you painted the moon on my hips drew constellations with
your eyes on my arms and whispered the word pandemonium in
my ear as asteroids exploded and as orbits formed
i drew the color blue on your fingertips and orange in the
corner of your smile and spelled the word requiem onto your
lips because i knew this wasn't going to last
we lived our love in the sky and memorized the names of
stars that were bound to die and last words we used to live
she spoke the language of the sun and i didn't understand
you spoke the language of wrecked love and made our
masterpiece a work of forbidden art

(h.l.)

one, i cannot breathe. my lungs are inhaling and exhaling but i am not breathing. your name still echoes inside my chest like a balloon that is slowly losing air and i cannot breathe.

two, her name is a red solo cup and a midnight conversation. she is a dare that your friends jokingly made and with the buzz of alcohol in your chest, you said yes

[three, they told me at your funeral that it was only a joke, this wasn't meant to happen, guilt was on their faces and the sky was an odd color of both death and sadness, i cannot decide what is worse; the feeling of the rough thorns that poke my legs or the silent promise you made me that will never be fulfilled]

four, the taste of white wine reminds me of your pale skin and the glass that touches my hips when i inevitable drop the bottle does not feel like anything, i am not numb; i can still taste the heaviness of 2:35 am wine without you on my lips but i am not sad either, it is more like an unleashed phantom that haunts my mind when i try to sleep at night

five, the police came over to my house last week, they asked me if i had anything to do with your lover; i cannot remember the words that i told them all i know is the sound of the heavy door being closed and the bitter taste of sour strawberries that come when i keep biting my cheeks to stop from crying, i've been crying too much lately and i'm sick of it.

six, i tried to visit her yesterday. i tried to bring myself to get lost in the feeling of her smoke that clouded my mind and i tried to understand why you did this. why you loved her more than you loved me, why her dizzying scent was more of a safe haven than my all consuming love for you.

seven, i visited your dealer today, i asked him if you had told him anything about why you were so sad but he didn't say anything, or at least i don't remember it. all i remember is the ringing in my ears when i walked home that night and the traffic lights of new york city. i was alive today, in a way i never have been, i couldn't breathe but i didn't need to.

eight, tomorrow i will clean out the rest of your things in our closet and i will visit our old coffee shop and try not to focus on how i am not breathing without you anymore, because unconsciously i know i always will; that was always the difference between you and i, you smoked to get lost but i kept on drowning because i was already found

(h.l.)

the words do not come tumbling out of my pen anymore
the ink seems to have dried and i've killed the horizon
inside my brain with a cigarette ashtray that spelled out
your name there seems to be a permanent eclipse because
i cannot write like i used to anymore there are no more
tsunamis or hurricanes or tornadoes my mind is a
natural disaster all on it's own except there are no thunderstorms
or rain there is only darkness and drowning into a
sea of metaphors i wrote and analogies i spoke;
i think about the girl who thought of them from time to
time, and i wonder if she would be upset that no one
brought wildflowers to her funeral, even though they
claimed she was a sun shower they all ran away when the
flowers wilted, i don't blame them
i did too
(h.l.)

she wrote.

she wrote words that no one besides her knew,
she wrote feelings that no one besides her felt,
and she spelled those words out at night, when she
couldn't sleep, so that maybe the next day she'd
have the courage to speak

she never spoke.

she never spoke about the thoughts she had
she never spoke about the itchy red lines that lined her thighs
she never spoke to the boy at the back of the class who
loved both guys and girls and who never wanted to get hurt
so he never spoke either

but they both wrote.

they both wrote about abuse, a five letter word that had
been stitched onto their skin with an iron needle and a a fist full
of scissors and the words we'll never make it

she never spoke. he never slept. but they both wrote
their suicide letters with felt ink pen.

(h.l.)

i don't know why i like boys who rate girls based on their *****
and smoke cigarettes and talk about things that sound meaningful
but aren't, i don't know why i have trouble breathing sometimes
and why counting to ten doesn't work and why i get so angry
at little things that shouldn't bother me but they do,
i don't know why i have such high expectations but such
a low self esteem i don't know why i can see myself somewhere
in ten years but not in the next one i don't know why i lie and say
stupid things i don't know why i say ******* when i never
want anyone to leave because i don't want to be alone with me
i don't know why it bothers me that i'm not pretty or beautiful
i don't even know why that matters i don't know why i'm writing this
i don't know why i'm crying i don't know why my fingers are
shaking or when my house became so quiet i don't know the answers
to so many things i thought i knew him but i didn't i thought i could
handle all of this but i can't i thought i would never break down again
but i am and it hurts like hell i feel like i am being split into two
and someone is pouring gasoline on me and all i want right now
is to be set on fire so that i can burn and dissolve into the air
into a permanent state of nothingness where i don't have to worry
about why my heart feels like it's made of lead and why
i can't finish sentences without adding on other things because
i don't like the idea of anything ever ending