Maybe I was never broken,
Just not the way you wanted,
Maybe it hurts you,
to know that I am more
than just an extension of you.
You expected me to be a mirror,
But just because you can’t see yourself in me,
Doesn't mean I’m broken glass.

while others dream of
getting an education
finding a job
getting a husband
buying a house
choosing curtains
washing sheets
doing chores
and shopping groceries for the week at the local supermarket
going out with the girls for a night out at some nice pub
having a baby
changing diapers
teaching your kid to talk and read
living the dream
cooking pies for pastry contests
growing old and becoming
a nanny
playing bingo in the local club
and driving a nice car
and not having troublesome teenagers
and dying peacefully
and having a fairly nice funeral
and a nice piece of land in the local cemetery,
I dream of
staying up until 4 a.m.
the only light coming from my
laptop screen
killing characters while pressing
keyboard buttons
drinking wine
and smoking rolled
cigarettes
in a cramped apartment
in some unknown city
a room
stuffed with art
and scattered manuscripts
all over the floor
caffeine nights
and starving my body
but feeding my mind
and freeing my soul
I don't dream of getting married
but of getting my characters together and
then drifting them apart
I don't dream of having children
but of writing children who
grab the opportunity and live
a fascinating life
I don't dream of living
I dream of creating lives
and deaths
and dreams
and love
I don't dream of dying an old lady
I dream of immortalising myself
in creating fictional lives

I always want to start my poems with "its funny" even though they never are

they're always about you or her

I don't understand why I can't write anything beautiful
but then again, I don't understand why you two left
you slammed the door in my face
and my best friend sneaked out slowly
did she not think I'd notice?
I cannot sleep and I cannot breathe and I cannot listen to music without your faces coming into view

I see you everywhere
I'm always double looking
and my throat catches
but its never you
just my mind playing tricks and my hopes getting up to knock me down

oh ****. I just realized I'm writing about you two again.

225 days under grass
and you know more than i.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows,

when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.

what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.