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For everyone who has ever loved, lost, and loved again. For everyone who has ever died, and lived to tell about it. I am a hurricane & this is the destruction I leave.
And that was when I realized we are all narcissists trying desperately to forget this long enough to fall in love with each other.
Writing to Survive I write you into my poetry to keep myself from dialing your old number. I fuck you on paper to keep from faking it with strangers. None of it makes you come back to me. But none of it erases you either.
Muses If a writer calls you their muse, it can only be for one of two reasons. Either they loved you deeply and you loved them as much in return, or they loved you very deeply and you broke them. If it is the first, consider yourself lucky for having such a rare gift. If it is the second, do not be flattered. They are writing you to death. This is just how they cope with having a heart that betrays them.
My Story I’m the antagonist in my own story, scoffing the plot and singing off-key. Sometimes I kill off the hero just to keep it interesting.
No Suicide Note I have entire oceans folded into my skin, and my kisses taste like sea salt. There is a coral reef cliff in my heart and this is where my lovers go to commit suicide. They sink into the black abyss below and wait patiently in piles for a lifeline that will never come for them. I’ve never been good at rescuing those who willingly drown themselves in me.
No Place for An Ex You are standing on a beach somewhere in Central America, shirtless, your arm around her. Next photo. You are both waist deep in the crystalline water, smiling. Next photo. There is a diamond shining in the sunlight and it rests boldly on her left ring finger. I shut my Facebook app and recall last year when you told me you didn’t think you were the marrying type, didn’t think you were the commitment type. What you meant was you weren’t the committing-to-me type. I get it now. It took me three days to delete you. It took me three more days to get the February out of my
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What is Written He is upset because I don’t write about him. He doesn’t understand I find it difficult to write about the things that make me happy. I am trying to hold onto it, and if I write about it, I will ruin it. I only write about the things that have hurt me, that hurt me now. And so, I don’t write about him. I hope one day he understands.
I think I will find love one day. I think it will scare the shit out of me. I’m more frightened that I won’t know how to let it in and I will leave like I always do when things feel too intense. I don’t mind the hurt but the happy can be taken away and that scares me.
Dear Josh You took my virginity from me when I was 15. You were 17, and I didn’t understand the expectations of an almost-man. I wasn’t old enough to be doing the things you wanted me to do. To top it off, the real cliché irony was it was prom night and I was wearing a white dress. You took things from me. You were a taker. I couldn’t see it then, but the years collect on me and help me see things more clearly. I blame you for how I feel about sex. I blame you for my lack of concern. I blame you for thinking sex is love. I blame you for how careless I was with both when I was younger. Fourteen
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Therapy Sessions Some people take pills to function. Some drink their problems to numbness. Others pay those fancy head doctors to lie on their couch and talk to the ceiling. None of this is wrong but none of it is for me. So I pay a guy a little less to stab me with a needle over and over again, leaving behind ink. I lie very still listening to the hum of the gun and I leave all my issues in the chair when I get up. And I am better.
I don’t know how to let go of who you never were. There are no graveyards for shadows.
Untitled I think for a moment the entire universe is in a state of flux all around me and this is why I expand and contract and my lungs fill and empty and my heart accepts him and rejects him all within a matter of a few moments. And this is me blaming the universe for my flaws, for my loneliness, and for my inability to stand still long enough to be vulnerable.
My Hands I’ve hurt as many as have hurt me. My hands are wounded and my hands are explosive. My heart is at war with my heart. I mean, I am at war with my heart. Cut me first. Make me bleed first, so at least then I can write about it. And you, you will live in the forevers of ink & scar tissue.
“Your name echoes in my veins and sometimes it’s gentle waves and sometimes it’s violent wakes but always it is too loud.”
