I counted every single cigarette that she put out,
without smoking,
1. I thought of her favorite shade of lipstick,
how she used it to write "*******"
on the bathroom mirror.
2. I thought of safety pins,
and the ones she chained around her neck
as a reminder,
that she didn't want to remember anymore.
3. I thought of music,
how she listened to songs on repeat,
just so she wouldn't forget that they were once her favorite,
that they might still be her favorite.
4. I thought of her hoodie,
the smell of smoke stayed with it,
and she hated it.
5. I thought of the ways she wrote out her pain,
always more poetic than it really felt,
always sweeter than it seemed.
6. I thought of every dinner that she hadn't eaten in months,
every breakfast sent down the drain,
and all those midnight snacks she cried over having.
7. I thought of her funeral,
it hasn't happened yet but she says it will be beautiful,
she's planned it herself,
she isn't planning on going to it.
8. I thought of all the notes she has written to me,
signed each one with a different name,
she wants to be someone else but doesn't know who.
9. I thought of her dainty hands,
holding her black lighter,
flicking it on and off,
rhythmic, soothing almost,
but that wasn't really her,
not rhythmic or soothing.
10. This was the last one she lit,
a girl made of smoke,
but without the smoke anymore,
now she's just a girl,
and there's nothing left to count.

Some things are to be grateful for,
you're one of them.

I text my girl,
She leaves me on read,
Then she says she's tired,
And I say I'm dead,
Then she asks why,
And I say because,
I'm not getting kisses,
And I'm not getting hugs,
And I don't know,
The next time I'll see you,
So I'll sleep and I'll sleep,
Until I've received my cue,
To come on over,
Or she comes to me,
I have to have hope,
I have to believe,
That this girl won't leave,
I really hope she'll stay,
Cause if she ever left,
I'd have one more day,
To figure out,
How I'm going to die,
Then **** myself,
Cause ***** being alive,
If I have to live,
Without my girl,
My sweet sweet baby,
My entire world,
My entire universe,
The planets the stars,
The slowest of snails,
The fastest of cars,
Literally,
My everything,
Makes me want,
To rap and sing,
And write about,
Her pretty face,
Her perfect ***,
Her sweet embrace,
I miss it so,
I'll go to sleep,
I may wake up,
From this long dream,
Then I'll go back,
To counting sheep,
Missing her back,
To counting sheep.

my socialization meter is down to zero
I’d be happier if I was the only one
but no one else thinks that two.

they’re right when they say a crowd is three.
but what am I asking four?
loneliness instead of a high five?

haven’t been this antisocial since age six.
I’m supposed to be there by seven
but it’s still the morning; maybe eight.

I might be over it a little by nine,
but I’ll never feel like a full ten.

She has a story
She was once 300 pounds.
She was never worried until someone called her fat.
She brushed it off at first , but the comments kept coming and the people kept judging until she cried her self to sleep at night because no one took the time to know her and see her beauty within.
Instead they visualized her imperfect body onto a piece of paper to pass around the class.
She was so embarrassed,
She ran home from school that and never left her room.
She slept through the weekend
She began passing by mirrors so quickly she didn't want to see the drawing that was passed around and ridiculed by and abundance of people.
The scale became her best friend, but her worst enemy
The number on the scale dropped just as her body did each time she forced food from her body.
The mind that once was so beautiful became a math class for calories
You couldn't get a bigger number or the answer would be wrong
She consumed less and less each day
Hating the feeling
She hated feeling this way but she hated being laughed at more
She was congratulated on the drop of pants sizes
No one realized her drop food consumption.
The loss of weight became her addiction
The drawing wasn't being passed around anymore.
She wasn't a fat girl in huge clothes
She wasn't a walking diabetic waiting to be diagnosed
She wasn't a "muffin top" people would make fun of
But it didn't stop for her
The calculator in her head felt more familiar and more supportive than her family
Her sickness soon became all she had
She kept that drawing and replaced it for the food that would never touch her lips
But she never realized that her body didn't look like a giant marshmallow
It was a work of art that had way more beautiful detail.
She was just too busy counting to see the canvas where it all lied.

I know whose toes
Peek out below:
Beneath their nose,
Under lips,
Lower than their waist and hips;
Past their knees and their shins-
Toes they’ll use to count to ten.
Better yet,
With our twins,
They’ll count to twenty to begin,
Then move to forty without linger,
Counting on each other’s fingers.
Toes and fingers, fingers and toes,
Twenty wigglers they’ve come to know,
With twenty fingers to catch and throw.
For now we’ll rhyme toes off to market,
And play Pat-a-Cake
With Ophelia and Brigid.