Maybe it's time
to realise that
I do not have
to search for love
elsewhere;
not when it's etched
into my being--
my identity.

Maybe it's time
to not salvage
that love for anyone,
but embracing it
for me.

At the grocery store
each aisle becomes
an obstacle:
will-power
             control
                     weakness


When I reach the
chips-cookies-crackers
I hold my breath
      walk fast
                     eyes down


and escape to the produce section
unscathed -but I never
stop  thinking about
red velvet or
       peanut butter
                            Oreos


Finally check out
"is this all today, ma'm"
a tomato
            yogurt
                      asparagus


"no, I forgot something"
run for the oreos
       trade in dignitity
                     eating in the car

worth it.

I wore my heart
on my sleeve last year
with a touch of agony
and the depth of despair
in hopes that you would
somehow love me.

But desperation,
I hear,
has a strong scent;
and when mixed
with fear--
and you could sense it
clinging onto my every
spluttered word,
every painted red lips
I hope you'd gaze upon;
the shadow of my eyelashes
imprinted in my cheeks
and the sweet delirium
of your voice;
a echo in the morning,
a whisper at night.

Today I remember
a year ago
how dearly I loved you
and loathed myself.

I put the Matt in matter
because I believe I do
but don't tread on me
or wipe off your shoes.

© Matthew Harlovic

I've been listening
to a recording of rain
when I try to fall
asleep


I've been learning
to share the space
on the bed
with myself


to let my dreams occupy
the places made
cool and empty


I fall asleep to rain
and wake up in my own arms -
that will never stop

wanting
to hold me

She's still the same girl.  Her smile has changed, but she's still the same. She still believes in chasing the sunrise and falling in love with the night sky.
She's still the same girl with big dreams.  
She's just a little more careful, she guards her heart.  
She has learned slowly to fall in love with the art of the wise and the forgotten.
She thinks the most beautiful stories from from the souls of the lost and the minds of the broken. She chooses to see the love and beauty within her fall. She has become a beautiful tragedy.
-Lily P. McLaughlin-

she doesn't scare me.
but sometimes stabs me.
right through the heart.
we call this spoken art.

the way those words can burn,
the way those words return.
she wins battles of the tongue,
quick breaths of the lung.

she puts me down
makes me drown
yet still thine's friend
our friendship cannot end.

but one day I'll stand
I'll stand up for myself.

I'll burn her horrid comments
let the hatred suffice.
by then I'll be sixteen
all ready for seventeen

when I'll finally rid her
I'll finally be dapper,
look down on her insides
her insecurity reveals.