emotion

all this time,
I've been trying to describe something that I can't recognize,
something burrowing out of me from the inside,
cutting me,
I never know if I want to keep it in
or if I want to push it out
what is it

wednesday

Wednesday, day of the “I thought it was Friday,”

hulking over the rest of the week with its prideful boasting

and its incessant prompting,

“you’re not enough, you’re not enough, you’re not enough”

Wednesday knows just how to warm up the bed

so that you won’t make your train,

and especially takes time in the early morning to properly un-tidy your room.

Wednesday leads in with a “you can do it!”
and promptly exits with a “my work is done,” and a bow

after completely screwing you over.

Wednesday’s empty promises to tackle new projects

is battered down by the forgotten ghosts of Tuesday’s procrastination,

choking every hope you have of reaching some obtainable goal.

Wednesday brings stress in a basket and anxiety in a bottle to go with it,

the perfect combination to get you drunk on your own self-pity

and ruddy with mixed emotions.

He walks into the room with a smile, loud and deceptive,

setting himself down next to your desk, never to leave.

Wednesday swears in your ear and pinches your arm enough to leave a bruise,

reminding you of the money you’ve spent and the gifts you’ve yet to buy.

Just when you’ve had enough and you’re ready to holler every insult you can muster,

Wednesday goes ahead and hollers them for you,

screaming profanity and basking in his own filth,

twisting everyone’s words, tainting relationships, building barriers,

texting you insults and filling your day with disappointing realities.

Wednesday, champion of the week, top of the hump,

pushes you downhill towards Thursday with such force that your

ribs break, one by one, until you can’t breathe and you resign yourself

to the prodding and feel your cheeks wet with tears,

crying at your desk,

hating Wednesday.

throwing caution to the wind

I told myself I would write today. I told myself I would write but I'm distracted, so here I am, writing but not where I need to be, writing to untangle my emotional threads. Don't read this.
there's a lot I want to say to you, all the time,
a lot I have in my brain that swims around (and not aimlessly, mind you, it's careening towards you at an alarming rate), but I usually let the thoughts just swim until they capsize and drown, never quite reaching you.
I'm always afraid of everything--I'm always doubting myself, doubting you, doubting the situation, when at the same time I feel so sure when I'm looking at you that there's something important you have to tell me. Of course, maybe you already told me, you took care of it, but I never really told you the truth. I'm good at that, lying. When I want to be, at least. Sometimes I pretend to be bad at it, pretend to be bad at hiding my emotions because I simply want people to know how I'm feeling, if I'm angry, or frustrated, or painfully infatuated.
Maybe infatuated is the wrong word.
I don't know, what I'm trying to say is that I find everything about you interesting. No matter what it is you're telling me, no matter how tedious the topic, or however unrelatable, I think whatever you think is important is important. I love the way you take in information you think is useful, and then reverberate it all onto me or whoever just to remind yourself that you've learned something. I love that you like to solve problems. I love that you laugh whenever you want, and I love when you laugh at me, your eyes shining like they've found treasure. You're ambitious, passionate, sometimes kind of lazy.
Anyway, I guess I'm still jumping around because I don't want to say what I want, because I guess I don't know. Maybe I haven't told you because I already know the answer, but maybe I feel like I should just tell you anyway. You already know. This is word vomit. None of this is pretty, none of this is important, it's all just the space between my heart and my mind on the page trying to make sense of everything that's happened. Nothing has happened. Nothing will happen unless I make some grand gesture or unless you're not thinking what I know you're thinking.
It's pretty gutsy of me to post this, anyway. Nobody reads this but I mean, it's on a public page. If you were to get curious about me (heaven forbid) and actually look for me on any social media forum, this would be pretty accessible. I'm sure it's nothing you don't know.
I mean, what I want to say I guess is that something in me feels like I need you. And maybe it's just the idea of you, but I can't shake it and it confuses me that you don't feel it too. I don't know what I need you for, I'm pretty O.K. by myself. Take that how you will. It's late.

flutters

pop rocks stinging my tongue, I ask you, “have you ever..?” “don’t you think?” “when will you?”

snap, click, zing,

my stomach feels the same,

knotting and bubbling out my mouth,

searching for extra space it doesn’t have,

asking for permission to implode on some elastic whim,

overextending itself in excitement and confusion.

my breath swims in my chest like breezes shooting over ocean waves,

forcing itself out in hefty gusts that sound like laughter.

always laughing, tickled and prodded from the inside out,

something’s pulling me closer to you and it’s bothering me.

