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 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

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

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.

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.

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?

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.

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

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.

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?