i walk to my bus stop. it is 5am and school is no longer in session since it's the middle of june. a plane passes overhead and i wonder if they're close enough to watch my eyes well up. before i dismiss that idea for being so irrational, i throw up two middle fingers, as if to say "******* for making me feel this way" even though i know it's not their fault.

it takes me until the sun rises to realize i am standing by a stop sign in just a t-shirt, underwear, and my yellow rain boots...but it's not raining. and for a second, i can't remember the last time it rained, but the puddles that fill the potholes tell me that it was probably yesterday.

i run to my house in a hurry, as if i would no longer feel the embarrassment of  being half naked in public once i was inside. the door is unlocked and i am thankful because the last time i saw my keys was three days ago, and i can't even remember where i saw them. wait, i don't have keys. i'm too young to have keys, so whose keys did i see three days ago?

my house looks different, like maybe this isn't my house, but i know it is because the twilight zone is on, and i'm the only person in their teens who still watches that show. the volume is turned all the way down. was i watching it in secret? maybe i didn't want to wake my mother.

i sit down on my couch and close my eyes. it 6:30am and i should be asleep right now, but i've come to find myself lighting a cigarette and smoking it, but i don't smoke. i've never smoked. i go to put it out, but i somehow miss my mom's marbled ashtray and get my arm. my mind is  screaming "take it off! get it away!" but it's also screaming "is it weird that i'm barely feeling anything?" and then the pain hits me all at once, and i toss it into the ashtray. my arm is throbbing and i wish i could pass out and deal with this later, but the truth is there is no later and this is all happening now.

and i have no idea how to deal with it.

january** // it had just happened.

march // this is the month of transition from winter to spring, but that doesn't mean this is the month of transition from broken to healed.

may // it's getting warmer, but that changes nothing.

august // it's rainy now, but the tears that have fallen from the darkened sky still haven't washed it away.

Your life was a constant
staring contest
with the barrel of a gun,
or bottle of pills,
or whatever it may be.

I don't think you ever
truly believed
things would get better.
I think they all forced it down
your throat.
Endless strings of letters
and numbers
configuring into
teen suicide statistics
and muttering
fine
and okay
whenever needed.

I thought you were nice,
despite your negative outlook
on life.
I'd love to hang out with you
again,
even if it is
just to hear you
complain.

I don't know why you
hated the world,
or why your humor
was sicker than you
ever were.
I don't know why
the stars never shone in your eyes,
or why the landing of '69
didn't spark your
everdying interests.

I'm guessing you didn't
either.

Five nights ago,
at 10:31PM,
I whispered I loved you,
and you stumbled up
your porch steps,
grabbing the air,
laughing and saying,
"I love you, too."

Four nights ago,
I held your hand
as we
strolled through the park.
I ignored the rugged scuff
of your boots,
and you ignored
the pounding beat
of my heart.

Three nights ago,
you told me
to go home early.
Our movie
wasn't finished,
but you were.

Two nights ago,
I saw you
walking through the neighbourhood,
a beautiful girl
by your side.

Last night,
the air was still.

And tonight,
I don't think you'd care
if I didn't text back.

I often stay up until the sun rises,
because I love the light blue
that captures the earth
before the burning
ball of light does.

We may despise the hot,
and seek coolness on the
warmest of days,
but we'd all be lying
if we said that
we hate the sun,
and we hate the sunsets,
and the sunrises,
and I'd be lying
if I said
the only reason
I stayed up
was to watch
the sun
swallow the earth
and illuminate it.

I love thinking of you,
and I love conversing with you
from day's beginning
to day's end.

And, you know,
I'd be lying
if I said
I didn't miss you
every second
you're gone.

Right now,
I believe I have no name.
Right now,
I could probably write a 351 page book on how I am nothing —
on how we are all nothing —
and pass as very intelligent,
very entitled psychologist
who knows so much more than you.

I hate having the ability to do something more with my life, but accepting the fact that I do not want to.

I hate needing constant reassurance that I am worth more than a memory or thought or conversation topic passed between family members over dinner, or friends when I'm not present to hear the truth about how they really feel.

I hate knowing what I have become and that, for some reason, I have no motivation to fix it.

I hate coming to terms with the truth and whatever it may bring, because I know I'll never be able to handle it.  

I guess what I'm trying to say here is that I hate
me.

taping back the pieces of a letter that was meant for you
crying to witch house and giving myself a stick and poke tattoo
smoking some **** and petting my cats
falling asleep and eating lots of snacks
cutting up clothes to show more skin
watching old movies and getting drunk again
painting my nails a beautiful blue
getting lost in the dark hue
getting lost in thoughts of you

i still love you

the feelings i have for you
are never ending.

i attempt time
after time
to put a definite stop to them,
but time after time,
they find a way out,
and my body is electrified,
yet again.

i could compare it
to being struck with
a million bolts
of lightning,
or being pricked
by a thousand
rose thorns,
but truthfully,
nothing compares
to you.

nothing compares
to the way you make me feel,
and nothing compares
to the sadness i feel
on the lonely nights
when im thinking of you,
and it's not requited.

you are a man of many colors;
i am a woman of none.

you shine bright;
i am dull hue.

you blend in with the sun;
i fade into the background.

i float down the river
to the other seemingly grey
bodies of despair.

you stay on land,
grouping with other rays of light
and you all share stories of good times --
which are those times you aren't with us.

we cannot blame you.
we hardly even like each other.

we're as different as night and day,
black and white;
hot and cold.

i just wish our differences
could have kept us at peace,
instead of stripping us down
until we were cracked
and shattered bones
trying to find the glue
that held us together
in the first place.

We all dare to burn brighter
than the sun,
when the sick reality is,
we're dimmer than
the flickering street lights
you had your first kiss under.

Everyone is so sick and tired
of being sick and tired.

I'm sick of writing poems
for the same person,
and I long for the day,
where I completely stop feeling
the constant necessity
to reach out to them.

I'm tired of not being able
to say the word "love"
and I wish every night,
that I will eventually have the courage
to scream it from the summit
of every building
in the whole world.

Oh, we complain,
and we ache,
but in the end,
nothing's changing,
and we're the same
useless beings
we were before.

You're sick tired
of being sick and tired,
but when will you actually
do something about it?

what does it mean
when home
no longer feels like
home?

the day has reached its end
and the only thing i've had to eat
is my self esteem.

I am so tired of shining lights
on my bedroom walls late at night
to make shadow puppets
so that I feel less alone.

"I am going to love you
until the earth quits
its endless rotations.
I am going to love you
until my bones run dry.
I am going to love you
until children stop coloring
out of the lines.
I am going to love you,
and I am going to do it
right," he said,
grabbing my hand.
A tear escaped my right eye,
because I didn't have the heart
to tell him
I would never
feel that way.

in every language
there's an "i"
a "love"
and a "you"

in french it's "je t'aime"
in spanish it's "te amo"

but the day
you said
"i love you"
it wasn't spoken in english
neither french nor spanish

it was spoken in the way
you kissed my lips afterwards
and in the way
you entwined our fingers
on cold, winter days
and in the way
you broke the ice
by saying a cheesy pick-up line
you knew
would make
me laugh

you spoke not with words,
but with actions
and that's all
i could ever ask for