It was a friendship that I hoped had no end. Never in my life would I question its length. On the inside looking out, I thought that it was the best place for me. However now, on the outside looking in, I see how she poisoned my mind. Slowly and gradually making me feel inferior, then somehow twisting my thoughts so that I believed my misery was my own doing. At first, I cried when I realized that the friendship I had with her was ending. Now? Now I cry over all those wasted years I spent around her. I cry because I knew I should have gotten out, but didn't. I believed she would change. I believed she wouldn't hurt me. I believed she was my friend. I believed in her. But I was betrayed. I had a dagger plunged into my back. It tore me apart and left a scar I could never forget. Only then, after I was broken beyond repair, did I finally realize I had to let go. She wouldn't change. She was toxic, and I was dying.

when you miss

intertwining fingers

with your lover-

whom you've never met-

but you are stuck

holding hands

with shadows

It begins in bed. The same weekly routine of not wanting to get out from under my sheets. It was always my thought that maybe if I ignored school it would go away. The outcome was always the same though. I'd reluctantly role out of bed and, in a very similar way a zombie would amble about, I groggily went through the motions of my mornings: Fixing my hair, my face, and throwing on a new outfit. Today's routine was shorter since I'd decided to leave my hair as it was and just pull it back. With my first routine finished I began my next as I hopped into the car. Mom drove me to school since my brother was still out due to shoulder surgery. Seven periods flew by. Nothing incredibly interesting. Friendly conversations, science experiments, math homework, headache, occurring not in any specific order. School routine done, on to home routine. Mom picked me up for the same reason she dropped me off. Once back in my own house I grabbed a quick bite to eat and retreated to my room, where I then proceeded to nap on Finn/Monty. Homework filled the following hours and flute practice ended the final routine. Tired from my exceptionally uneventful day, I fell into bed, phone in hand, and recorded the daily affairs on Prose. Sharing my words with my audience of fellow writers by finishing this sentence and proceeding to preview and publish.

I can't differentiate between

ink stains and bruises but

my skin is eternally coated in

temporary pools

of memory and muse

I fell in love with the moon snail

long before I understood

my own entrails and I

learned to read my palm before

I ever wrote a word of truth

the bags beneath my eyes were

painted by the moon and they

contain constellations my words

are tidal waves and I was never

prepared for the damage

a slap of lightning and grumble of

thunder and then the storm is

through it was never forecast

I have stanzas shifting in my

stomach waiting for life

abandoning poetry would be

suicide and I've got scars enough

to hide behind but each line leaves

me bare here I am scared here but

this is the first time I've

dared to

breathe

-"I'm tired"

-"Then go to sleep"

-"No, that's not it..."

I lay awake at night

wondering why I feel the way I do

about you

I try to go over you in my memory but I can't seem to find exactly why

and then I see you

and then you speak

and then I remember

how much you truly mean to me

Author note:

When Prose. presented the opportunity for me and my dog to go on tour for winter, to find writers and readers with a grassroots, gasoline-fueled literary mission, two words ran across my mind in scrolling neon red letters against a blackboard of subtle space junk: Hell, yes.

To ride along, follow the tour's hashtag above.

__________________________

Breaking the chains.

Arizona.

Prescott, The Birdcage.

Sitting here glazed over and gazing around the bar

thinking about strictures

discipline

sitting here alone

beneath the moose head,

deer head,

antelope head,

even a ram's head

the miles to back home

ending in hard rain

sitting here, sipping the dream

in the desert

watching the night around me break itself down and push

toward business incline

push toward live music

and the singing of old

registers

push toward hope and

drunkenness

and a night of

luck,

defeat,

and prostration

sitting here thinking about

the words

thinking

about being a pimp

for Prose.

an envoy

a mission so pure

for our kind

the words leaking across

the tabletops, bar tops,

desk tops

and the faces of

cell phones

a mission strong and

without fail

the days of

streaming consciousness

creating a night sky

refulgent with stars

shaped

by words.