The Year had twelve children,
who looked him deep in the eye,
and asked for a reason
for their suffering.

January's boy
was born in a blizzard,
and he now lives
in a storm of self-hatred.

February's daughter
was born in the month of love,
but now she stares at the ceiling,
wishing to be held.

March's child
was born when the flowers start to bloom
and now they watch
their parents stomp on their bouquets.

April's son
was born with rain pouring outside
but now he watches his dreams
drip down the drain.

May's girl
was born with her whole family watching,
and now they all watch to see
if she will disappoint them.

June's guy
was born to be the golden boy,
but now he stares at April's son
a little too long.

July's baby girl
was born with a lost twin,
and now she's trying to fill the chasm
that lives in her mother's heart.

August's soul
was born and got a little blue blanket
but now he steals his sister's skirts
and tries them on when no one's watching.

September's sweetheart
was born the day after her mother,
and now she kneels by her grave
every single Sunday.

October's kid
was born to a pair of kids themselves
and now he packs his bag
to go to Dad's on Friday.

November's baby boy
was born on a cold tiled floor,
and now he sits on that same ground,
counting his pocket change.

December's ghost
was born in the bitter cold to no one at all,
and now she sits in the shadows,
waiting for the light to come.

When the Year asked for details,
January's boy stepped forward.

My mother told me
I was a fool to go after you,
but I thought it poetic,
to be foolish for you.

Thought it was romantic
to rush and jump in
much too fast,
thought it was fun to be dragged.

Thought it was endearing
to love
someone who didn't love back,
thought it'd be fun to see,
how a bad idea would end,
so I slipped you
an invitation,
sent it as a joke,
but then you showed up,
and I don't even know.

So go ahead and choke me,
I'll cry on my birthday,
dreaming of faraway.
I feel like I'm drowning,
I feel like I'm sinking,
deeper and deeper
into a bad something.
I should start listening.

Shouldn't have had you at my party,
wouldn't have stopped me from falling,
wouldn't have stopped me from sinking,
wouldn't keep me listening,
but maybe my mascara wouldn't smudge,
even if my heart wouldn't budge,
I could have cried some other day.

Other than my birthday.
Other than my party,
could've cried in the backseat,
of a random taxi,
on a random Tuesday.
could have ate my feelings away
right beside a driver who didn't even know me.

But I didn't cry in a taxi,
didn't cry in the backseat,
I cried in the bathroom,
at the big venue,
I messed up my makeup,
we didn't even break-up,
we aren't even dating,
so why did it matter,
why did my baby heart shatter
on my birthday?

Over nothing?

Oh why did I have to cry
on my birthday?

When I was 5 years old,
I still had my pacifier.
My parents had read on the internet that
when it was taken away
I'd scream and cry about it,  
but then forget.
I didn't forget.

My mother said she never
heard anyone scream that loud,
or fight that hard.
My father joked that I had rattled the walls
with my cries.
They still refused to give it back to me.

Maybe that's why my fingernails
or the inside of my cheeks
become the victim of my teeth,
anytime I get nervous.

When I was twelve years old,
I still slept with a stuffed monkey,
worn with age.
I loved Milli more than most things,
and certainly most people
Then our airline lost my suitcase,
with her on it.

My mother laughed
as I started crying, screaming,
"Where is she!?"
My father joked that I turned
into a toddler for a minute there.
I never saw Milli again.

Maybe that's why pillows
or my Bible
become the victim of my grip,
anytime someone screams at me.

The trees still hold your spirit,
drifting on the river,
floating on the wind.
This world is still ours.

This world of rocky streams,
and muddy hills,
and dirt paths with fallen leaves,
still belongs to us both,
and that hurts more than anything else.

My friends giggled and said,
"She's falling in love,"
and I'd laugh along,
but now I know the truth.

This is not falling.
This is being pushed off a bridge,
down, down, down into a chasm,
that smells and looks and feels like you,
aches of you-
and knowing that you don't want me like this.

Not as a classmate,
not as an acquaintance,
not as a friend,
not as a lover-
Not even as a person.

I think that hurts most of all.

I take the long breath out,
I take the long breath in,
wondering when this thing will end.
This pile of uncertainty,
This puppet game,
with tangled up strings.

Surely you knew me well enough,
to know that though it would have been tough,
the truth would have not broken me,
I don’t know why you act like you can not see
me now, but I hope you do.

I hope you see me in the stars I wish to travel to,
I hope you see me in the summer sky, bright blue,
I hope you see me in the waves crashing on the sand,
I hope you see me in the towers, tall and grand,
I hope you see me in the books that line the shelves,
But I curse you to see me when you see yourself.

When I see myself, there is not too much good,
you brought that out in me, like you should.
But with you gone, I struggle to see
the kindness you brought out in me.
The kindness,
the politeness, how can’t you see,
that I’m exactly who you thought me to be.

I gave you every single part,
gave you access to every scar,
unlock me with a given key,
and you will see that half of me is missing,
gave to our hundred “new beginnings”

I hope you see me in the words I strive to write,
I hope you see me in the ceiling on your sleepless nights,
I hope you see me in the earth beneath your feet,
I hope you see me in the echo of every thing you speak,
I hope you see me in the clock when it hits the twelfth,
But I curse you to see me when you see yourself.