I keep asking it to stop, cut it out, knock it off,

but they’ve never been disciplined, my insides,

and my brain watches like a parent whose child has spiraled out of control

after consuming an entire bag of sugary snacks,

sighing because “she should know better,” and “what are we going to do about her.”

it’s not my fault, I tell myself, but the pressure between my eyes is telling me that it is,

and perhaps it’s me that creates this magnetism between souls,

pressing mine against another until he’s stuck like

the velcro bands on my shoe,

ripping off with a loud sound and then pressing back on again.

my fingernails scratch my face in some sort of strange reaction,

it’s itching me whenever I look at my phone,

am I psycho? I wonder

no, not that, but instead controlled by the gentle flapping of

millions of wings living inside me,

lifting me off the ground and begging me to escape,

to let them cover my skin in soft ethereal colors and flashing light,

to set me next to him in a haze of pollen and powder that covers us both,

-------------stop!------------------

I yell, sending them careening back into my diaphragm,

stop,

or else I’ll have to tell them about you.

this isn't about life

this isn’t about life,
this is about love
and living
and loving
loving until your heart breaks so many times the cracks hurt when you move,
living until everywhere feels like home and everything tastes like passion
this is about the tiny palms that hold your fingers,
wrapping around them and holding on as if to whisper,
“I’m here, I’m alive,” the blood pumping under her skin, tinting it pink like her new jumper.
this is about laughing so hard your insides shake,
tears stinging your eyes and your brain scattered in ecstatic sparks,
this is about the time when she cried in the closet until her ears rang and her legs fell asleep,
closing her eyes to keep it all in, the tears and the pain
they never wanted her to feel this,
but she did anyway.

this isn’t about life,
this is about the boy who threw the bracelet at her and pedaled away,
the boy who prank called her 28 times,
the one who loved her eyelashes,
the one who ran off the doorstep,
the one who couldn’t claim her,
the boy who couldn’t choose.
this is about her heart beating at night, praying for a hug,
praying for the love she felt could keep her safe, holding herself between her sheets.

this is about waking up in the morning and smiling back at the sun,
filling herself with love until she loved more than she knew
walked the length of the city more times than she could count
hugged and helped and served and sang
this is about moments
moments that define, moments that sting, moments that dance
not just living because your lungs are moving and your heart is pumping
but because you’re surrounded by the poignant reminder of lives and purpose and after

after, when everything will be different,
transitions and change beating down on you like a mallet on a wooden post,
shifting perspective,
challenging yourself to keep the doors open even though it hurts
maybe that’s how it is
after living,
after loving,
after hurting

this isn’t about life.
it’s about two weeks ago, it’s about today,
how at once she’s beside him and the next she can’t be
where you can reach and not touch,
speak and not be heard
where the foundation is hope and some twisted notion of faith
faith in something you can’t see but faith that keeps us together,
keeps her from tearing herself to pieces and
keeps her from the foggy pollution she breathes in
this is about her eyes when they close at night
and the reality of the dreams that dance in her head
the reflection of the emotions she can never express
the fight between her body and soul
how long will it be
before they can work together?

this isn’t about life.
this is about love,
this is about living and loving,
reaching and trying harder than you have before,
squinting until your head hurts,
wishing until you feel,
feeling so that you’re living,
living so that you can love.

breezes

the door slams behind me,
feet tripping over each other to get outside
cold air fingers through my hair,
wrapping me in its open arms
my breath releases into it,
fluid, haphazardly, weaving itself into the outside
reckless thing.
my sigh is taken painlessly from me,
and I feel icy fingers reaching down my throat,
prying open my fear,
eating at my sorrow,
peeling me open to reveal only the softest parts,
I close my eyes.

its never really dark,
my veins dancing behind my eyes,
movement threatening me even behind eyelids,
colors bubbling underneath and kissing my pupils
my chest rises with the wind, organs pressing
against my ribs, asking to be freed,
pleading for liberation,
a purpose,
anything.

my eyes blink open as shards of grass prick my skin,
the breath slipping out of my stomach and back,
into the world where it came from but
somehow different,
transformed but invisible,
escaping constraints that once held it down
joining the musical strands that make up the atmosphere.

