i was eighteen when he came into my life. there had been others

before him, though i swore to my mother he was different.

i promised my best friends that there was he was unlike any other

guy i'd met, i thought he was good. i told him my dreams and fears

and secrets and everything that makes up the person that i am.

he knew how afraid i was of being hurt, of being abondoned like

i had before. and still, he did to me everything he promised he would'nt.

i woke up one morning, alone with out a goodbye and reason behind

it. that was the first day that i had to live without a heart inside

by body. it was the type of heartbreak that made it comepletely unable

to breathe. and this followed for the next eight months. i'd stay

awake until two am, overthinking about how i wasnt enough and

what i could have done better to want him to stay. when i went

on with my days, something as little as glancing at a baskteball would

remind me of him, taking my breath away for the next few seconds.

love songs would be skipped immediately unless i was alone and

able to cry along to them. dreams of him were unbearable, waking

up to the realization that it was no where near reality made the pain

resurface all over again. its the type of pain that makes a person

terrified to ever fall in love again because heartache like that should

only be felt once in ones lifetime.

Write your name on the line, short and sloppy.

Another obsession I’ll soon be over.

I just have to get you out of my system.

Blood oozing from my fingertips as I scribble down my sins.

Yours mingle in, a darker shade of red on the marbled bathroom floor.

Your screams echo like symphonies as the smile digs into my face,

Memories burning my face as they fall as tears.

Blood drips on the porcelain sink, mingling with the left-over water droplets.

My reflection mocks me as I scrub at my veins,

Trying to get your blood off me and making myself bleed in the process.

I wrote love letters on the palms of your hands

But you smudged my emotions while touching other things,

Other people,

Mindless of the pain you were causing.

Bruises and stitches.

Band-aids and heartache.

I’ve had enough.

I’ll get past these glittering memories that sparkle

Like gold in the nostalgia’s blinding light.

Fool’s gold.

I’ll get you out of my system.

Even if I have to bleed out to do it.

Nostalgia drips from the broken soda fountain

Of the rundown 7/11

Your bare knees brush against the countertop as we spin around on red stools

My NASA beanie clings to wet curls

You didn’t have to steal it and wear it in the cold rain, but I don’t mind

Cherry red syrup rubs off on my cold palms

Not sure how it got there, I prefer Coca-Cola slurpees anyday

Your computer rests haphazardly on my stomach on the park bench stained in memories and ice cream

We could theorize about peaches and Italian raves for hours

You understand my references and don’t care that my social awkwardness contracts my prepared syllables into a conglomerate of um and anxious pauses

I’m glad you dropped foreign language in ninth grade

Because you don’t understand I just called you beautiful and wonderful and striking in French

You think I said bless you

I’m glad your mom makes you watch 90′s soap operas so that you have an excuse to come to my house

If only for Netflix, an escape, and my world renowned chocolate milkshakes

And if they made movie about us

It’d end with us in a 7/11 parking lot

Pencil lead promises and daisy chain daydreams all leave one day

The sun would set on our summer, freckles smattering the lavendar sky

Experimentation gone wrong, Chernobyl

And short skirts, cherry red, asterisks for hearts

The day I kissed you once, sprawled on my quilt

And yes, I suppose that is when you ran back to Cristal Carrington,

My affection dripping like a broken soda machine from your lips

I never did get my beanie back

But was it really ever mine?

