it's nights like these
that my mind becomes my own worst enemy.

when i put on a rope necklace,
and pour myself a tall glass of bleach.

imagining what it would be like to have all the pain stop,
and for the static noise to be silent for once.

it's enough for me to go through the motions,
preparing to end it all.

but i wake up from my trance each time,
realizing the truth of the world.

i undo the clasp of my necklace of rope,
and pour the bleach down a drain.

the razor blades go back in the drawer,
and the pills back in the bottle.

waiting until next time.

it's nights like these where i almost do...
but don't.

It's like when you were a kid
and you tripped down the sidewalk,
but you didn't fall hard enough to bleed,
and nothing appears to be wrong,
from the outside,
at least,
so you shove those tear drops
back down your eye holes,
and get up,
and keep walking,

like **** that sidewalk.

One almost tore away my wall
One almost said he chooses me
Another almost made me fall
One almost finally set me free

But almost only counts
in horseshoes and hand grenades
Fool's gold has luster
and sweet are borrowed serenades
You can't call it love
I'll call your bluff
because almost is only almost
and that's not enough

A roller coaster only climbing
missing the train by a minute's timing
A frozen bud in a snap of cold
An unfinished novel, story untold
A sentence fragment
A muddled accent
A pantomimed kiss
A swing and a miss
A pencil sketch
A warm up stretch
A suspended chord
A ringless lord
A lightning bolt, no rain or thunder
A child at play, no sense of wonder

Almost only counts
in horseshoes and hand grenades
Fool's gold has luster
and sweet are borrowed serenades
You can't call it love
I'll call your bluff
because almost is only almost
and that's not enough

I almost love you too
I almost let you in
I almost wish I was the one
I can almost begin again

And even if the words only almost rhyme
I only almost care by the end of the lines
While I could almost forget, in truth I find
that I will always remember how you were almost mine

you'd think having a little bit of everything is great
but to me it's the biggest root of insecurity
when you know you're good enough,
you tend to think that everything should go your way
and when it doesn't, you ask yourself
what else do i lack?

then i remember
i'm always only second place
and though many would **** for silver
i would **** for gold
because it hurts more to think of
what could've been
if only you tried harder
if only you were better
because almost is never enough

but will anything ever be?

Six months of freedom
from this evil within
thought I escaped the sorrow
the devil had vanished,
thought I was finally going to win

Then the pain came crashing back deep into my bones
so sudden, so intense
as though I was being pummelled with stones
please not again,
don't make yourself at home
I was so excited for myself
to feel no anguish
it was soothing to roam
yet I lay here
after six months of ease
escape my grasp
and yet again
I am alone.

I’m not a pile of shattered glass on the hard floor, beyond repair.
I’m a broken record that repeats repeats repeats the same memories of you

I’m not a river of silent tears streaming down a burning hot face.
I’m a restless night and a mysteriously swollen lip in the morning

I’m not a shaky voice on the verge of crumbling.
I’m a mindless ramble and a laugh that’s too loud.

I’m not the bitter taste of liquor on the back of your throat or the harsh feel of cold night air on bare skin or the glare of streetlights on wet pavement at 2AM
I’m an oversized t-shirt that’s probably not warm enough to sleep in when the temperatures at night dip too low, but it would be if you were here but you’re not and it was the only thing that wasn’t on the floor and I’m too caught up in you to clean up me so I’m an oversized t-shirt that isnt warm enough on its own but is trying.

And you aren’t trillions of shards shooting through my stomach when I hear your voice all the times we walk by eachother as strangers on the streets.
You’re a slight pressure on my mind, everywhere I go.

We weren’t anything of significance.
We weren’t raw throats or bloodshot eyes or holes in the wall.
But, neither were we a hot cup of coffee on cold fingertips.

We weren’t some tragic love story.

You were just a tired boy with nothing to do
And I was just a girl a little too high on hopes that were too high to climb up to and I fell a little too hard and got a bit bruised on the way down.

Now you’re just a memory of selfish lips.

And I’m just a broken record.

It was a simple mistake but you burned your hands
A step out of time in a synchronized dance, but you
Slid off the edge and into a trap
Because once you're a sinner you can never go back

It was a look at the sun one second too long
A note slightly flat in an almost perfect song, but the
Discord rang out in the depths of fate
And now the damage is done and you're a little too late

I almost wrote a poem
saying it would be
the last one
I ever write for you.
                   I almost meant it.
But I reside in a forest of words
I long to lay upon your feet.
You are the only tenant.
Though I have already seen you hunger
for a wood more abundant with beauty.
You yearned
for the abstract; the colorful.
This is where I failed you, love,
for all I have to offer
is the pattern of my handwriting
against a bleak sheet of paper.
How is that to contest
a canvas
that turns heads
with its baby pinks and powder blues?
So I lay here
in the woods
that swarm with lost things,
longing to see the sun again.
And I am always reaching
      and reaching
             and reach i n g
But I am never quite there.
I lay still in the forest
with an abundance of almosts.