“take me with you,” I cry,
but its taken my voice with it
and left nothing but emotion,
raw, manipulative feelings that
constrict my heart and pump my blood
faster, faster,
hotter,
until all I can feel is love,
disappointment,
sadness,
longing,
and I dissolve into it as my hair falls to my shoulders
and I trap my breath in my throat.

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new

there aren't enough emotions to describe what I'm feeling. I don't know where to write about it, or who to talk to about it, because whenever I try, it comes out broken like ice shards or as hot as glowing coals. its something like love but something like anger, sprinkled with jealous notes with an aftertaste of confusion. every thought that comes in one end changes before it exits, chased away by a contradiction. certainty is something I chase, but confusion isn't everything that I feel. prick me and I'll pop, nudge me and I'll harden. my heart turns in minutes from soft to silent, bitter to open, and I don't know who I want to be. one hour I'm ready to conquer the world, the next I'm hiding myself from the world. do I want to help, or do I need to hide? have I hit the bottom, or am I climbing higher? where are my feet planted--in love, or in law? my loyalties are strewn in every corner of the rocky road, and pieces of myself are glued to different people. i've lost the respect of people I love and I can't respect myself in the process. starving for affirmations, my lungs breathe in any attention they can get and weep when i'm alone. as soon as I feel something is right, that I'm doing the right thing, going in the right way, and then something pushes me back and i'm forced to backtrack, back to the place i was, away from the progress i've made. i'm constantly searching for a solution and tunneling myself back into a damp hole without direction. i guess it's me, i guess it's me.

heartstrings

"the last heartstring is the hardest," he told me, sawing away with his tool. "The connection, it's just so strong. The memories string it together, a flaxen cord." I wince as the serrated edge nicks each of the strands, plucking them like a melodic harp. The strands were once so precious to me, and since the pain began, I've been coming to see him.

"Two weeks ago I hardly felt anything," I say, confident in my abilities to understand his procedure. "Why should this one hurt any more?"

"Well, to put it simply, she's just still holding on." He peered into me carefully, watching himself to be sure that he didn't disturb anything else inside. It had been a process, and the appointments were strung out for almost a year. The strands he cut had been built so tediously, so carefully, over minutes and hours and trips to McDonald's. The procedure cost a fortune but still cost me less than I had wasted building the strands. You don't know, when you're creating heart strings, that you're building a fortress around yourself, around your soft parts, your ability to love anything else. The heartstrings are selfish--they pulse blood, thoughts, and emotions towards one source only, and leave the rest of your previous interests neglected. It wasn't until these piece began to die that I started to lose strength as well.

"Oh," I whispered, feeling the sensation in my chest. He rubbed his tool against the string.

"Yep, that's it. That's the one. A big guy, really--maybe the biggest I've ever seen!" He took it under his finger. "Look, it's so sturdy. I thought it'd be more fragile, that I'd have to be more careful. Looks like this one is years in the making! It's like it's part of you. Are you sure..?"

"Yes, I'm sure." My breath echoes in my head, and I can hear my blood rushing in great thumps with my heart, my tongue falling into the back of my throat to keep me from protesting. Everything in me wanted to scream, "No, please, no, I've changed my mind," but my thoughts took me racing back to everything that had happened and the pain, the endless pain that tormented my insides and forced food out of me, made me feel worthless and alone, pressed me up against nails that tore through my skin. No, I couldn't protest. I had waited far too long, and without this cut, I wouldn't be able to sustain the new and more inclusive strings my body had been working on. "It's gotta go," I affirmed, "It's not the right one. It's killing me."

