This is for the three A.M writers,
The four A.M coffee drinkers,
because sleep isn’t useful at this point.
This is for the daughter that lost her mother
at age twelve and never stopped smiling.


This is for the boy that knows that the
closet will only be kind to him
for a little while longer
but can’t bring himself to leave quite yet,


I see you.


I see the smile fade for just a second,
the small tear run down your cheek.
I see how quickly you wipe it away,
scanning the room to make sure no one saw,
but I did.

This is for the social smokers,
and the casual drinkers and
the avid vapors that think that cotton candy
flavored juices won’t give you cancer…
I see you.


I see you post drag, look at the cigarette
like it's the first time one has ever been in your hand.
I see the moment you realize you want
your lungs to give out. I see you raise it back to your lips.


I see you sip from a coffee cup at a football game,
but oh don’t you wish it was coffee,
but instead coffee brandy burns your throat
as you try to forget all the bad things he did to you.


I see you.


I see you wince at the final sip, not only because
you took too much to swallow, but because
the pain made you realize what you have
let him turn you into.


This is for the class clowns.
The boy that tries so hard to make other
people laugh because he
can’t remember the last time
he actually smiled, and if he
can make other people happy for just a second,
one day maybe he’ll be happy too.


I see you.


I see you after landing the punchline,
analyzing the classroom,
and when the roar of laughter fades
so doe’s smile that never quite reached
your eyes.


This is for the the invisible.
The “unmemorable” face in the crowd.
The people in public with their face in a book,


I see you.


I see you watch quietly in the background.
Listening to everything around you,
never brave enough to speak up.


I see you.


This is for all of the people that at one point
in their life thought no one was watching.
That no one ever cared enough to see you.


I see you.

I remember sitting with my legs crossed
at an empty parking lot with you.
Burning our lungs,
sharing our deepest secrets at 3am
while I rest my head
on your shoulder that cold summer night.
I sang along our favorite songs
and you wished that time stopped
so we could still be together.

But alas,

You are still too damaged.
You think too much.
You are too practical.
You are not yet ready for anything.

And I’m left confused
and angry
and frustrated
and a little bit hurt, I guess.

So here we are again,
so here we go again.

Who would have thought
that we would actually
burn even faster
than our cigarettes?

                                                    ­                        
 — apbq

It started out as her nickname and turned into her lifestyle.

When something is dead,

they let it stay dead.


But when you're dead inside,
they fight and fight just to keep you alive.

But when something is dead,
you must let it die.