Dreams of you
like a spectacular
adrenaline rush
crashing into me
at high speeds—
both breathtaking
and fear-inducing.

everything breaks
me.

the eyes
the touch
the soft smile
the body
the kiss
the walk
the hair
the slopes
the ****
the folding into

       -all of it.

they draw me
in and
draw me
out.

take me in
then cast
me out.

and
I keep
coming back

because

I love them-
   all of
   them.



I love them
more for
breaking me
than I do
for loving
me.

every swift
crack at
my heart
released
something,

a little bit
more of
me.

the good parts-
   what might become
   the best parts.

and one day,
everything I am
will be
destroyed again

and I will
emerge

again.


I will crawl
forth from
my belly

on skinned
knees
and
bloodied elbows
with a
perfect
smile on my
face.

growing and
laughing
in the
light.

A poem a day makes the doctor go away.
Three poems a day makes the doctor send you to therapy.

There is a comfort
in choosing your fate.
Gripping the rail, hard,
to patch your torn sail
piece by piece until
the wind picks up again.

As I grow older, I want to find resolutions for the broken feelings I've archived. Some of them whisper to me as daylight slips past. Others caress my hand as it hovers over words.

Oh, it's so easy to write about the devastation. To close my eyes and relive the moments that bring me the most grief. Yet more and more, I want to stop looking back and trudge forward instead.

There is so much life left to live. So much happiness I haven't penned—not because it wasn't worthy of composition, but because sadness is so much more familiar.

Let this serve as a reminder that beautiful works have stemmed from joy. That the hardest part of optimism is reluctance. I get to choose the feelings that I feel. I know that now.

What we had was not real. I realized this because I thought about you today and instead of pitiful longing, there was heated spitefulness in its place. I thought about how carelessly you treated me, and in that moment, I wanted you to never be happy.

In fact, I had hopes for you. Hopes that you’d never find someone fulfilling. Hopes that you'd always be searching and never satisfied. Hopes that you’d spend eternity pondering what could have been, with me plaguing your mind.

See? What we had couldn’t have been genuine. People in caring relationships don’t have these kinds of hopes when it ends. No, people who are loved are able to recognize their faults in an ending. Their heartache feels worth it, unlike mine.

At one point, I told myself that I would never write another word about you. I caged my feelings in silence; spurned from resentment. In reality, I gave you too much credit for the sadness I experienced. I didn’t realize that you were a bigger fool than me.

All of him ***** her in like a pressed bruise—
that initial drop of pain from stomach to toe,
then the blossoming ache of violet tenderness
threatening to feel good on the verge of torture.