone else just understand.
SS Jul 2017
make me believe
that the girl you turned to
didn't plant those desires in you
what bountiful crop did she provide
that I was unable
what nutrient did my soil lack
that made your soul thrive
who let you harvest it from their body
did she help you flourish
did i

- *i watched you grow as I withered
Inspired by rupi kaur
SS Jun 2016
I don't remember what it's like to be loved by you.
Our last week together in February seems so far away
You do too, but I know you're not
I see your car across the street
Or your smile in a stranger
Your fingertips in my palm
Your heartbeat against my cheek
Do you understand that I still feel your hands around my waist?
What a waste.
I am so tired and so different
I don't know who I am any more
But it's okay because neither do you.
  Jun 2016 SS
He tells himself that one day
he’ll be with the woman that he loves
but he will have to fix himself first.
He leaves her shaking on the bathroom floor
because he can’t stop his own hands from trembling
and he doesn’t think he’s capable
of picking up all of her broken pieces
when he is still slicing open his fingertips
trying to clean up his own mess.
His story isn’t one you would tell your children
because it isn’t one that ends happily.
Years later her long hair still appears in his dreams
and he can’t bring himself to listen to his favorite music anymore
because he swears he can hear her laughter in every tune.
He buries himself in other girls
whose eyes don’t shine nearly as brightly as hers used to
and he drinks whiskey every night
in the hopes of forgetting her name,
but he is afraid he will end up forgetting his own first.
  Jun 2016 SS
i spent my nights writing wishes into
paper cranes after we broke down, a repetition
of ink to paper - fold, press, release -

your name, your name, your name,
became habit every time i picked up the pen

when i dream of walking through
haunted houses, i hear voices through the
open windows, i swear it is you saying
come home, baby, come home

a draft cuts through each whisper and i pretend
it is your breath on my neck,
that your hands will follow, but when i turn
it is only the breeze from a crane beating its wings.

when it storms, the dock we used to
share secrets on floods - my fingers scratch
at my thighs like i am picking apart the wooden planks,
my skin splinters in all the places i have ever
been touched by you.  

i fold myself into a ship and sail where you can't
this burns too much to read it back,
and i feel very heavy right now.
  Apr 2016 SS
sanch kay
when i was young,
i only lived
between the pages of a book
between the words of a sentence
between Privet Drive and Baker Street
between bookstores and libraries
where I did not have to speak
to make friends;
where I made friends
who would not leave,
where I could leave
and return to see
that nothing had changed;
nothing, except me,
but only a little.

now that i’m older
i’ve been twice
to the other side and back;
i think i’d also like to live
between time zones and skylines
between silken sheets on starry nights
between your fingers and your eyes,
where conversations are passports
to other worlds in
in other hearts beating
in other bodies;

if only for just a little.
for #napowrimo. to you, from me.
  Apr 2016 SS
it still hurts in a way that's hard for you to explain to those who have never had to live every day knowing there are still pieces of your heart stuck inside someone else's chest. so what. so you still wear his old t-shirts to bed even though you know you should have thrown them out months ago, there are texts and photos on your phone that you can't bring yourself to erase no matter how many tears streak your face or how many times your heart breaks all over again. every single day you think of calling him, but only certain days are bad enough for you to actually contemplate it: days that used to be important and hold value - his birthday, your birthday, your anniversary, holidays - but then the obvious days turn into days where it hurts so deep that you look for reasons to call; it's raining and you want to say hey, remember that time we were in Sandusky and it thunderstormed so hard our whole hotel shook and lightening illuminated Lake Erie? remember how I was so scared, and you held me all night long? or when it's midnight and you throw on his old clothes even though they stopped smelling like his cologne an eternity ago, their cotton hasn't touched his skin in months but you wear them anyway because you resonate with that feeling, and you think of calling just to say that you wish you could feel him one last time. you do. you wish you could drive to his house again, you still know the way so well you could do it with your eyes closed, sneak up to his bedroom and crawl into bed with him even though you both complained it was too small for two people, you wish you could zip your fingers together like an old jacket, familiar and warm, you wish you could bury your face into his chest and smell his skin again, feel his lips kiss the top of your head as if this constituted saying I love you, I missed you out loud. the truth is you're more than well aware any combination of these things are very unlikely to ever occur, but that doesn't stop you from wishing, from picking up stray pennies or blowing out everyone else's birthday candles. do you remember the first time you saw a shooting star. how you were with him and how it felt a little like fate. you want to call him and tell him that you've never been so broken. that you believe you can go backward, because you don't see a forward that you like. but you can't. so instead you keep his name buried underneath your tongue. you don't cry when you miss him because no one understands it anymore; too much time has passed. get over it already. you keep his sweaters warm inside your dresser drawers and you wash the sheets weekly because they smell like someone else now. the bed never stops feeling empty. there are eight stop lights between your house and his, and this distance has never looked more red.
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