I'm so sorry if
most of this
doesn't come out
how I want it to.
But it's almost been a year
and I so need you to hear
what I'm feeling,
so here goes nothing.
You know you're always in my head
and I could always go to church,
but you deserve my confession instead.
I never want another pair of hands to hold me
like you hold me.
And I don't ever want to laugh
the way I do with with you
with someone new.
I want the stupid fights
and sleepless nights
where we just stay up talking about nothing,
because to me that's everything.
Because to me, you are everything.
I want to share your bed
where we can both share what's in our head.
And make a home that's just for us,
God I need you to hear all this because
I love you more than anything
and no matter what tomorrow brings,
I'll still love you
more than anything.

Like the tides need the moon,
I need you so naturally.
A flower cannot bloom without sunlight
and water,
and you broke through the clouds
above my head,
became a waterfall.
You are the warmth of late spring
when you hold me.
A cool rain on a hot summer day
when you kiss me.
The first breath of the air of a crisp fall morning
when I look at you.
You are my perfect day
every day.
My very own piece of natures' raw beauty,
and God, how beautiful you are.

The first time I said the words
"I love you",
was not the first time I told you I loved you.
The very first time
was when you had come home from work.
I didn't hear from you
for a couple of hours.
Not entirely unusual, but you know me,
I'm a worrier.
You finally texted me and after a brief exchange of words,
you asked me to call you.
Of course I did without hesitation; calling you had become
my favorite part of every day.
You told me you had been crying.
Really crying.
I remember the feeling in my stomach,
the immediate urge to run to where
you were,
to wage a war against whatever it was
that had caused you that much pain.
To hold you.
Verbally, I've never been good with words.
I wanted to say so much.
I could have said it then.
After a drawn out pause, I told you
"I want to take care of you".
Maybe you knew,
maybe you didn't.
I think my heart knew before I did
that I loved you.
But I meant it then, more than anything.
Still do.

I breathe you in
like smoke.
You settle in my lungs,
my veins,
my soul.
I touch you
and I see things
no one else has seen.
You raise your feathered wings
and wrap me
in ecstasy.
You wipe away the rust
that covers me
from years spent living
in my own rain.
Every kiss is never
enough.
Every look is always too
short.
You've brought down the Heavens
and made a home for just us.
I pick the feathers from my hair
and make a crown fit for a Queen.
I will spend the rest of my life
learning to fly
by your side.

Ugly is
safe.
Ugly is
not getting whistled at
on the street.
Ugly is
being ignored by
the wandering hands
of the drunk man
next to me on
his bar stool.
Ugly is
"yeah, she's a really great friend,
but not really girlfriend material".
Ugly is
5 a.m. tears and
7 a.m. bloodshot eyes.
Ugly is
quiet and
small.
Never speaking up.
Desperate for
the worst kind of attention.
Ugly is
loving you
and hating
myself.

Fat.
The word falls from your lips
like venom.
I know your throat burns every time
you say it.
I see the tears you try to brush off.
Fat.
Because what could be worse, right?
You could be mean,
or selfish,
or violent.
But no, you had to be
Fat.
If only you knew the years I've spent
learning to love every single inch of me,
teaching myself that "fat" is not a
curse word.
Years spent undoing long nights
that I've stayed awake,
sobbing,
praying to every god I knew
that I could wake up and be
skinny.
You tell me I am beautiful.
You promise me
that you have eyes for
no one else.
But I know your eyes lust for
thin.

When I’m sober I’m
so good,
so high on myself.
I talk to my friends and
I love that they love me
just the way I am.
But right now I’m drunk
and I’m falling in love
with all my exes,
all the people who are
poisonous.
I need validation
so I text boys who
I know will get off
on my words, on the
pictures I send them.
I have a whole list of their numbers
for nights like these.
I don’t even know
if they’d recognize me
in the morning.
I don’t even recognize myself
as I delete messages,
words, feelings.
No one will ever know
all the things I crave
if they don’t know me
sober.

The first time
you said you loved
me, it was as if
I had been pulled aboard
a life raft after being
lost at sea. But
I see now that this
raft is littered with
holes and
we are sinking, but
you are convinced
that your love is a
teacup to scoop out
the water pooling around
my ankles and you will save
us, but the teacup has a crack
down one side and
do you see where I
am going with this?
A tablespoon of water
will never put out
a forest fire; I am burning
through acres.

Long drives
replay long
conversations
that sit with me
through longer
nights.
But your stay
was so
short,
sometimes I'm
not even sure
you were real.

Simple hello's
turned to casual conversation,
turned to me seated
in the passenger seat
of your car.
Talks on the phone
that lasted long after
the stars came out.
I really can't say I mind losing sleep,
as long as you're looking
for it with me.
You asked me what I thought
of you,
what I really thought.
Never in my life before then
had I been at a loss
for words.
I couldn't bear to ask you the same,
I'm afraid the answer
will be both too much
and not enough.

