I am not rough around the edges
I am not a badass,
and I do not worship the devil,
well, not the way you think I would.
I definitely do not sacrifice babies
unless I were having an abortion.
There is no such thing as Jesus
and I don’t pray to God,
but I will say his name in vain.
The only thing I believe in
is myself,
and that’s only on a good day.

I have crucifixes hanging on my wall
in all directions and sizes as decoration.
Antique Jesus stares at me
when I ******* in bed,
or get high in my living room.
That’s sacrilegious, I know.

My rituals don’t involve
naked women and blood,
but rather bubbles baths
with a side of red wine.
I’m sorry to tell you,
but I am just an average somebody.

am i allowed to be jealous of the people
who are my age and sometimes younger,
that have the things that i want in life
but weary that they will ever happen to me?

the babies, the love, the marriage, the house.

i don't even know if i want children
but the thought of being the only one without
terrifies me to no end.

i am 28 years old with a path
that i should have been on when i was 22.
i will be done school with a bachelor's when i am 30 years old.
i have dated upwards of 10 people in that time
with no prospects of a future with any.

this might be inspiring to some,
but to me,
this is downright laughable and brokenhearted.

i hope you can take it back
that thing you said last Thursday
when we were driving in your car
with the windows down
and the sunset glaring

i wont forgive you
even if your knees get ******
we've talked for days
but i cant even look at you in the eyes
you're never going to be the person
that i once knew

if we rewind
to the moment where i first touched your hand
id rememebr how it felt
when i thought you were the one
that walked into my life for a reason

waking up alone with pillows on either side of my body
I turn over to look at the ***** white wall
my stomach gurgles because it wants coffee
my eyes water at the thought of you
I sit up and there's a cat at the end of the bed
I put my feet on the cold linoleum
I slowly walk toward the kitchen
there is a congo line of ants across the floor
it's that time of year again
I prepare my coffee with half an extra scoop
the smell reminds me of that time
we talked in a coffee shop for 3 hours
I come back to earth when I hear a meow behind me
I eat cereal from the same bowl i used from the night before
the coffee maker beeps when it is done brewing
i grab a vintage cup from the cupboard and pour
just like when i poured my heart out to you
and you left me on the bridge alone
i sit on the couch and reread texts from a few months ago
today is the same day as yesterday
the only difference is your ghost is haunting me

"be present" he said, as he traced my face with his rough hands.
i laid there naked studying his hazel eyes
as i said, "i can't help but think about my future with you."
i never was present in the presence of this man. he took my breath away and i died a million little deaths that night.

like bell hooks once said,
"you don't fall in love, you simply decide to love."
but how soon are you allowed to decide?

if the timer runs out and no one says it,
what happens next?

is it a race to decide to love the person
you spend almost every second thinking about?

is there a right time to say it?
a specific number of days or months
and if you say it before, are you banished to the
'too soon freak out zone'?

every now and then
a surge of uncertainty
plagues this racing mind
i have been hurt before
one too many times
am i going to fall in love
just to break my own heart
are you going to stay
even if i try to ruin this?

as i walked into the cold and eerie room
the empty-minded people stared at the tv
not noticing that a visitor has arrived.
i walk toward my grandfather
who doesn't recognize me anymore,
instead he calls me by his daughters name.
i notice a strange lady walking toward me
and i stop in my tracks.
she holds my elbow, brings her face toward my ear
and whispers "the devils in the chesterfield"
as she points toward the couch that is being occupied,
and then continues to walk away as if nothing happened.
i feel a chill down my spine as i greet my grandfather.
the room became haunted the more i visited.

i try to see passed the ***** glass that blocks my eyes
i end up focusing on the tiny, scattered particles
the smear of someone else's face oils
reminds me that at one moment
someone cared enough to kiss me
i use my shirt and the warmth of my breath
to wipe away the smudged memories
i can see again
but when my vision becomes blurred again
it wont be because of you

as you sit and stare at the wall
thinking about your past
and the people you have let down,
you stand out the most.
you've stared at empty eyes for too long.
you've cried a thousand too many times.
you've eaten too many heartbreak cakes.
you never really found a footing
to propel yourself forward to land a career
or to create a white picket fence family.
but you found the bottom of bottles
and other people's beds.
you've experienced the trauma that
your mother won't discuss with you and
that your dad treats you differently for.

as you finally sit alone
in a place you call your home
decorated with vintage,
you begin to feel like life
has been waiting for you to accept these things
and allow them to shape who you are
meant to be.

all the past relationships,
loves,
the past flings,
and one night stands...
is it possible to apologize
to every single one
and explain that your past self
had no idea what she was doing
and if she could go back
she would have done everything
so much differently?
she wouldn't have hurt you,
cheated,
lied,
drank so much,
used you,
loved so hard
with nothing in return...
or do we just accept everything
we have done to ourselves
and to the strangers we once loved
and try to be better?

we write about the hurt,
the pain,
and the aches.
we never seem to write about
the thrills,
the excitement,
and the laughter.
it's like our life isn't valid
when we are happy
or content.
we don't write about
the mundane.
people don't care about
what gives us joy,
they only care about
the fears
and the traumas.
is that what creates a life,
a personality,
a human being?

