I used to think that
what I saw when I looked into your eyes,
was the galaxy.
They were vast and dark and seemingly endless,
but they are not a home for me.

What I have learned is that
I was not seeing the sun and moon and stars,
I was seeing the boundaries that contained them,
and seeing limits and edges,
hard and abrupt.
I was not seeing expansion.
I was not seeing love.

Perhaps I was discovering what it means
to see the world through someone else's eyes.
And in someone else's eyes.

But in yours, I thought I saw constellations when
in fact I saw only recollections

They say when you see a star you're seeing the light from something that died thousands of years ago.
Perhaps it is the same for old lovers.
Maybe it was the same for you and me.
I vow I will never see the stars again in the eyes of a partnet,
but instead see things in which the life is still intact and in which I am not clinging on to something forever retracting.

I will see flowers,
trees,
weeds even,
life that may flourish and wither,
but at least I can nourish them back.

We as humans have yet to scrape the edge of the universe,
and that used to scare me.
I used to find comfort in knowing I was a part of yours,
Comfort came to me knowing I was safe in the world you built for me,
but I take it back.

The next person whose eyes I fall in love with might hold stars
they might sparkle and expand,
but they will not be my universe
when there is one inside me I have yet to dive into
when there is so much more for me to see myself
without your limits or your help

I've found the strongest poems to be the product of
a purge of emotions that reign so ******* the heart that they
pull at the fingers, draining energy from the tips
as every word falls onto the paper,
relentlessly.

I've felt the hollow shatter of a thousand nights of heartbreak,
the kind that only poetry can seem to glue back together
even if temporarily.
The words on the page, unfiltered
broadcast thoughts of late summer days and first loves,
first losses,
our wrists ache with rememberence as our hearts empty out.

We lose what we thought we still held to our souls
as the sentences unfold and we are finally able to articulate
what it means to be without,
what it means to be empty.
Those lines are but udnerstanding, full of compassion that we have still, hidden away in our hearts for the day they start beating again.


Why are the richest of poems products of the poorest of days,
and why can I write nothing anymore
as my heart feels full, for once, again?

Can you please stop showing up unexpectedly?
It's so rude to do
I'm out with friends trying to have a good time,
I'm laughing and smiling and free,
and you show up so quickly and make me feel sick so suddenly


but you never actually came back and that's the worst part
your memory haunts my present and it's something I can't shake
no matter how many people I try to replace you with

I gave you something that I cannot get back.
Believe me, I've tried,
countless nights, donating my time to strangers
begging God for one second, if anything,
of that feeling that I used to have with you.
He never delivered and I haven't stopped trying
to find that feeling elsewhere,
endlessly unsuccessful and franctic in my panicked ways,
worrying about the days I'm wasting wishing for something greater to come along.


I'm hurting people without caring and it's scary,
this is not who I was before you left me and I am not sure
what you took when you went but I need it back,
desperately,

Desperately I'm searching for a permanent way to fill this void
the one that has only gotten bigger since you left.
I think it's my heart that you took because nothing sticks anymore the way it used to.
I am numb and I wish I could find something or someone to make me feel something again without the bitter taste of our last kiss
burning in my mouth and forcing me to curl my lips hard,
and my fists harder,
I'm harder now and I miss how it felt to love someone deeply.
I miss me, too.

Climbing streets we used to equate with mountains
but slipping on the pavement
falling faster this time around
when I hit the ground you won't be there to remove the gravel from my
wounded elbows
I have to do it on my own.
I learned to sew my own seams.

Swimming laps in waters we used to call holy
Forgetting the strokes you scratched into my mind
this time is different because I'm not trying to swim anywhere fast
I'm doing anything I can to stay above water.

Breathing in pollen
from gardens of lilacs we planted together
that are now covered in weeds
But I am not sowing what you will reap this time.
Taking the nectar from late July days that are now far gone,
and creating sweet honey for only me.

