The first cracks are beginning
to show in my teeth. All the
******* you make me chew
on is making my teeth break.

I had a dream where my teeth
fell out. And all you did was laugh.
Maybe I was foreseeing the
future, somehow, because now,
all you can do is laugh at me.

The first cracks are beginning
to show in my teeth. It hurts
like your face. The ache I’m
getting is nothing I’ve felt before.

The moon was yellow.
Or maybe orange. There
was a sheen to it. It was
too close for my liking.

It felt as though I could see
every crack and every crag
in the surface of the moon.

The orange sheen made it
look superficial. I couldn’t
tear my eyes away, for good
or for bad.

With the city light beneath,
it looked as though we were
the sky with the twinkling lights

and the moon was an ocean pebble.

One drop, and the whole sky would shatter.

“I felt there was no
point in telling
anyone anything
that was happening
inside of me.”

Once I saw that,
I felt my purpose in
life had been fulfilled.

Once I realised that
I may be the main character
in my life and the background
in someone else’s, I rejoiced.
The “someone else” being my
best friend.

Once I know that I will depart their lives in either one day or one year, life becomes so much easier.

She stands infront of my path
as it to get my attention.
I pretend to fumble with my planner
and I walk past her.
I hear their laughs over the crowd.
They’re laughing at me, aren’t they?

But I have my planner dog eared.
I was already open on this week.
I was fumbling purposefully with last week.
I knew exactly what she was doing.
And I purposefully ignored her.
Why do I hate her so much?
Why am I so non-verbal when I feel sad?

Don't know if I want to
drink this coffee or smash
the cup on my head.

Maybe it would look great
with coffee staining my face
like the pages from an old diary.

Maybe I am just a bunch of words
but you can't read all of them
because of the coffee staining
the pages and the words and my life.

The only thing that separates me
from Plath is that my words are
either written by a child or by someone
illiterate or by someone sad or by me.

I feel like a tree in summer
plenty of outside, so you
may not see the rotting inside.
Birds peck at me all day
even when the sky turns blue
in the winter dark, my insides are still able to hide.

Sometimes I feel for my dog's heartbeat
because I know, at nine and a half years,
she hasn't got long left.

Sometimes I think about how I will react
when a death happpens.
Will I cry? Will I scream?
And then I feel guilty for imagining such a thing.

Sometimes I wonder how my friends
would react for me.
Would they shed tears?
Maybe not.
At this point, they'd probably
shrug and say they didn't know.