Yawns are not supposed to be
beautiful or elegant or dainty–they are
a silent scream to the world that you are tired.

and i’m so fucking tired.

You Had So Much Space, You Just Wouldn’t Give It Up For Me

I’ve lived my entire life
squeezing myself into pockets
working so hard to shrink,
to be smaller, to take up less
space– to give others more room because
they’ve always seemed more important
to me than myself.

But when I met you,
for the very first time
in my life, I wanted
to take up more space:
in your heart,
in your mind,
in your life. Uninhibited,
I opened my floodgates and let you into
all of me,

but you pushed me away
when you weren’t willing to share
yourself, and I could feel myself withering,
shrinking,
closing up like a clam shell.

I’ve lived my life torturing myself by working so hard to shrink.
I am so sick of asking you for more space.

Why do I miss someone who doesn’t exist? Why do I miss something that wasn’t even real?

it’s always going to seem better in your memories than it really was, but remember why you did it. remember that you are worth it.

Bits & Pieces

I’m starting to think that
maybe I am nothing.
Perhaps I am not anything
more than a puzzle: bits
and pieces of others, who are
just bits and pieces themselves.

If you want to keep her, be better to her than you were to me.

you made me believe I wasn’t worth anything

GTFO

Why do you haunt me?
Why won’t you leave me alone?
I close my eyes and still you taunt me.
I just can’t find my heart a home.

I was caught midway between the calm and the storm– calling out to be saved, not yet understanding that I was my own life boat.

I am looking at a cat, but seeing a lion and sometimes puddles seem like oceans, and I cannot see that I will not drown.

I have yet to master putting things into perspective

Speechless

Last night I dreamt in poems, but when I awoke, I’d forgotten the words.

Dear Erin,

I know sometimes you feel
like you’re walking down a sidewalk runway
and the spotlight is on you;
that there is too much of you to love.

But look at yourself, my dear:
you are a monument to
the human race.
There is history written in
the architecture of your bones,
stories embroidered in the strands
of your eyes,
and generations hidden in your face (your father’s
nose and your grandmother’s hips).

You are home to an ever-expanding
universe inside you
with skies of electric neurons,
blue vein-rivers and sandy skin shores.
The earth has made you her reflection:
curves like meandering streams,
moon-eyes, and thighs
strong and rooted trees.
Do not let anything uproot you.

You are a flower, my love,
and you cannot be afraid to bloom.
Imagine how bland the spring would be
if the orchids and lilies were too shy
to blossom.

The universe does not want
a bouquet of only roses.