I'm not talking about headwear, I'm talking about my love for you and

You’re not supposed to hold your friends like this

But I wonder if you’ll make an exception for me

it’s 6:30 AM

and still 6:30 PM out

sun’s sleeping

upper lips flapping wings

of a child’s bird

stroked on constructi--

I don’t know why I’m writing this

yet there’s something in my chest

that I can’t really point down

maybe another tune

from nicotine and caffeine’s

countless gondola rides

throughout the bloodstream

as the heart beats bass pedals

in 4/4 for their pirouettes

but I don’t know

there was something else

that woke me up,

not man-made

but something important

maybe another dream

I forgot, where

the same gondola ride

bloomed through it

I don’t know

the more I try to find out

the more it wei-

GOD THERE’S A SUN DEAD IN MY CHEST

& I’M LOCKED BEHIND A PAIR OF EYES

WITH A HEAD DOMING OVER IT

I don’t know who wrote that

that wasn’t me I swear

a line echoes, and I pick up the last

few syllables, as it hitchhikes to nowhere

leaving me with another untitled piece

another breadcrumb,

another reminder of

tire marks and gas fumes,

only evidence it passed through

and it’s still there, the weight

I thought by the end, it’ll settle

but there’s no end, just &s & &s & &s & ,s

never not &ing bef--

it’s 7:15AM

sun’s still underneath the sheets

not wanting to wake up

as time rushes by like a waterfall

never not falling

you're the one that screwed us over; i gave us a chance, painted the vision soft on your palms; it was you who washed it off.

beginning relationships // constellation blind.

you held blind trust against my eyelids as i felt your hands on my hips, i thought your laughter tickling my ears was pure sincerity; no, i didn't suspect it then to be pure mockery at the unforeseen irony. so when you showed me the midnight you had crafted on the first of january, darling, i penciled in stars and hearts. who would've known i was blind to the constellations you were making, you stole my stars once i moved on to another and sew them together into something far more. and i never noticed anything until the quilt was done and you suffocated me with my own dreams.

struggling relationships // celebrating cruelty.

i once praised words are pieces of art, but old habits die easy when your lover grows cranky. and so i traced the phrase in the air, my lips pursed as i watched my heart scratch against the shattered glass. "happy anniversary, you're drunk." but you're just shaking your head and leaning in, wondering i won't kiss such a forgiving man. carefully i slipped the card from Wal-mart off the bed, told him he was sickening, something i couldn't stand. "

ending relationships // inevitability tastes bland.

it was like i couldn't even remember why i loved you i just know i do; that's the pain of loving you. and long-distance sucks but i've met couples who pull through, but not us, no, not you-you just acted the part when the camera rolled but the space felt like it was wasting you away. i tried, i truly did, but why leave the house when the world scares you? so when time came to pick up the pace, i shoved my ballot in his face: "i vote for my saving grace." it wasn't you, that much i know is true.

remembering // the ghost's name is nostalgia.

lyrics cry every night you promised to hold me tight just to forget the knife you left in my spine (careful, blood stains easy). and you mirror rejection ugly, quite unbecoming, like how the publishers told me my prose wasn't worth collecting. but i've learned to adore a me without you, regardless of the time it was taking (and how it's still a tad heartbreaking).

i should've known it was over the day i met you; i was far too excited for that fairy tale ending; you had such the audacity, it was appalling.

I like to think we haven’t run out of things to talk about yet.

I like to think we never will.

We can sit around the table, chatting about the weather

until you remember something funny that happened at work.

then I’ll chime in with a story I forgot to tell you last night.

Pretty soon we’ve been sitting there for an hour while our breakfast gets cold,

both knowing the other has to leave soon

but hoping we’re both willing to put off all that we have to do for the day

just to sit at that table a bit longer.

(I’ll just pretend I don’t have anything to do that day).

The love that I feel is pretty new, and I don’t know if I want to call it that yet.

I’ve never felt it before, and though this feeling rushes through me like a wildfire,

I don’t want you to know yet that I’m burning up.

That was cheesy.

I know it was, it’s all I can think of.

Cheesy sayings that you’d laugh at me for saying out loud,

because you’re not ready to admit what this is either.

If I admit that my heart is on fire for you, then you’d have to do the same

(because I know you feel it too, and you’re a terrible liar).

But fires burn out, either in great conflagrations

(a word I know you’d like, along with defenestrate)

or tiny embers.

It can’t keep burning forever,

just like we’re not always going to have things to talk about.

So let’s promise each other this

(or rather, I’ll make the promise and pretend you told me the same):

our love won’t be a fire, it will be a match.

It could burn us both down in the right circumstance, but we won’t let it get to that point.

Just knowing it could burn fast and bright should be enough.