You were never much to look at.
Unless it was up close, heavy breathing eyelash kissing goosebumps kind of pretty.
And you laughed at me and i hated your loud laugh and everything else about you that was so loud.
You lived loudly you were loud; but being loud doesn't mean **** if being loud isn't being honest.
And if being loud is being the kind of loud people like to hear then its not being loud its just adding to everyone else’s ******* noise.
I'm talking about beauty, living with beauty and beauty flowing through your hair and your eyes as they looked into mine but then the beauty stopped the second you ran into me accidentally in a crowded hallway and pretended you didn't mean to get that close.
The beauty you might have had if you hadn't have been so ******* noisy.
The up close heavy breathing eyelash kissing goosebumps kind of beauty that you had with me, you could have shown the world in a loud kinda way this beauty, a goose bump chills kind of beauty.
But you said no and all you’ll ever do from now on is add to everyone else’s ******* noise.

Open books with black covers containing stories never good enough to be read, words never long enough to contain the fragment of a thought. Maybe that's why I turn to putting my own in the complexity of poems, maybe that's why I'm never satisfied because I can never say what I mean. Sometimes I don't think you know what I mean, so if you haven't been able to read the between the lines; I miss you. I've been looking for so many ways to say it but none of them have been enough to make you come back. The thing about poetry is its never enough to make you feel the way I do. It'll never make you realize that ink seeps out of my pens with the purpose to make you feel something; but it never does. The thing about poetry is that you need to be empty to write it and that's why I learnt how to after you left. The shut door opened a new one which was the will to write about all the broken pieces of myself. The thing about poetry is it requires to see life through the eyes of things unspoken. Little do most know that mirrors and picture frames can speak novels of things forgotten which is me to you. The thing about poetry, is that I'm running out of things to say. I'm running out of words to spray on city walls, or carve in the wood of dying trees. The thing about poetry is that this isn't it. This is the goodbye, good luck. I have nothing more to bleed out for you, my mind is turning to dust. This is the last "I love you" I have left to write about, this is extended hands with empty palms.
This is the apology. It's me trying to feel something more than what I do, and as hard as I try to get there, I can swear that in nights of deafening silence I can still hear the sky screaming out your name.

I will miss you at college, I really will.
I won’t miss the wrinkled brows, at my too-heavy-eyeliner wearing face.
But i’ll probably come home make up free
with a head full of purple hair.
I know i’ll walk through the door sometime and you’ll be horrified.
And maybe you won’t want to sit in Starbucks with me.

And when your friends are bragging about their daughters,
saying mine got a full ride to Notre Dame,
or mine was recently proposed to,
you’re going to say,
“mine is happy.”
And maybe that will be enough.

I never could remember your birthday.

but silly things like the actual date of your birthday never mattered

when I got you presents all year round.

You always knew the exact date of my birthday.

And i think that was the only thing you ever really knew about me.

I never paid much attention to abandon buildings until I became one.
It was after I heard the words,
I heard you say the words,
"She's gone."
Two words that can make a fifty year old veteran feel empty inside the pit of his stomach that was just fed.
After all, no matter how many meals,
no matter how much liquor he drank,
It was never enough to make him feel full.
And no one ever tells you being so empty can be so ******* heavy.
And no one ever tells you a stranger's soft hands cannot hold you back together.
Because the truth is you can't always turn your sadness into a poem and sometimes it just sits in your chest and drains the life from you.
And you can run away,
as you will try,
but you can only go so far until noticing the sidewalks are only cracked to commiserate the broken hearts that have stood on them.
This is not about me.
This is about the human spirit.
The resilience we have installed within us to feel
Everything.
And when my best friend broke up with her boyfriend,
she told me he was OCD,
always doing everything in threes.
But he only said goodbye once,
And I don't think she realizes that it is killing him,
as much as it's killing her.
As humans,
we have the ability to create,
and destroy.
Love letters and suicide notes are just different combinations of the same 26 letters
remember that.
But love is a beautiful thing,
Our love was a beautiful thing,
A fragile thing,
A glass castle,
And we were both sledgehammers.
We created and destroyed and we did it beautifully.
Mr. Lunn said some people are already dead.
Walking around the halls in their own high school,
Waking up for work every single day at nine o clock only to start driving back home at five,
these people are already dead.
And it didn't hit me that he was right until I was lying with a friend,
his head on my chest,
admiring my heart beat in a way confirming he did not have his own to admire.
I asked him if he believed in God, if he believed in the universe, if he believed in the stars staring back at us, if he believed in the connection when you can look at another human being and feel
Thankful to all of those things,
thankful to every god in the world,
for the mere pleasure of knowing them.
And he said he just didn't know and I still don't know what moment was more alarming.
I wondered if he payed attention to abandoned buildings.
I didn't either,
Until I became one.

Don’t you dare look at me as if you know me when I can’t even put my own finger on who I am or what I want.  And don’t you ever call yourself my friend until I’ve showed you the scars buried under my skin.  You can’t call yourself a lover until you’ve touched more than that very thing. And as I touch my body today it hurts, the bruises underneath my skin, they hurt. Pains that most people will never see. And I’m not talking some ******* metaphor it literally ******* hurts and I don’t understand what I did to deserve this, as I only banged my arm against the kitchen sink and everything else I could find three times. Exactly one, two, three times, each. And as I sit here in front of this old computer I look across the room at a once lovers best friend laughing as there probably isn’t a care in his wonderland he refuses to leave.
And when I think of you I remember your sad eyes always looking inward, pointed towards yourself, were strangely fixated on me and your soft lips were as flushed as your cheeks. You were looking at me not in some romantic way that you maybe wanted to kiss me; no I was pretty sure you were plotting our escape. I don’t know why you ever wanted to take me with you but you had that strange idea wrapped around your delusional little mind, going a little mad the only place I ran was towards you.  And as I wandered around in your house I got a little lost and I don’t think I ever was brave enough to leave you and come back home.

Hollow out my bones
And fill them with my aspirations.
With stars from the night sky, ocean water, pieces of the earth-
Take it all out.
I don’t want it haunting my insides, as my dreams have kept me a prisoner since I was a child.
No, I want to be free.
From everything grounding me to this earth; you see I need to go.
The sun is calling.
I need to get out:  away from these people, away from this place, away from my body,
Away from you.
Because I loved you and love is destructive
And you can’t listen to anyone who tries to tell you differently.
For love with play with your heart like it’s a ******* battlefield,
Until your ice cream you eat at exactly seven o’clock every night
Begins to taste like heart ache.
And the pieces you once admired inside your bones begin to weight your body down,
gravitating your dreams towards the person you once thought it was so great to love.
So get me out of this body.
Hollow out my bones
And let me fill them
With my own
Aspirations.
-k.d.