The doctor never put me under for these types of procedures, but sometimes he gave me something to calm my pain or my nerves. "Not today," I motioned when he tried to hand me the bottle, "I think I'm going to want to remember how this feels." He looked at me with both concern and understanding, and stretched a new pair of latex gloves on. It seemed like such a strange environment for such a life-altering decision. White walls, grey cabinets, a metal sink next to the enormous bottle of sanitizer. His baby blue scrubs contrasted against the rest of the room, and he pointed the floodlight down on me like they do at the dentist. He knew not to make too much conversation with his patients. His work was far too painful for distraction, and he knew that the pain would be over as soon as his job was done. Today, especially, I felt that the job couldn't be rushed more. My last appointment. "Alright, here we go." He drew my attention back to the light, back to myself, and with the first touch of the string, into myself and my emotions.

Getting your heartstrings cut isn't something people normally opt to do. Heartstrings are normal and healthy ties to the people you love, they motivate you, give you support, and carry you when you're falling. It's when they start to build too strong, stronger than your heart or your brain, or too many to control, that they become intrusive. I still remember the day of my first exam. "Diseased," he told me. "Like a parasite. Your body has fallen completely subject to the will of these bonds." My heart ached in me, and it was so much more than heartbreak, so much more than disappointment. "We can take care of it, but it'll take time. Your brain isn't even functioning properly on its own, and I'm frankly surprised you're here right now. I advise that we start operating as soon as possible, to prevent any more attachment. You've come late, but in time to prevent further damage."

The procedures were always harder than I imagined, but they got easier every time. After the first heartstring was cut, I held its fragmented body in my hands and sobbed for hours, feeling like I had deserted myself, like I'd deserted her. It wilted away with time like a weed, losing its spring and coloration. I wanted to bring it back to life, prodding it, but once it was cut, I knew I couldn't reconstruct it. I held onto the strings that were left behind, but with every procedure, I felt my heart feel lighter. I started to sing and laugh, my brain began to wander into corners it had left alone for so long, gave her a rest. I felt goals coming to life, my ambitions moving forward. It was clear that the surgeries, though so tedious and long, were necessary. The doctor tried to prevent regrowths of the same threads if he could, removing potentially harmful bonds in their infancy.

I flashed back to the present, and let out a small cry as he began to cut. I always cried. The tears ran down my face, hot and wet, stinging the cut I had earlier bitten into my lip. Every thread of a heartstring contained a memory, and the emotions that interacted so closely with these memories flooded into my reality. Memories of our laughs, of our goals, our ambitions. The night I lay and cried on the pillow next to her, breathing out sighs of regret. She's gone, I reminded myself, that's over. She's left now. But still, my love poured into me as he plucked the string and my lungs filled with air as my body began to shake in sobs. I remembered the day we sat in the grass together, the autumn leaves fell from the trees, and I told her, I'm scared, and she took my hand and smiled. I remember the secret notes on the leaves that I found stowed away so many years later. I remember all the pain of being apart, and I remember the relief I felt when we came back together. I could only counteract the pain with anger, with the thought of her carelessness and betrayal, misunderstandings. Those strings had been snipped months before, the strings of the fighting, but the memories still remained. "We can't mess with your past," he had told me, "We're only here in the present and we can only look forward to the future!" His optimism made me sick.

This string, though, the string with all the love and all the firsts, the string with the hugs and the "you too?"s and the days spent just us, this string was the hardest. We both knew it would be. It seemed a twin string, found in two bodies, and the cutting never made that easier. I wondered how I could be so terribly angry and so broken at the same time. People always tell me that you need to be broken before you can heal, no rain no flowers, no pain no game. I didn't know, I didn't fully know if this would work. But the pressure in my chest was too much, and she kept leaving, and I kept hurting, the strings pulling on my heart and making my skin sore. The stretching doesn't make it more flexible; it leaves it bruised and torn, pulls at it and irritates it. The lining becomes thinner, and you become more vulnerable to fatal situations, times when you might not make it through something that an ordinary person would walk through without a scratch. I knew, when he was cutting it, I knew it had to be done, I knew she'd already forgotten hers, that she left me--

*Snap.* My body filled with a breath that lit me to my toes. "Done," he said cheerfully as the light's reflection burned into my eyes. "You know the drill, now. This recovery will be more difficult than the others, because it was a bigger procedure. Just make sure you rest it up, detach yourself, and remember that you'll probably feel a great deal of sadness the next couple days." He handed me a bottle of anti-depressants. "You're going to need these. I've never seen a case like this. Just remember, that you've done the right thing. Don't fall into the trap of regret, and don't go back to the source. Hold on to the memories and try to forget."

