take a crowbar
to my ribcage
use the scar
as a book mark
and let the dark
remind you
of the time
you said
you would find

better

where i come from, people speak of peace as if it was, is and always will be an inanimate object of sorts. something far too great for mankind to reach out and grab, to hold, to touch. we speak of peace as if we do not live each day finding new ways to love ourselves and each other, as if we do not find solace in his arms or serenity along the creases of her palms. we have spent far too long searching for someone instead of somewhere to call home, too many yesterdays ago we spoke of prosperity in a sense that made us question our beliefs, something rooted so deep inside of us we lost sight of the peace we created with our lips, kisses that claimed every part of a heart that was stitched together with broken pieces of itself. hear me when I say that peace was never intangible, we hold it in our hands every day. the love letter you've read halfway through but stop before you get to the final "I love you" because laced within the lies is a good bye that you never agreed to, peace is freeing yourself from the anchors printed on card stock paper sealed by the lips of a girl whose name you may never forget. peace is 5 o'clock shadow sprinkled across his chin like cinnamon bun crumbs after six days of no sleep, spending each night celebrating the sunset and injecting the rainbow into his blood flow. it's the kind of high you'll never find laying along the bottom of the bottle at midnight when the world is challenging you to a mental fist fight, drinking yourself into amnesia or blowing out a cloud full of regret after taking a drag on your first cigarette. we were just freaks searching for peace in all the wrong places, we forgot how to live like each day was our last and started passing the time by wishing that it was. perhaps peace was most prominent in our childhood, like when you were a kid on the fourth of July and held a sparkler for the first time and your parents watched the fire reflecting in your eyes. when we were five peace was popsicles and nap time, we took the world by surprise and explored until our eyes were too heavy to continue. and since then peace has felt less like Popsicles and more like hour glass sand, slipping through our hands as if we never even held it at all. but hear me when I say that peace is a process of breaking down walls, it is composed of small symphonies in our heartbeats and the stories etched onto our feet from places we've been and sights that we've seen. peace is his hands and her hips, together again, love letters and Popsicles and skin upon skin.

one night
many moons ago
I laid face down in the middle
of the street
spilling secrets to the concrete
and hoped
the stars would listen
your name poured
out of my mouth
like I was drawing a bath tub
full of doubt
and never stopping
to pull the plug
I'd let the water spill
over the edge and flood
the bathroom floor
forming a hurricane of
memories
where I swore
you loved me
more

here i am

gripping my pen
tight enough to
turn my knuckles
white

while trying
to write about
letting go

I guess I was always best at making messes of things like the inside of your chest or the rest of the world. its a lot easier than anyone ever tells you to become addicted to the sick and twisted feeling in your stomach when you hear things like "he lives with his grandparents now" or "she tried to **** herself in ninth grade". cracked ribs and broken hearts are not one in the same. one will always hurt far worse than the other and it's always the one that hospitals can't fix. white washed walls and sterile hallways filled with empty people waiting for their lives to change raspy breath and pale skin I remember going to the hospital as a kid and asking "are there people dying in there?" my mother never did give me an answer. the truth is, there are people dying everywhere. only the lucky ones make it to the hospital. the truth is people die on bathroom floors with a stomach full of pills and a fist full of love letters that will never be sent. people die over the phone choking on a throat full of apologies they'll never spill. people die popping sorrys like pills and swallong broken teeth by eating glass as if it were easier than saying I love you for the last time. we break ribs to make space for people who have no intention of staying and the last time I spoke your name was three days ago in a drunken haze lying on my back and shouting to the moon "I love you more" wishing that it was you I've screamed your name to the raining sky more times that I'd like to say but each day I find myself swallowing your promises and choking on the forevers you ensured me we'd spend together as if you ever even meant it
you didn't
and I can't even ******* breathe because its always been me lying on the bathroom floor with more pills than I should even know exist with a fist full of letters I'll never get to kiss and I still pick up the phone just to hear the busy tone and mumble apologies until I dont know what I'm saying and I'm swallowing ***** bottles and chewing on glass to make saying I love you for the last time feel less like living and more like dying
im dying
im dying
im dying