One day, you’re 18 and the boy you fell for in high school breaks your heart.

One day, you’re 25 and the boy who broke your heart has been long gone and his name is just another name among the bunch of “lovers that went wrong”. Among the “Should’ve beens” and “Would’ve beens”.

So there it is. Be 18. Wear your heart on your sleeve. Give your number to a stranger on the train who sparked a conversation with you about the weather or whether your Thursday night was vacant. Wear your heart on your sleeve. Love defiantly. Forgot what heartbreaks feels like, just remember how you wrote good poetry with mascara infused tears leaving track-marks along your cheekbones. Let boys look at you, you are a girl of beauty after all. Wear a new shade of lipstick that begs the attention. Run in the morning, understand you are free. Wear your heart on your sleeve.

And by all means, be 18. One day, you’ll be 25 and miss the petty heartbreaks of being 18.

It was time to leave.

The darkness you left me in is crawling into my veins and arteries.
Making home in the hollowness of what used to be a heart.

The vulgarness in your language that night has made friends with my white blood cells, so recalling you makes me sick.

The silence doesn't dawn on me until I look down at my hands.
You claimed ownership to them.
You used to hold them with love beaming from your palms.

I shrudder at the sight of happy lovers.
We are no longer lovers.
And happiness is a thing of the past.

I don't mean to sound cliche, but dear ******* diary;

I went to the gym today.
6 months ago, I just wanted to get toned.
Today I realized I just want to shed every single bit of me.
Itty, bitty as possible.
Maybe just then, I'll be a ghost.

I also realized how terribly alone I am.
Because it's 2:53am and I wanted to call him,
But he doesn't care anymore.

I'll literally talk to anyone who will listen.
I texted 7 digits but numberly anonymous worried about someone else.
"Don't worry about me".
I really hope they don't worry about me.
I'll be okay.
Eventually.

It's 1:21am.
And I would've still been on the phone with you, had it not gone all wrong.
Now I just lie in a mattress of emptiness & an ambiance of lightlessness.
Listening to lyric-less piano chords remixed with the memories of you and me.
And how we used to be.

I hope that someday,
Just as every overplayed song on the radio,
This melody will fade out.
Never to be heard again.

She loved him not for the way he looked

He was more than that.
He was more than piercing blue eyes and               an inviting smile.

She loved him for what she discovered beyond the physicalities.

A disarming amount of charms & sweetness that could make a girl want to fold herself as small as possible so she could be implante to just sit in his heart.

She loved him.
And he loved her too.
But just an image of her,
Not the girl attached.

I broke a few ribs when I fell to ground, when I was falling in love with you.

One of them punctured my heart and I've been bleeding you ever since.

I'm almost drained and the doctors are calling for a blood transfusion but all I really need is you, and your AB-type-blood-love.

The doctors are calling for a heart transplant, but how is that possible if you already took my heart when I made you home?

The poet's taught me that home is where the heart is.
My heart has always been with you and I had become accustomed to calling you home.

Now I am not only homeless,
I am heartless.

That's the plague of a dull heart in a
colorful world.

You never understand the hues radiating
from a person's soul.

You never fully comprehend the array of
fireworks behind one's smile.

Except for the writer herself.

She has a way with words.
She choreographs them in her mind and
then she watches them in awe, as they
dance on her paper.

She has a heart of rainbow calla lilies.
Always see's the best in people,
Disregards the worst.
This is the resiliency,
Of the writer' curse.
-Z.H.