You stand naked in the bathroom
the shower running hot
steam pouring over the curtain
fog taking over the mirror
while you stare at your imperfections
as it becomes impossible to see yourself
you take your finger
and you draw a simple sad face
You get in the shower
lather your body, rinse,
and end up crying
on the bathtub floor.

why isn't there a movie
with a mid 20's girl
living in her parent's basement
with mental health issues.
she could question her future,
date a guy who hardly understands
anything she's going through,
and eat a lot of cake.
she works in an office
but takes a lot of sick days.
she sees a counselor once a week.
breaks up with her boyfriend
who constantly questions her sanity.
at the end,
she decides to live for herself,
move out of her parent's house
to live in the city
and she write a book about mental health.

wake up next to them every morning
sleep beside them every night
share the newspaper over coffee
breakfast on a sunday morning
watch them brush their teeth twice a day
cook dinner together
specific night for date night
fight about finances and t.v.
game night with married friends
holidays spent with families

how do you spend the rest of your life with someone?

the past isn't somewhere
i want to go back to.
but it's those memories
that i base my present on.
those heartaches
that pain
the anxiety filled dreams.
that kiss by someone you loved.
it's your past and you cant go back.
it's called 'past' for a reason.
it's passed.

where did the butterflies go?
who let them out?
the longer they stay
the happier you are.
when they go
the excitement is gone
you want to move on
to find them again
in someone else.

ding ****, goes the doorbell
you lay there motionless
hoping it will go away
you wait
minutes pass by
you feel hovering
cold breath on your neck
then a voice that whispers
in your ear
"are you nervous?"

you jolt awake and look around
there is nothing there
you were just having
a nightmare
again

are you happy
holding anothers hand,
watching them breath
when you can't sleep,
staring into their eyes
as you eat across the table,
listening to that song
that reminds you of them.

are you happy
that things between us
will never be the same.
that we are strangers
with each others secrets
locked up with a key.

are you happy?

you would stare at me
and never look away
like i do at him now
and your hands shake
eyes glazed over
similar to an exorcism
and your soft hands
and your black shadow
and your smell
and your mysterious face
and i'm not yours
anymore
and you're not yourself
anymore
you're not my Charles Bukowski
anymore
you're like a figment of my imagination
that's become lost in reality
I might as well forget

you would stare at me
and never look away
like i do at him now
and your hands shake
eyes glazed over
similar to an exorcism
and your soft hands
and your black shadow
and your smell
and your mysterious face
and i'm not yours
anymore
and you're not yourself
anymore
you're not my Charles Bukowski
anymore
you're like a figment of my imagination
that's become lost in reality
I might as well forget

i've said it once
and ill say it again.

the only way to write perfectly
and in tone with your insides
is when you have a broken heart

or else words get too jumbled
your brain becomes calm
your stomach, resting.
your heart is full and taped together.

there's a difference and it shows
there''s nothing to write about
when you're happy
sane
not depressed
loved.

Margaret had the right idea,
talking to God about her problems
as simply as she could.
dead pan explaining the torture she feels
while being a 16 year old girl.
what if i talked to God then too?
would i still be a messed up 26 year old?
are you there God, it's me, Ally.
there has been a pit in my stomach all day,
and i want to dig it out.
the boy who broke my heart months ago
wants to come back into my life
and i don't know if i should let him.
do you have any wise words for me, God?
i feel stupid asking about this because
i already know the answer.

i can never amount to anything
i cant look in the mirror
and see who i want to see
there are imperfections
so many imperfections
there is awkwardness
there is fear

when will i see myself
as the girl who likes to laugh
the girl who made jokes
even when they weren't funny
the girl who took no offence
to her own judgement
the girl who was oblivious
to controversial topics
the girl who took every ones opinions
and shoved them in the garbage

shes too weak now
there are small cracks in her skin
making it easy for intruders
to see inside of her
to get inside her brain

i cant sleep to all the racket

the tightness
the aching
the restlessness
the eyelid twitch
the fidgeting
the cheek biting
the leg bouncing
the staring off
the autopilot
the shallow breathing

all these things amount to one thing
holding in the words "i love you"
because you know it's not right

i don't know what i'm doing
where i'm going
who i am
what i've seen
what i'll see
who i'll meet
and who i'll become.
all i know is,
i'll eventually be the one i need.

you looked at her
walking down the aisle
tears built up
around your eyes
a smile so big
your teeth were showing
she looked into your eyes
tears in hers too
she walked slowly
with poise
with contentment
you were it
the start of a life
shes always wanted
its perfect
youre perfect