"I know," I told him, my eyes filling with tears. "I'll try my best."

trying to figure this out

i am ,

webby, stuck in a pyramid of contradiction, pulled between love and obligation, happy to be where they meet but unable to find their overlap. i am, tangled in a love song of pain and regret, tortured by a guilt for something i forgot, drowning in responsibilities that i haven't been given. reach out to me, i'll pretend like i don't see you, draw back your hand, i'll blame you for my fall.

i know what's happening, i just can't understand why, i don't have as clear of a mind as you do, as crystal thoughts, as stable a person. you know who you are, even when you say you don't, you know you don't know. i am, sure of who i am and then twisting with the wind to see my inner demons, hanging out for everyone to look at and for everyone to criticize. the final judgement is today, everyone knows and everyone can see, touch me, handle my weaknesses like a wild animal, trying to cage me in, but i've already caged myself in my own torture chamber because i deserve it.

i am,

not trying to sabotage and torch every good thing, i am, trying to save it. i'm not a savior, though, i don't have the skills, my heart is bigger than my arms and i can't carry everything i say i can. i am asking for help when i don't need it and trying to find my foundation again. it must be down there somewhere, , , 

give me the world and i'll smile and thank you before shattering it and handing you the pieces. you'll think me ungrateful and tell me you're disappointed, i'll cry and you'll be more disappointed, and then i'll keep crying and you'll yell and tell me i'm not enough, that it's my fault, and i'll say it's my fault, and you'll say you're doing it again, and i'll feel angry but terrified and also sad and i won't know what to do or who to turn to. everyone i turn to turns on me and nobody keeps a secret these days.

i am,

motionless against the wall, scrutinizing my own moves, painfully aware of myself and trying to understand the swarms of personality that are around me. life is different than before, i've gained a hyper-awareness that twists itself into my head until my brain falls into my heart and makes a feeling-soup, and that pours out all over you and all over your perception. it tastes a little like tomato but more like tears and heartbreak, and i'm asking you to put me together again because i don't know how and i'm scared, but you don't know how either and that scares me more. so now i'm sitting braindead in a soup of myself and  don't want to move because it's warm.

drifting

Sunlight licked the top of the water, flecks of glittery nothing hovering above the surface. Her eyes caught the flecks one by one, like shouts in her eyes, tearing across her thoughts and interrupting the constant flow for a moment. It was nice, to the interruption—to take a break from everything pouring into her. There were days when she felt mentally constipated; so many problems with no solutions, and she felt like a circus elephant balancing on a colorful ball, trained only on the connection to the ball, unaware of her surroundings and completely aware of herself. Her fingers reached out to touch the still water. It wasn’t much, but it was cool and had a mind of its own, clinging to anything that touched it, hugging her veins. She remembered when she used to hug anything that came near her, begging for attention and recognition, hurting for friendship, never satisfied by what she had. Her breath echoed in her ears, reminding her of the repellent she was wearing, to guard against heartbreak and disappointment. The noise sounded as a reminder of her painful awareness of her own solitude, and at the same time of her stubbornness. In and out, her breath felt alive in her mouth and jumped into her stomach, filling every bit of her, choosing to both fill and expose her emptiness. Help, she wanted to cry, help me, I’m still falling, I’m still broken, but she couldn’t. She was too afraid that someone would hear her.

