I am not your tattered sweatshirt that you keep in the back of your closet,

The one you wear only when you get high.

I am not the too small pair of jeans that you keep around,

In hopes that one day you'll fit back into them.

I am not your ***** running shoes that you keep on a shelf in your room,

The one’s that make you sad every time you look at them because you did not win that race.

You will wear me with pride, or not at all

- R. H.

I've read a lot of words about
people who make
flowers grow in the deepest
parts of others. But you,
you lit a fire in me and now
I am burning.
Instead of petals at my feet,
there are flames in my wake.
And every touch is another hot
coal upon my skin and
I have never seen more
beautiful scars.

- R.H.

I cannot comprehend
that there are still numerous
people who wish death upon me
and my brothers and sisters,
simply because of who we love.
'Not straight' is not synonymous
with 'not human'.
We exist in a world that
has made it very clear
that we should feel unwelcome.
That we should cower and hide.
What more has to happen
before things change?
I am tired and
I refuse to be silent.
Even if my voice become hoarse,
and the words barely
trickle out of my mouth.
I encourage everyone
to stand together.
Love is love
and no amount of hate
can change that.

The crescent moons of my
fingernails are set in my palms
permanently
and my feelings are splayed
across my face like a black eye.
Now I feel my teeth cracking
from my painfully clenched jaw
after holding back
everything that I can.
My body is breaking and I
am praying to anyone who
will listen that this
is the last time.

******* and ****
her.
And every tattoo you have
to celebrate your perfect
relationship.
I guess 8 months mean more to some people than an upwards
of 5 years.
"You are my favorite human."
"No matter where we go in life, I will always love you."
"You will forever hold the biggest place in my heart."
Who knew that such a pretty face could conceal
so many lies?
So please forgive me if I no longer
wish you the best.
Apparently you've already got it.

- R. H.

Years, I think it was,
that you told me you
wanted me.
I just wasn't ready
for that kind of love.
Still you stayed in my life.
The day I knew was like
the sun being pulled out from
months of overcast skies.
Loving you was the
easiest thing I've ever done.
Some days I think
leaving me
was the easiest thing
you've ever done.
I should have known
when you started comparing
your paper cuts to
bullet holes,
convinced I was holding
the gun.
Desperate
for what you didn't have
and nothing changed
when you got it.
You were nothing
but sunshine
that couldn't handle
the rain.

4:30 a.m.
I wake up to a text.
She says "I miss you".
Heart says "I miss you more than anything".
Pride goes back to sleep.
Heart opens the text again at 11, then 2,
then 8 at night.
Pride responds the next day.
Pride says "I hope you're well."
Heart says "I want to see you. I want to be us again."
Pride slowly starts to remove you
from all my social media.
Heart keeps the cards you gave me,
and the ring.
Pride keeps them in a box hidden
under my bed.
Pride stops talking about you.
Heart aches to hear from you
so I have a reason to
talk about you.
Pride makes a face at the
word "love".
Heart wants to know real love.
Heart pleads with
wanting hands for affection,
for attention.
Pride locks Heart in a
steel cage for
protection, for
my safety.
Pride says, "This is for your own good".
Heart weeps.
Pride is worn on my sleeve,
pulled down to
cover the bracelet you gave me.
Pride says, "This is good enough".

I love you.
I love you.
This isn't working out,
we should go back to being
just friends.
We should jump to
not talking
and avoiding the inevitable.
"How's your girlfriend?"
"Ex."
"..Oh I'm so sorry."
I swear to God,
I'm going to miss you
for the rest of my life.

You said,

"Tell me something amazing"

And all I could think of

Was to describe you

Exactly as you are

- R. H.

Don't tell me I'm pretty.
I'm not interested in hearing
how beautiful you think my eyes are,
or how you could listen to my
voice for hours.
I don't need gentle, sweet or kind.
Instead I'll be begging for bruises
on my thighs and scratches down my back,
fingertips pressed into my throat.
Make me completely give in to
your artificial affection.
I need to know this isn't real.

Lucky in love was never something
I considered myself,
before you.
Even when I spent two years
engaged to someone
who I thought was "the one".
Even when I swore I
couldn't live without
my first boyfriend.
And then came you.
Suddenly, everyone I thought I
had ever loved just
disappeared.
Because there you were,
making something click in
my heart.
A switch turning on a spotlight.
A sigh of relief.
It was just you,
exactly how you are.
Somehow I think it was
always you.

You told me
I was like a crime scene;
intriguing, but you couldn't
handle getting too close.
So I wrapped my existence
in neon yellow caution tape
and hung a "keep back" sign
above my heart.
You only wanted
to view me from afar.
To stare and mimic
the generic "how sad".
Sometimes the killer stays around
to witness what they've done.
Tell me,
what do you see?

Come home with me.
The empty side of
my bed has been calling out
for warmth.
Forever it seems
that I have been waiting
to share myself with you.
I already know how
perfectly my hand fits
in yours;
now I'm dying to see
how the rest of me
fits against you.
Come home with me.

I get it, okay?
Everyone that knows you
thinks you're amazing.
Don't get me wrong,
you are.
But I will never know
what it's like to be
in your shoes.
Girls want you.
Guys want you.
You've been with more people
than I have friends.
I thought I had a chance
with him,
but then there you were,
getting him to tell you
that he thought you were
the most attractive person.
You come home from the mall
with bags of the hottest new fashions
yet complain when one store
doesn't have your size.
I leave empty handed,
"hot" does not coincide
with the size I wear.
The dressing room mirror
despises me.
All your other friends are
beautiful, flawless.
I am just a piece trying
to fit into the wrong puzzle.
I love you to death,
I always will.
But I really think that
I hate you.

I swear, even on my deathbed,
I would remember
exactly where you lived.
How your room looked
and which side of the bed
was yours.
And even if all of me
knows you're gone,
I would still knock on the door
and ask if you were around.

You make me want to confess
my deepest fears,
my darkest secrets.
Trade in my life as a sinner
and become faithful to
you and you alone.
Please, lay your hands
upon me, soothe my demons
and calm my heart.
I am only just
beginning to live.

If Death came tonight, knocking at my door, asking for my hand,
I would not hesitate to go with him.
This place, this home, is not meant for everyone.
I will lock my fingers with his, cling tightly to his bones,
follow him anywhere.
This life has worn me down,
"tired" has become a part of who I am.
I refuse to stay here, perpetually sad.
I will go.

- R. H.

Relapse, n.
a return of a disease or illness after partial recovery from it*

I'm curious as to know if there is a limit here.
Whether or not after all these times
I can still call it "relapsing".
I can't seem to figure out if I have either
partially recovered,
or if what I deal with is a constant that
just takes breaks.
I refuse to place myself in the bubble
of the sentence or two of a
generalized description.
I have relapsed.
But I am so much more than that.

You sat with your canvas and
a rainbow of paint.
Though I was beside you, you were
alone
in that room.
I prayed you did not realize how strongly
I envied your brush; I could only
hope that one day
you would hold me like
that.

- R. H.