10 years i waited
to find the perfect, the one
we were together for a year
happy, comfortable
i didn't expect it
the loneliness you left behind
i wanted you
you wanted me
its over now
back to the beginning
of ******* someone else
but thinking about me
we cant be together
we cant be apart
we cant be
we cant
we
i
you
someone else

i look in the mirror
and my eyes don't sparkle.
i listen to my favorite song
and it doesn't give me goosebumps.
i cry to the moon
and i don't feel the release;
the sadness leaving my body.
i curl up in my bed
and i can't feel your warmth.
i stroke the paintbrush
and the colors are dull.
i fiddle with my rings
and the anxiety gets worse.
i put on my clothes
but i still feel naked.
i have a bubble bath
but the water won't stay hot.
i am blank.
i am empty.
you're gone.

breathe in, breathe out
it doesn't work like they say
its going to explode
out of my chest

i shake and i tremble
i stand up and get dizzy
nauseous and spots everywhere

i cant breathe
it hurts too much
i cant stop crying
my mind won't quit racing

breathe in, breathe out
this is how i die
right here, right now
there's so much pain

muscles ache and eyes hurt
focus on something
i'll be ok,
its just anxiety

how many days until
i'll feel like myself again?
help me. help me. please.

i count the ups and the downs,
i match mine to yours
in sync we will always be.

you sat there staring at me
like you could never get enough
you squinted and twitched,
a smirk on your face.
i smiled, then you said
"i love you"
it spilled from your lips
like you've been eagerly
waiting to say it.

"i love you, too"
rolled right out of my mouth
without hesitation,
without any doubt.
we sighed at the same time
finally feeling at peace.

you're alone with your thoughts
in the middle of the night
while the whole city sleeps
everything feels strange;
missing.
lonely.

i got a Bukowski tattoo
because of you.

i'd lay in your bed
and stare at your book shelf.
you smoked a cigarette
and drank your wine
from a cup.
you both ******
for the same reasons.
i'd grab the book
sitting on your night stand,
reading to you.
it's like you knew
his story.

you left your soul
for us to find
you left your footprints
for us to follow
you left your love
for us to feel
we will never be the same
without you.

you took me by the hand,
you told me you loved me,
a toy castle appeared
out of nowhere,
you told me you
bought it for us to live in,
you pulled out a ring,
it was your grandmothers,
you asked me to marry you,
i said yes before you
could finish with
a question mark.
it was the best dream
i ever had.

i always have dreams
of losing my father.
i feel the most sympathy
when people lose their
dads in a movie.
not dogs or mothers or siblings.
fathers.
I am my daddy's girl.
he is everything i hope to
be one day.
he is everything i hope to
not be, either.
a girl cant be a girl
without
her dad.

i think of all the
conversations we could have.
all the conversation i want to have
but silence floods my insides.
i like not knowing.
i like making up stories
in my head.
you're more interesting that way.

we are in the purgatory
of being in love
and being nothing more
than mere friends.

purgatory is the same
as hell for me.  
but at least then, i'm somewhere.

Freud said it best
"time spent with cats
is never wasted"
there have never been
truer words.
you feel the love
that you deserve,
the passion of another
being needing you,
the conversations you
dont have to make,
the satisfaction when you
hear purring just from
your touch,
the content of just
being in the same room.
the only thing missing
is those feelings being
felt towards you.

have you ever wondered
what it's like to feel something?
something so real it hurts you
it hurts you in ways
that force you to stay awake
all night, tossing and turning,
crying, sighing, and shivering.

it's the feeling of being in love.
it's the feeling of losing someone.
it's the feeling of loneliness.
it's the feeling of self loathing.
it's the feeling of depression.
it's the feeling of happiness.
it's the feeling of emptiness.

i grab my glasses
off of the bed side table,
i look at the keyboard
and place my fingers
on the keys that
spell out your name.
i dont want to write about
you anymore,
i want to write about the things
that make me happy.

human life is so weird,
you wake up to an empty bed,
you make a half *** of coffee
because there is no one there to share
it with you,
you stare out the window
and imagine all the couples
sharing the news paper and
a morning cigarette,
you shower,
you get dressed,
you go to a mundane job
that you wish wouldn't **** you,
you come home to a messy flat,
you take off your shoes,
you go to the bathroom mirror
and look at your city filled pores,
you eat dinner,
you go to an unmade bed
that has more pillows than you need
just so it seems like someone else is
sleeping beside you,
you read the book thats been
sitting on your bedside table for
3 months because you just stare
at the word filled pages,
and then, out of nowhere,
you're asleep, dreaming of a different life.

You rip my heart out if my chest
and then you place it on a table
there is a scalpel  in your hand;
gently, slow motion, dissecting,
you slice it right in half,
still beating....

the thread you used to sew me back together
doesnt match the veins.
you close my chest back up,
there will always be a scar.

it will hurt but it will heal
and then you'll just do it all over again.
you're a doctor with no intention
of healing the wounded.