when I'm sixteeen, I will start to wonder why we ever dated, what I ever saw in you.

When I'm seventeen, the thought of me will be far from your mind but traces of the memory of us will still linger.

when I'm eighteen , we both will be entering new chapters of our lives and will forget all about each other. The world will be our seashore

when I'm nineteen , maybe I'll think of going back to Jamaica and face you

when I'm twenty, I'll come back to Jamaica and our eyes will meet again and our energy will start to overflow and feed each other

when I'm twenty-one , i'll be questioning my sanity as the thought of wanting you and you not wanting me will begin to drive me to the edge

when I'm twenty-two, my career will bloom gracefully and simply writing about you will bring me pleasure and nostalgia

when I'm twenty-three, I'll believe that if we just faked it enough we could trick ourselves into believing that we're still in love and can actually be together.

when I'm twenty-four , reality will hit me in the face and I'll finally realize that we will never be what we used to

when I'm twenty-five, I'll wash the dirt off my knees and open my eyes and leave you behind.

Am I anything at all
if I'm nothing to you?

you're always on my mind
you're always on the songs i listen to
you're there everytime i look up and see the sun shinning as bright as your eyes

you're everywhere

I asked,
Begged,
Pleaded
For you to stop.
But the truth of the matter was
You were a train without brakes;
You couldn't be stopped
Until you ran out of tracks to guide you.
And even then,
You would go on,
Soaring recklessly until you,
Inevitably,
Crashed and burned
And lost all the wonder you once had.

And the day I realized this
Was the same day
I stopped asking,
Stopped begging,
Stopped pleading
For you to stop.

Because this was the day
I realized
That a broken, unsteady,
Out of control train like you
Stops for no one.

(a.m.)

this
is my first poem
with no capital letters.

and i don't know
why it matters so much,
because the height
or shape
of a letter
has nothing at all to do
with what you are trying to say
or how you feel,
if, of course,
you are one of those lucky few
who feels anything at all.

(a.m.)

clocks
ticking,
minutes dripping away
like soft syrup.

and yet,
we all say
to live in the moment,
live in the moment,
consume it,
be consumed by it,
waste no time.

so why is it then,
that here we still are,
having done nothing?

nothing good,
nothing bad,
nothing worthwhile.

time stops for no one, darling.

the clocks
are still there,
ticking,
minutes dripping away
like soft syrup.

funny,
how you must think
you've got all the time in the world.

(a.m.)

10:17 p.m.

And still,
I couldn't bring myself
To tell her I loved her,
Because of fear of what had happened
The last time I loved someone.

Because of fear
That the part of me
That was whispering,
Shouting,
Screaming,
To stay away,
To not fall in love
Might be right.

Because of fear
That I would break her heart
And she'd break mine,
And we'd both go back to being broken
Just as quickly as we had taped ourselves back together,
Piece by piece.

Because of fear
That she wouldn't
Feel the same way.

Because of fear
That my feelings
Wouldn't be genuine.

Because of fear
Of repeating the past.

(a.m.)

this is not some love story
a boy will not come and save you and he will not kiss the scars on your thighs.

this is not a movie
someone isn't going to save you from your demons,
or think your illness and addiction is beautiful.

this is not a fairytale
you will not save yourself from the voices,
or the jabbing pain in your stomach
or the shaking of your body for that quick release.

this is real life
and nothing will save you except for the pills that the doctors put you on that helps you with your mood swings, and unwillingness to get out if bed every morning.  

this is not poetry.

self harm scars are not lovely.
sadness is not beautiful.
and demons are not glorious.
stop trying to make mental illness a great thing to have.
so if you glorify self harm and sadness, stop being a ******* ******* because it isn't ******* beautiful.

nothing is beautiful about voices in your mind that tell you to take a blade to your skin, and nothing is beautiful about morning rolling around and you contemplate being "sick", or jumping out into traffic just in time to get hit by a bus just so you can escape life.
this is not beautiful.

the weather is starting to get like it was when you left.
but it's different because the clouds now look like you,
and the rain reminds me of your words—rapid yet gentle.
but I swear to God, not even the pictures of you, or the growing daisies could erase the pain from you moving across the world a year ago.