maybe we met and I , I forgot.

I am unashamedly Ashley. At least that's what "hellopoetry" calls me. Tumblr calls me "vesperoflove", but if you really knew me you'd drop off the glitz and just call me "Ash".

And here we are sitting on the subway and something about you makes me want to open up. Maybe it's the way you smile or the wrinkles you get when you are trying not to. But I look into your eyes and you hold my gaze, and I like that. You aren't staring at me like I am worthless piece of trash nor have you look at me like I am a piece of ***, you are just looking into my eyes. I am flattered by the attention, I might stumble over words, and your interest might even cause me to blush. You ask to sit by me and I wave you in, and that's where this new chapter begins.

"Hi." I say working up the nerve to meet your gaze,and I blush, I am the abscence of your color and I stare down at my legs and as you rearrange yours to accommodate the length of your logs extensions of your long trunk, I note the contrast in appreciation.

And I get distracted by this, but you are asking me questions about my life and I try and dredge up silver lining in monotony of years.

    What have I done exciting?
    What do I hope to accomplish?
    Where do I see myself in the next five years?
    What do I want?
And that is only the tip of the Iceberg you have thrown in my lap.

Coming off as an host of a talk radio show, I ponder these illuminating thoughts.

And your probably not the first person to ask me these things, but right now its like I have never been truly asked.

I don't know why I haven't asked these things of myself.

But cargo doesn't ask or question. And maybe that's how I have been living my life.

Merely reacting to things that have happened in the past and in the present.

I would like to blame it on my poverty mindset. On the way I grew up. But then when does my accountability start.When do I get to make choices for me, and be held responsible.

At the age 18 when I can rent ****, buy stick de cancer?

What age do we become our own person, driven by our own desires?

But you aren't worried of the questions I haven't begun to ask and I like that.
I lean in closer hoping to gauge you reaction in your eyes.
I am known and you see me not as I am but what I could be and all the things I have yet to achieve do not mar your rose color glasses.

I find joy in the kindness of strangers and reprieve.

and I write them.
love letters to strangers,
I support the troops,
I organize a drive,
I make out letters to faceless people,
knowing not the strength of their smile,
but imagining the topography of their hearts,
of their hearts,
I pencil out conversations,
that don't matter,
in order that they know that they matter,
if only to me,

I compliment strangers,
I tip more then the bill,



and I am a face less white girl,
who seemingly has got her things in order,
see my left hand, I've hid my right.
and as they rationalize these random acts of kindness
the gestures,
that I want to matter,

I wonder if they think of me?

I write love letters to strangers,
because their easier to love,
then myself,
I write love letters to strangers,
because I 'm not willing to start one to me.

I know its coming before I feel it,
and I am left bruised,
and forever bleeding,

and wherever you touch,
is a mixture of fire and ice,
flaming pain
only to lead to numbing cold.

I map out the tender areas,
painted with black and blue,
and my fingers
they barely skim surface.

Closing me eyes,
shutting out thought,
feeling only pain.
But I take it,
because I still have use of my hands,
and my eyes haven't swollen shut,
it only gets worse,
when there is no feeling and all I am is cold.

And after every fall you
become my prince charming,

you dance me around in circles,
while my hips move under your control,
but they are just parking spots for your hands,
hands that won't stay there long.

It's in those moments,
I worry about the next time,
but those thoughts are fleeting ,
it's so much effort to get through them now.

and there are so many emotions,
plastered to these thoughts,
I can't even begin to unravel,
and it's a pity...

anger.
hurt.
pain.
sorrow.
rejection.
confusion.

and for every truth,
you sandwhiched it betwixt the lies.

It's circular this argument,
me against you,
me against the me with you,
me against the me with out you.
I am so hurt,
I am so angry,
I want to invent new words to balm this wound,
to invent them to curse you,

I want to twist the knife out of my back,
and put the words back into yours,

The complex and simple thing that love is you will never know,
you don't even  have a  clue.

Jade... your jaded,
and I'll erase you,
erase your uncertainties in all your lies,

And all you were and ever going to be is part of the past,
destined to die in the dust of someone who has forgotten you,
but you will never forget.

And there are days where that's all you are,
but i don't wish that on you.
I just wish you gone.
After all that's what you've always been good at.

and that's the place,
where I go,
the mind nestles before it goes to bed,
and I struggle against your hold even now,

i show my neck

I trace the scars,
tokens,
of affection left,
for me.

And I wonder if you've,
if you were ever loved,

and I feel the brush of constant disappointment,
that lap over your soul,

and you'd erase it if you could get your weapon to reach,
and you talk with demons,
while they haunt me in my sleep.

and everyday I try to draw,
strength from those who prove to be strong,
and the memories a litany,
an unsung song.

I can't write it down,
I can't seem to spell it out

and we don't talk about it,
but I want to.

and there's the etch a sketch again,
dragging the metal 'round her wrists,
just to feel,
and heroically I fight to be her champion,
waging wars against the depression of her breaths,
and I remember her pain,
it hurt more then mine,
and I stood beside her
and we paired mutilated aortas,
with decaying hearts,
and I thought this would be different,
that some how the story would change,
because it was us,
us against them,
us against the lust,
and all we wanted was time to be together,
time bleeds love into,
us against crumbling trust,
us against us.

I thought this story was different but in the end,
we speak not,
we trust not,
and we forget and forgive not,
and all we bring to the table of life is left rotten,
desires and dreams untended,
all we are and all we are not is shadows now,
and we are stuck waiting for a train that may never come.

and stars dance across your limbs,
and I trace the patterns on your skin,
jumping from brown star to brown star,
I begin to wonder who you really are,
and that's when I travel north,
you make time for me to breathe and
I continue on,
and I see your eyes,
planets of your soul,
and all the regions of your heart,
displayed on the big orbs,
that are framed by the loveliness of you face.