it burned your throat when you drank bleach to **** the butterflies that he left living in your stomach.

and your face went red when they turned to moths instead, so you took a trip to the beach to try and immerse the flame that kept them attracted to you.

you laid your head under the water and took a deep breath.

deep sea diving always sounded scary but this time it sounded satisfying, because you knew he must have been somewhere at the bottom of the ocean.

the further you went down, the closer you felt to seeing him again.

hands wrapped around your ankles and you started rising up like smoke.

when the lifeguard emptied the water that was held hostage in your lungs, it felt like fire,

and you thought God, the moths will never leave me now.

but the situation felt comfortable, a twisted kind of familiar.

because you remember the day he apologized to you for making you feel like you were drowning.

and you remember the day he left and how it felt like a flash flood.

every part of you was overflowing, but the water wasn't the only blue thing that made you short of breath.

there was a time your lungs gave up simply from looking into his bright blue eyes.

but when the only thing that's bright to you anymore is the top of every matchstick you've struck on your skin just to keep his memory alive, run them under the faucet.

after staring out the kitchen window, realize that he was never in love with you.

because if he was, he wouldn't have been the reason that you drained yourself of all of this color.

there's not much left of him here anymore.

except for his hoodie that laid on the floor while you laid awake in bed.

the moths ate so many holes through the covers that you tossed and turned with chills.

you spent that whole night wondering what would happen if you died, but without you there would be nothing left of him and you know that.

he left so many pieces of himself behind when he broke you that you mixed them all together in the clean up.

you don't feel comfortable in your own skin because not all of it is yours.

you break due to love, he breaks due to anger, you two do not mix.

he's hot air, you're cold, and together you form a tornado.

don't you see that attempting to fix him is destroying everything else in the process?

he's the reason you don't trust anyone but God you trust him with your life.

it's so stupid to try and fix the person who broke you.

he's the entire reason you're writing this poem.

you're telling yourself that he'll never come back but you've been setting a table for two for months.

and you light the candles.

and the moths flutter.

I've had the same mattress for 16 years.
It is filled with memories, my best to my worst ideas, and all of my dead parts.
Most thoughts come to me when my eyes are closed.
this mattress is a journal. a scrap book. a photo album.
so many shapes are imprinted in this old thing.
but that's not the point of it.
It scares me, it does. There's something dangerous about it.
maybe it's the fact that I might never wake up, maybe it's because I'm most vulnerable when unconscious.
no one can control their head when they're asleep.
and my mattress is infested with anxiety, it always tremors.
it makes me feel as if this sleep should be eternal, as if my pillows will suffocate me while I'm dreaming.
but my mattress is still comfortable.
it's always been there when I need it, it is always available.
it is inviting to others who decide to lie upon it, with squeaks and calming gestures.
sometimes people say they don't want to get out of it and sometimes I allow them to stay.
but that's not the point of it either.

the point is him.
the point has always been him.
the way he fell back into the blankets and the way he left his cologne on the sheets.
he stayed there for a while.
my whole being was sure that he was going to move in, that I'd be waking up to him every morning through forever.
but that sadly wasn't the case.
I have to be asleep to be able to hold him now.
but I remember the past, running my fingers along his arms, explaining to him that such a thing as veins scares me but his look like lighting.
he ran electricity down my back every time he embraced my body, he was the unexpected storm, but I decided to lay in the rain.
when he offered me an umbrella, I smiled a no.
and he apologized if I ever felt like I was drowning.
so when he decided to leave me, it was a flash flood.
flash back.
to the mattress. my comfortable place of belonging.
flash forward.
to the mattress. the throne for all of my sobbing.
you see, I carry this mattress with me everywhere I go.
my skull is the box spring, I am the bed frame.
you see, it's a metaphor.
it isn't actual fabric, or a place for resting, it rests in the back of my head.
and everyone else has left my head but he tosses and turns up there constantly.
and when I begin to think that maybe I just can't live without him, and that maybe I should end my own life because I'm not worth the space that I occupy, I swear I see his blue eyes staring into my dull ones, and I swear I hear him say
"baby, why don't you sleep on it?"

someone's in the next room over
having *** while we
are weeping
what a way to mark the occasion
the day my fingers found a wound
you let someone else doctor
it's upsetting see
the bible in drawer next to us
the way our hands still
fit together
like the torn halves
of a love letter
the way you got
all dressed up like the rain
and how we couldn't tell
the difference in the shower
it was the longest hour and a half
spent crying
the hot water wouldn't give up
so why should we
right?
even though it was scalding
neither of us touched the ****
we knew this was supposed to hurt
your hair
a black mess against my shoulder
my fingers
oil in the vinegar of your hands
our bodies
the great divide
all the sobbing
a river runs through it
without the courage
to carry or **** us
so we step out
and drip dry
down to a mute breakfast
composed of quiet
and last nights liquor
as we came back in
there were people in our room
at first i thought them detectives
dissecting things
to see who had died here
i had forgotten this
was a hotel
and they were only
cleaning up after us
i wanted to stop them
plead
that the sheets were still perfect
that if they clean the bathroom
no one will know
what happened here
someone has to remember
"please
i know
these cigarette burns
by name
i will bury the faucet
let me take the tub
i don't care how
if i have to
i will drag it home by hand"

Respect for everyone on here who acts so sweet,
Little acts of kindness everywhere,
Intelligent poetry and clever comments,
Supportive people and sometimes a kind private message.
Being on here restores my faith in humanity.
The people on here are beautiful, all in their own way.
Never I will say without flaws, we are all humans here.
No, we aren't without flaws, that us the best part,  we accept each others flaws.
Respect for everyone here who votes on my poetry.
I am happy with people like you.
And the nice comments on here, on my works and on the works of others, I am proud to be part of this community.
And to anyone who send me kind private messages, you are the best.
Respect for everyone on here, first of all for being human beings.
Secondly because you being so wonderful.
Respect and thank you