Heartbreak is an inevitable thing.
I knew this. I knew that throughout the course of my early life, I would experience many heartbreaks.
You know, the ones where it wasn’t meant to be. Life designed to have these strategically planned heartbreaks so that you could grow, you could learn.
A pain so real, it is as though the pain is literally reconfiguring your insides as it moves through you; staying just long enough to shape you, but not long enough to become you.
Our hearts like a key getting resized and fitted for the next lock.
Getting so far into the lock before realizing it’s not a match, our heart, getting shaped and sized per each of these attempts. Shaping up until it finds the right lock; the day when your key fits and you know it’s a match – the feeling people refer to as “when you know, you know”.

Is it possible, however, to find your match- the lock that you are finally meant to open, but while turning the key something goes wrong?
What once was a perfect fit, now sits ajar. The answer: I don’t know.
I loved a man.
A perfect fit.
Our love was trusting, it was giving, it was deep, and strong, and passionate.
I loved this man with all of my being;
and he loved me back.

This man is dead.
That’s what breaking up with someone feels like, anyways.
It is as if they are dead.
You will no longer talk with them, share with them, kiss them, hug them, touch them, love them.
They will no longer hold you at night while you sleep.
They will no longer embrace you in the morning, kiss you when you wake.
It is as though they do not exist.
Not to you anyway; or you to them.

This is for the girls who lie awake at night,
Pulling at the blankets to keep them warm,
Drenched in sins of deprecation.
Tossing and turning on their twin size beds,
because there is not enough room to fit expectations,
let alone their own.
This is for the girls who stare at themselves in front of their mirrors,
Pinching at the extra layers of skin that hang around their tummies.
Rolls of "fat" as they call it, I prefer the term "beauty."
This is for the girls who have shoulders are backs plastered in scars.
From the bras that were one cup size to small, overly adjusted and tightened straps.
This is for the girls who fall prey to the fallacies of magazine stands,
captivated by the cold letters bleeding off the covers:
"Three hundred, sixty-five ways to style your hair!"
"How to get the perfect ****!"
"Turn off the lights to look good naked!"
"How to make him love you!"
Pull apart the flesh, look beneath your skin,
you are not defined by the number of eyes that manifest lust towards you,
you are not the hands that plead to saunter their way toward your hips,
You are not the number of inches that space out your thighs.
Or the visibility of muscle that line up on your stomach.
You do not need to look good naked,
don't turn off the lights.
Your **** looks fine
Stop falling victim to the media
To the photo shopped ads of puppets who look nothing like you
Because your real
and if you want a man to love you, he must learn to accept you
with your extra flaws, our scars, and rolls of fat.
Because that sack of bones known as a model on a Cosmopolitan cover will not keep him warm.
It is inscribed in the atoms that make you a person
you are a three dimensional beautiful masterpiece
you are not a computerized pixelated image
reshaped and resized retouched and revised
stop letting society dehumanize a woman
your a woman
all the fury to slither through you limbs until you shake with and anger and purpose, acknowledge the value of your worth for you are more that just a waste of paper and space, you are space, you are human, your alive, and beautiful

I long
                    like
something plush weeping
         into a pillowed hug

of empty oxygen

though I try the Brave Game,
                                         (and usually win)
               flakes of me run
           off my arms and face
and scrounge around the corners of the room
          
                                                           looking for your mellow sting.

supposedly,
“heartache”
is figurative.
                        But I definitely feel
a              s t r e t c h i n g
mush
right where
the Doctors say my heart
                       should probably be

a slight tremor
(      echoes      )
      through every joint
of my toy frame,
              like a thousand elfin voices talking
                      about your favorite foods,
                      and the color of your hugs.

    the tightening
muscles of my throat
        send their regards to your
amicable eyes

              2.5 is a smallish bird
when one observes
             the blue expanse of my ocean life
but it pecks my most tender tissues
                     when I sit [flat] inside Today.

I miss
      like
someone resized my skin

                                            incompetently.

though I am grateful
for your delicate absence
                      (the elusive Good deserves you most)

I feel as if
the petty bird’s wing tensions
        won’t be satisfied
with the look of my dappled shoulders
till you stroke them densely
with your matter-of-fact fingers.

I sold my soul
to a devil in a dream
and then I woke up
sweat beaded on my flesh, which
had contracted
and my pores became
unreadable braille
I can feel
the sweat jogging steadily
down every crevice
of my disgusting body
and then I woke up
in a jail cell
having my ****** resized
and wished
I could return
to my dream state
and then I woke up
living on a street corner
with an empty can in front of me
without the use
of my legs
they were gone
but they felt like pins
and needles
and then I woke up
in my bed at home
stumbled sleepily
to the bathroom to take a ****
then back to a dreamless sleep

Facade.

hide the face that shows the state
don’t let it humiliate,
everyday put on the hidden facade
and pray to god,
that they don’t shout
and let it get all out,
i never forget the words they said
let my mind erupt until someones dead
i wonder if that’s their goal
to crush every soul
and the victims they seek
seem happy never leak
a cent of depression
warning viewer discretion
is advised
events resized
forget the scripts i read
follow me, i’ll lead
but if you agree to follow
you just drop down below
clear your own path
don’t sit and suffer their wrath
devastation
annililation
inundation
continuation
repitition­
intermission
lost nation
misinterpretation
to conclude; i’m dead inside
from everytime they lied
selfdestruction
internal eruption…

- JacobDexterCoffey--

I saw you a year before
In a resized, high-resolution image
Looking my way, though we were
Separated by a thin computer screen

I didn't know your name, however
And I decided to give up
The image of a beautiful individual
Faded from my memory as time flew

It took quite a while before
I saw you in person for the first time
Laughing, walking, talking
*You were so real

The blanket of space, where never rased so "placees after hours" you listen the blank taste settles there hate.

Conflate, the reams of the varibles.

Disagree, with the hammer of dawn.

Dust mist the area.

Immunity, was parched the thrist it needed a pass to enter with grain on hands you go to your converters.

The build began, its safety features include "secrete safe" house concepts.

So don't be silly or nodding because the scale use there own grips.

The yard puzzles most as Un seen.

Cars pass by yet no one sees the area.

How was this able to occur none will know.

Many men and women, praise there skills made in full detail.

Don't look away as the sun will change its pace more than just metaphorically.

Day after day the music, was played to the person of high grade, sheilds.

As shadow's came we light his path or aura enegy.

Disburst there attempts with tricky special ops.

Codes were recited, to open the plasma coil and the power was as is.

Above* the words read Care Is To Be Used!

Misinformation, spell to Earth, as Kings and Knight, change there views and faces.

Here as rain starts pain grew and Plains redone.

Illicit, there plains where yet with grim details Un masked.

Poker hands faces look easy.

Oh, dear lord it is that of pity.

Black ships and twister of reality.

Shade there (Egos) and stain there display.

Decate, as we go to the other room he begins his home made craft.

Shoulder, heavy as made precession, was resized for the purpose of matter displacement.

They reach for the bright ring
All attention on the extended finger tips
Is a sympathetic squirm in your chair  
Our contribution to the attempt?

Can we lift them to reach further?
Can we have the ring lowered?
Resized?
Delivered by courier?

Give them good shoes
And demonstrate stretching exercises.
And at the attempt, let it be of themselves.
Let them do it alone,
And ask how it went.
Lament the failures.
Blame nobody.
And encourage another try.