I watch the stars dance through the sky
as my youth passes me by.

Alone I cry
with the weight that one day we all shall die.  

I look to the sky
and in a glimpse see the faint lines of a waning moon.
Painted with droplets of silver,
the night sky shimmers.

My hands feel the dirt that surround me on all sides,
breathing in the musk of the blackened night,
my eyes shed a tear.

A bat flies before me, alone in the night.
I watch as he becomes one with the darkness.
He flies to the moon and transforms into stardust.

Only then I see,
there is no separation from the stars and me.

The rusted mailbox
creaks as it’s pried open,
dented door dislodging.
Two yellow balloons
tethered to its post
and bobbing in the wind,
stark color against a slate sky.
The bomp bomp of the balloons barely
heard over the wind’s whistles.

Empty inside.
It’s Sunday
after all. Too easy for you to forget
the day when days
amalgamate into one
long moment. Stuck in an
everlasting condition,
waiting for the day
when your mind
at last
is quiet.

A quiet
that comes when your hands
are busy. Too
distracted by tasks to
dwell on thoughts.

In a bedroom in small-town Pennsylvania,
you’ll find an unmade bed,
a pile of clothes on the floor—
clean but not folded,
open drawers and dusty shelves,
a desk in the corner of the room
with pictures laid across it.

When I caught my first fish at six.
I held it at arm’s length by the fishing line
to avoid the slimy scales,
a frown on my face from being forced
to sit silently in the cold.

When my family went to Marco Island,
my sister and I, sifting sand for the best seashells
in our matching swimsuits and hats.
Mom and dad’s fights forgotten in our fun.

High school graduation
posing with my best friend since first grade,
diplomas in one hand and an extra cap held between us
because not everyone survived all four years.

Move-in day at college,
sitting on my raised bed with a grey comforter
and two decorative pillows the color of cotton candy.
Sweat on my brow from southern humidity
and moving furniture without the help of a father.

The pictures are merely snapshots
that lack the full story.

How I learned what it meant for love to fall apart
when I was eight years old.
My sister warned me before it happened,
told me what a divorce was.
I mistook her for joking until they called us upstairs.
Dad cried when they told us, but mom held her tears
until the day he left. The sounds of her cries
escaping from behind a closed door.
“This doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.”
But that’s exactly what it meant.

How I was taught by my father that love is conditional,
and I repeatedly needed to prove myself
through good grades and unquestioning obedience.
Forced to stay home to spend time with the family,
sitting wordlessly on the couch while he watched TV.
Made guilty for wanting to spend time with friends
because that somehow meant that I was a bad daughter.
It’s funny—I never asked myself if he was a good father.

If you look harder at the bedroom,
you’ll find journals filled with bitter words,
screws from disassembled pencil sharpeners, loose razors, and Aquaphor,
food wrappers stuffed in hidden places,
a closet brimming with junk and pairs of shoes,
evidence of a story untold. Until you.

You're not mine and I don't want you to be.
But I want to claim your attention like a trophy.

It's not love, but it's something new.
Not many would understand what's between me and you.

Your kisses caress my skin softly,
And leave a trail of burning desire as I moan breathlessly.
I crave your touch and to feel you against me.
What is this forbidden dance of passion and fantasy?

Yet I do not dare to question this mystery.
I let myself enjoy our bodies moving in harmony.

No, you're not mine, and I don't want you to be.
Yet what is this gnawing feeling that grows inside me?

I tell myself not to think too much.
But you always know how to make me blush.

I let a tear drop fall at the thought of the fate of of us.
Not daring to question what we are or make a fuss.

The deafening overwhelm of nothing
When the credits fade
Or the note hits its final crescendo
The “thank you for watching”
soundwaves enter your eardrums
Your surroundings stare back, begging you to pay attention
The clothes piles
The ***** dishes
Dust on shelves and countertops
Everywhere is clutter
Walking is a landmine
Suddenly it hits:
You can’t tell the difference between now and five days ago
You know that something aches
Maybe the chemical imbalance, maybe the loss of an old friend
It could even be everything
But it’s definitely something
I can feel it every time I wake up and I smother myself back to sleep
sometimes I won't even let myself use the bathroom
But there’s plans in the diary
And an exciting life laying the footpath ahead of me
And yet
The silence blasts in my ears
And sores my eyes
Hollowing me inside
I’ve always been like this
I just don’t know if I have it in me
To roll up my sleeves
And try again.

dr!nking, sm0king, v@ping
to stop myself from breaking
my mind is in denial
of the toll that this is taking
this isn’t who i want to be
this person that i’m shaping
this version isn’t who i am
the monster i’m creating
my mind is somewhere in the clouds
my dreams are quickly fading
i need to take care of myself
but death is sat there waiting

if i sleep the day away
my world might just stop shaking
but no amount of sleep could ever
fix this kind of aching

Them again
Hooting and hollering
On the block
I can’t believe
I’m bothered by
Their confidence
It’s like they’re
Mocking me
Just for trying to exist
And they’re calling me a *****
Maybe I’m a *****

But I don’t like being in public
I don’t like being in public
Unless I’m making money
Or I’m spending money

My existence
Just
Feels
So
Heavy