The Little Dandelion

         First came the scent—a rich, tonal draft that caressed the sprout, filling her with life and energy, optimism and excitement. It was a scent she would soon learn to associate with birth; newness, love, anticipation. It was a part of her, feeding her and nursing her to a blossom. Creeping up around the blades of grass, she felt the wind around her spine and the gentle dew drops that night brought her whenever the sun rested. She wanted for nothing; Concentrate on your growth, the soil would whisper, and she did. The rays of sunshine gave her optimism and the hugs of raindrops nourished her, and she sprouted upwards, above the thin grass, the blades cheering her on and pulling her upwards. She turned a gentler shade of green, and her spinal membrane grew stronger and crisper every day. Soon she could feel visitors in the soil, inching around her roots, pausing to comment on what great progress she’d made. And one day, she worked all morning, pushing and pushing until the crown of green that had been her top blossomed into a bright yellow baby sunshine. She smelled the smell of birth, and sprinkled the yellow pollen around while the earth praised her for her achievement. She looked up, and saw blues, whites, browns, purples—and she relayed it all to her roots, telling them about the neighbor’s dog who couldn’t keep out of the trash can and the mother next door who was awake earlier than she was. She loved the bees and their attentions, and sometimes blushed when the grass would tease her about their frequent pollination on her flower. The bees, the earth, the mother, the neighbors’ dog; the world fed and loved her, guarded her as its own, and she couldn’t long for more.
Peeking into the morning sun as she always did, she pulled her leaves apart to reveal her flower. It felt somehow more difficult, fragile, in a way. Good morning! she croaked, and gasped at her own voice. The wind seemed harsher, the dew colder, and, panicked, she began to tremble. Look at  you, the earth said, you’re ready for a change. A change? she wondered, and that’s when she noticed. Her lovely yellow petals had transformed into withering white seed pods, exposed and unprotected, embarrassingly bare. She felt naked but couldn’t hide, afraid but too nervous to understand. Why is this happening? she thought, Why me? She drooped, shielding herself from the wind, and tried to close her leaves with no luck. It hurt, and she hated the way her petals were forced to hold onto her stem. She held on through the day and the night, and in the morning, she felt her petals giving out from exhaustion. She had been holding on all night, and she shook both with physical pain and anger at the situation. She wasn’t ready, she had her friends here, the grass, and the mother and the neighbor, and the bees here adored her. She began to cry, and, defeated, she released her cramping muscles and gave way to the wind. Slowly, she was stripped of her crowning petals, drifting away in the wind, and with them, she let go of her pride, and felt a release of—well, of everything. She breathed in and smelled once more the scent, now without her petals, as strong as it was the first time. Her stem eventually fell, and she lost herself in the earth and among the grass.
She awoke in the air—strange, she thought. When she had given up, she didn’t expect to awake again, let alone in this way, apart from the earth she had never been apart from. The air? she thought, and tried to make sense of the breeze and the sunlight. She hardly noticed her tiny body, propelled by an umbrella of silk, lowering her gently down, down. She felt so big up here; greater than everything, and she saw and understood. She saw how big everything was, how insignificant she might seem, and how the roads and the people blended together to create a landscape more beautiful than anything she had ever seen. In that moment, she knew more than the earth, and her spine, and the grass. There was so much to see and comprehend, and she longed to understand. She felt the familiarity of the earth as she landed, and she smiled as the earth welcomed her in a dark, warm hug. She held her breath and waited for the scent of new birth, this time humbler and wiser, opening herself to another cycle of warmth, newness, pain, and wonder.

you surprised or what

I used to write about you all the time.

Every time, in fact. I wrote about you because I wanted you, I needed you. You made me feel like wings (not chicken) and you always gave me a hug whenever I was upset. Somehow, you knew when you looked in my eyes how I was feeling and every time you smiled at me it stung a little bit. Not the kind of painful, overbearing sting you feel when an insect bites you or you have a rash, but the kind like a papercut--distracting, but small enough that nobody else really cares or notices. You had this way with me that made me feel like it was just you and me, and that was it. You looked at me above the crowd of people with your icy eyes and you saw me. And maybe you did this with everyone, I don't know, but you saw me, and you saw what I saw, and you understood like I did. You and me, we had the same filter.

I wonder why I want to talk to you now. After all this time, after all these years, it's still you. You're still the only one who ever knew what to say, the only one who knew when to tell me I was perfect and when to send me cat videos. You were never demeaning or inconsiderate, you never thought I was less. You knew, and I never understood you. I couldn't be what you needed, and I couldn't be quite enough.