We are on different terrains now and
your water meangs nothing to me

So maybe I can say that
I'm "clean" from self harm
because I stopped puncturing my skin
my arms are free from scars


but does it not do the same thing
to trace back old memories
of you and I
and feel the same sting in my stomach?
the same stab from the same type of let down
only this time without a drop of blood for proof of pain

Am I not hurting myself every time I pretend
that I'm okay like this

The scars have healed atop my skin
but the ones within will never get the chance
because every chance that I get to step forward
I take to stay in place,
or in the past
wherever you are still a part of me
and any time where I do not have to close my eyes to have you back

Men try to mend my wounds by spewing lines like  "But you're too pretty to be sad"
as if I asked for this.
They try and try again,
saving is in their culture.
Chivalry is etched in them like a childhood scar
Their forests are filled
with knights on white horses
as they've been taught.
Mine are not.
My woods reak of matted down blankets from days without movement.
They feel like exhaustion.
Sometimes you can even hear the sound of their roots being pulled
right out of the ground
that shrieking sound will leave you
Awake for days.
"too pretty to be sad" will not place these rotten roots in graves.
My trees have aged much faster than theirs, 21 years old, bending too easily with the wind.
as it howls, they cower,
I wonder when they will break
and who will be there to hear them.
Because sometimes I feel that people only like to look at my flowers,
and not bear what they have to offer, what they would say. Those sounds would scare them away. Sometimes I feel that people only like to look at my leaves.
They're too pretty to die, anyway.

To the boy who loves me next:
Please understand I am complex,
and **** your cliches,
this is not some Tumblr post.

I am a host for emotions I cannot control at all times
there are some things you should know
before you decide that you love me,
don't.

Don't tell me that it's going to be okay when I stop breathing
especially in public.
Please don't go when I push you away, though. I don't mean it.
You need to know that I want you to fight for me when I tell you to leave.

My favorite color is purple and my favorite food is strawberries.
(oh and this weird vietnamese noodle dish I never know the name of)

Sometimes I will test you, and not in the "just checking if you were listening"
test kind of way

But I will see how far I can push you until you want to leave,
please don't.

To the boy who loves me next:
understand that the first boy to love me took a lot when he left.

I'm not picking up the pieces anymore, I don't expect you to.
But I am creating new ones and need someone to be there to hold the box of nails or kiss my finger when I've slammed it with the hammer.

Know that you probably won't do anything wrong,
well you might, you're a guy
so you're probably going to say something I will take as
completely sexist!
you pig!
don't you dare compliment my *****! *******!

wait! that's what boyfriends are for,
I'm sorry, I forgot.
I do that a lot.

To the boy who loves me next:
I'm a feminist.
I probably eat 10 bananas a day.
I love coffee and would rather wear my hair up.
And yes, I ****.

To the boy who loves me next:
my room will not be clean,
messy is as messy does,
and even when I don't do a lot
(which is often, oh boy do I have my days)
I am a slob.

To the boy who loves me next:
Chamomile tea is my favorite smell.
I will probably tell you 45 times a day that I think you're handsome
and mean it every time.

To the boy who loves me next:
I have scars on my arm
please don't mention them
I've put that behind me
somewhere you're allowed but cannot get comfortable

To the boy who loves me next:
I'm going to listen to the same song 150 times in a week because I like it,
and I'm sorry but you will probably have to deal with it.

To the boy who loves me next:
I'm sure you're going to like the song anyway.
I have three cats,
I can't take care of dogs very well.
I'm over emotional.
Baby goats make me cry.

To the boy who loves me next:
I cry,
a lot actually.
Don't take it personally.
You'll understand eventually.

To the boy who loves me next:
I like watching the History Channel but I've been watching Gossip Girl for a month now.
I pace myself because I become
emotionally attached to characters in bad MTV shows
faster than real people.
I want you to think I'm a bookworm but I start more than I finish

To the boy that loves me next:
You won't if you see me without my ADD meds.

If you love me next, know:
I like rough ***.
Pretty rough if I might add but I won't tell you that for a year
because I'm shy
You should also know I'm loud,
I don't mean in bed,
I mean roll the windows down because I talk
and get really excited over trivial things like
fresh fruit in season
and sometimes I ramble on about nothing
and you should be able to handle that

Can you handle that?

To the boy who loves me next:
I am apologetic and scared because I have loved once  
I never thought that high would bring me down to where I am now

To the boy who loves me next:
I'm going  to pretend I'm rough around the edges,
please see past it,
or at least love me long enough to let me explain.
The boy who loved me first knows everything.
And since he's gone,
you're going to have the leftover weight.

To the boy who loves me next:
I promise it will be worth the strength it takes to carry it,
I promise to love you back as much as I think I deserve to be loved at all.

To the boy who loves me next:
do it fully or don't do it at all.