There have been theories
about the end of the world.
A giant fireball from the sky,
natural disasters,
a mutant virus.
But the truth is far worse
for I have seen it.
It's going to happen when
you awake one morning,
the warm, comforting body
that is usually next to you,
gone.
In their place, a note.
"I don't love you anymore.
I'm sorry"
It'll happen when
she takes her last breath,
the hand you've been desperately
clutching to
loosening in your grip.
When his mother calls you
at 3 a.m., crying,
and tells you that she found her baby,
your best friend,
lying on the red bathroom floor.
It'll take you a minute because
you know that that floor
is white.
This is how the world ends,
neither with a bang or a whisper.

Treatable, but
incurable.
Take one pill twice a day,
probably for the rest of your life.
There's no guarantee
on how many days, months, years
you've got left.
You could feel fine one week,
then have Death on speed dial the next.
Of course, they tell you the
survival rate is very high.
So you sit there in the dark,
but hey, you're alive, right?
The doctors don't use the word 'terminal'
when diagnosing you.
But, then again, they don't have to.

I'm sorry that
I do not come with a manual,
a warning.
All I've got is the
"Handle With Care"
stamp, marked on my forehead.
Please forgive me for I tend
to malfunction from
time to time.
I wish it was easy.
When I get so sad that
I cannot leave my bed,
turn to page 37, section B
for care instructions.
But loving me
is not that simple.
I ask that you
proceed with caution,
some parts of me
are still being repaired.

You find that breathing
becomes impossible,
so you open your skin.
You distract yourself
from the ache that you
can't quite pinpoint, but
feel everywhere.
I know, I've been there too.
What I wouldn't give
to be able to take your hands
in mine, soothe the pain
we've both felt.
To wrap you in light when
all you beg for is dark.
This love I now carry
was saved for someone
like you, and how I'd
love to be the one to
save you.

Drowning wouldn't be
awful. Holding your breath,
trying to stay alive - that's the
killer. But after that? Darkness,
silence. Calm. Peaceful actually.
Not so bad.

Burning. Just a warm hug.
A warm hug that doesn't want
to stop hugging. Imagine something
loving you that much?

How about a bullet?
Straight into the bullseye
you've painted on
your head. So quick.
Less painful than the life
that you're convinced you're
not really living. Messy though.

I still chose life.
I will always choose
to keep living.

When I met him,
he was two years younger
and at least twice as thin.
I wanted so badly what
I couldn't have.
The first time he kissed me,
I thought maybe I was wrong.
Why couldn't it have stopped at
kissing?
He wanted to touch me,
to run his hands over my skin.
He understood when I told him "no",
but he didn't get it.
I loved him,
and I was terrified to be seen by him.
Underneath my clothes is not
a skinny girl, like maybe
he expected to find.
God, do I love him,
so I will not let him love me.

Most people are afraid of
spiders, clowns, thunderstorms;
the usual.
But if you asked me
what my greatest fear is,
I would speak of nothing
but your name.
Because what would I do,
who would I be,
should one day
you decide that you're
over me?

I reach for your hand
and I feel the pressure of
your fingers against mine.
But there is no warmth
from your presence.
I look to your face and
I do not recognize those eyes.
Someone I knew so well
has become a stranger;
an empty body who bears
your name.
Please tell me how
I could have lost you
while you have been right
by my side.

Dear You,
I know this is probably long overdue.
I'm sure the weight that has been
not-so-gently thrown onto your
shoulders feels like it's about to
break your back.
Please, whatever you do,
don't let it win.
I know how strong you really are.
Your steps may falter,
but you cannot fall.
Every obstacle you overcome,
no matter how minor it may seem,
is one less mile you have to go.
I am so, so proud of you.
Keep. Going.
~Stormy

You defiled me
without a thought,
without a single touch
from your hand.
But somehow I felt you -
I still feel you.
And for as long as I live
you will hang above my head,
a noose woven through
with my name.

A year of silence, then suddenly "I missed you"
becomes heated, frantic whispers of
"just as friends though, right?"
in blacked out rooms.
Where trembling fingers grasp
shaking legs
and every "is this okay?" is a safe haven
and occasionally an escape.
Sometimes no feelings is easier to stomach
than reality
Because loneliness is a sickness
that can be cured by everyone and no one,
and pretending that every touch
means just a little something more,
might somehow save your life.

I am 16
And I have found love in a
boy who is 5 years older than me.
He tells me he loves me and I
lose myself in him.
He breaks my heart, twice.
We still keep in touch.

I am 20
I have found love in a girl
with curly blonde hair and eyes
like the sea. She holds my hand
and sings to me, kisses my forehead.
We haven't spoken in a year.

I am 21
I think I have found love.
He doesn't acknowledge what we
are in public and he thinks insulting
me is funny. He kisses me like he loves me
though, so I tell myself it's enough.
He moved miles away; I think he was
just as lonely as I was.

I am 22*
She's the one. Her hair is never
the same color and sometimes
she laughs too loud. She has scars
that she regrets, but she's doing
everything she can to keep going.
She is me, and I am in love.