I have so many questions for you, and I want to ask them, but I don't know how. How can I ask you what you did when you felt so alone, because it was just you and your head, even when you were swimming in a sea of people? I have so many more--how did you know when it started? How did you feel it the first time? How often was it? Who did you tell?

What did you do when it was too much? When you couldn't be enough? When you knew what you wanted and how to get it, but somehow couldn't take that first step? When you were paralyzed into thinking that you were less and somehow you existed only below? When you were angry? When you were sad? When you wanted to punch a pillow in but didn't have the strength? What about the insomnia? What happened then?

How did  you deal with the pain? You know, the pain that cuts into your heart and sits there, makes a nest, a nest of glass that threatens to cut more whenever you move. How does it feel to take medication? How does it feel to self-medicate? What did you do when you were done, when you wanted it to be over? Did you ever go too far? What about when you had too many thoughts, too many questions, too many dreams, and not enough hope? What about then?

Somehow I know, if I asked, you would answer, and you would call and tell me it's ok, and you would know what to do. You would drive over and you would hold me in your arms, even though it's been years, and you would kiss the top of my head and fill me with warmth. You would know, and I would know that you knew, and we would be you and me together, two broken records that made a pretty cool collection.

I used to write about you all the time.

it's me

sawing, sawing,
eating away at me,
asking me,
begging me,
toying with my fingers
and my brain
sawing until the tape got thinner
until the break could
finally be on me,
I'm the curse,
it's me,
I tried,
I fell,
down,
down,
do
d
.

I just have to write this down.

I just have to write this down,
I have to,
before my head explodes
because of all the feelings,
feeling,
leaking into my veins on accident
and into my brain
and it gets a little stuck
and suffocates me a little.

I just have to say,
that I know how it is,
I know how you feel,
how we are,
I know,
you'll tell me a hundred times how
stupid I am for thinking otherwise
if I ever try to explain,
I know,
it's just that,
it's only,
I'm not mad,
I'm confused,
and I realized--
you treat me differently when you're with her.
and I can't understand why,
when with anyone else,
I still feel so loved and missed,
and when you're with her,
you push me away,
you have to pretend to be
someone else.
I don't know.

I care

dew drop irises
and streaky curls of hair 
I brush them down 
And scratch your head 
To show how much I care.


Each time I find a pretty verse
Or feel something’s unfair 
I want to show you,
Talk it out,
to show you that I care.


I know your favorites,
All the foods,
The colors, 
Things we share, 
I’ll clean the cupboards and the floors
To show how much I care.


I worry for your safety
And ask for you in prayer, 
Your happiness is my concern 
And I’ll always be there
When you feel that all is lost
Or drowning in despair
I’ll be there to pull you out 


that’s how much I care. 

because this is what I want.

maybe I'm too much of everything,
you ever thought of that?
maybe I give you too much credit,
maybe you think I have issues,
but maybe we all have issues and I'm the only one who wants to solve mine.
I never thought you thought my writing was too depressing.
I thought you loved me as I was,
crazy writing,
optimism,
passion and all.
I guess I was wrong,
but I guess that's the optimism again.
I didn't know you were waiting for me to sleep before you could come back.
Psycho psycho me,
I'm a new adjective.
And while you’re out at the bar,
Lying to me every night,
Everyone says "good luck with her,"
Everyone says I'm overthinking,
but I guess I want to overthink rather than underthink,
to defend my friends rather than lose them,
to be on time rather than late,
to be reliable instead of spontaneous,
I want to radiate,
but everyone put their sunglasses on and they can't see how hard I'm trying.
I'm reaching out with every ray of light I have,
bursting with energy and motivation,
trying to burn out the scars from before,
and they're turning away,
whispering behind me about how ugly I'm becoming,
they wish I would harden and die,
any part of the star cycle has its faults and
that's all they see.
So I guess if I want to hang with the cool kids I've got to put the glasses on too,
pretend like I can't hear them,
pretend like they aren't poisoning me and each other,
pretend like the flames are under control,
pretend,
pretend,
pretend
It's not what I want.

emote

there's an unsettling calm that blankets my veins,

enveloping me and holding me down

my brain vibrates with the unusual feeling 

of peace

I'm not sure if I like it,

It's so unlike myself,

and I don't want to stop feeling.