When I was three
I broke my arm
And now my elbow clicks
When I reach to hold your hand
And my fingers curl between the empty space.

When I was eight
I broke my leg
And now it aches
As I pace around this empty apartment
Waiting for you to come back.

When I was sixteen
I broke some hearts
And now at twenty-three
I broke mine too
When I told you I had stopped loving you.

Now I sit
Broken
And waiting
For someone to fix me
Because all I’m good at is breaking things.

We cannot write silence.
The beats.
The pause.
The breath.
The way it aches
and persists

and begs that,

if only for a moment,

our consciousness is only a whisper.
our bodies,
our lips,
the air that passes through falling chests
and stillness.

A melody of emotion.
Sleeping in the quiet of a heartbeat skipped
a word lost to the wind.

The wickedness of reticence
Encapsulated in air and time.

The moment stretched too long.
Hesitation perpetuated in the grip of fingernails
pressed into palms.

We cannot write silence,
but we can try.

to find a way to immortalize emotion
to create space
in the ceaseless drone of words that speak and spin.

I cannot write silence. But I can write
tears and years
and the burn of long-stretched lies.

I can write goodbyes and hellos
And dozen ways to say
I love to hate you
Or
I hate to love you
and sometimes
I cannot tell the difference.
Silence.
The space I have upheld for myself.

I love to hate you
Heart.

I hate to love you too.

I cannot write silence.
But I know it.
and I have held it in my hand.

The light is too bright
Compared to the dark corners of
The pulsing night.
My mouth is dry and
Parched from the lips of
Strangers.
The taste of nicotine and intent
Still a lingering shadow.
My head swims through pain
And shame as flashbacks
Fall in and out of focus.
The memories of choices made
By someone with liquor
And loneliness in their veins.
My stomach turns and I consider
Purging myself of this guilt.
Any excuse to get out of this cold
Empty bed.

Don’t talk to strangers
     You said

Don’t talk to the followers
Of strange gods
Or to voices
With words in foreign tongues
And skin
Like burnt toffee.

Don’t talk to strangers
     You said

Don’t talk to the man
Hobbling between cars
With outstretched palms
And a sign that reads:
‘Hungry children at home
God bless your day’

Don’t talk to strangers
     You said

Don’t talk to your uncle
Whose husband waits
Watching the evening news
With a glass of red wine
And steak
Cooling on the stove.

Don’t talk to strangers
     You said

Don’t talk to the reflection
In the mirror
That smiles at you
Like an old friend
Whose face
You cannot recognize.

Don’t talk to strangers
     You said

It surprises me how full this emptiness feels.
Like I am filled to the brim with abyss
And nothingness.
Like I am hollow and
Bursting.

Cut me open and you will see I am full.
Beneath my blood
Expectations.
Between my bones
Guilt.
In my veins
Nostalgia.
In my lungs
Remorse.

But you could not fill a glass
Or a home
With me.

Because I am empty of me
And full of the voices
And thoughts
Of strangers.

I am overflowing with them.