Losing you is something I was born to do.

it doesn’t make it hurt any less, but i know it had to be this way.

You’re Where They Were All Born

If all my other loves were the twinkling city skylines
of my heart, then you,
my dear, are the capital.

If everything I’ve ever felt before
burned with the intensity of a star,
you, my love, are
a nebula.

I Don’t Miss Your Hands

The sky was so
incredibly clear tonight.
It was one of those nights where you would have whispered:
the stars look so close you can touch them.

Tonight, for the first time
I don’t miss seeing your hands reach up to the sky.

It’s hard to settle for bits and pieces of someone you used to swallow whole.

how am i supposed to be okay with small talk when you used to live inside me?

Armageddon

I was born amid chaos.
The first words to leave her lips
when I entered this world
were electric bolts of lightning;
his were thunder.
The pounding of
his fists shook my tiny universe.

I was raised amid the crumbling
walls of a marriage gone sour,
where conversations consisted of heaving chairs,
house-wide rampages, and
chillingly silent dinners.

I learned amid the uproar that
we are not safe from the monsters in our minds:
they escape through the darkness in our eyes
and the fire in our mouths.
They fuel the momentum behind the punch
and fill the cracks in our hearts.

I discovered amid the rubble that
love means fuck you and fuck off and shut up and you bitch.
That anger is holes in the wall,
bruises and scratches, and the crack in your voice.

I watched in the corner amid
the chaos I was born into, and
the Universe watched me recoil from
the destructive violence of sentiment.

I lived my life amid the thwarted truth
that the doors to the storm cellar must always remain shut
to protect others from the tornadoes inside.
And if God forbid
at some point my body could no longer hold the weight of so many
unsaid words,
and I collapse in a heap by your side, bleeding love and anger,
I must apologize; I must mop up my mess
in order to keep you clean.

But I am so fucking sick of
keeping you clean by
mopping up my messes, when
I am covered in your blood.

So I will get up and walk away.
I will speak chaos and tornadoes and destruction.
And I will not ask for your permission,
and I will not apologize

When I told myself I’d love again after you broke my heart, I always imagined it would be with someone else.

but it always has been and always will be you.

Rest In Power (His Name Was Blake)

Another light has gone out.
Another line of a story that will be continuously written,
a battle you are and forever will be a part of.

You were born a billboard of lights, though.
You were made to be seen.
You were made to be heard.

And you fought valiantly, you beautiful souldier.
It isn’t your fault– sometimes you fight your hardest, and yet
the enemy cracks your armor
with their words and their eyes and
you are left exposed.

But there is and always will be an army behind you.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

I met your smile last week, and I am in love with it still.
I will fight for that smile.
I will fight for others’ smiles.
I will fight so that there will always be a smile
for you in someone else when
you cannot give one yourself.

Because I know what it’s like
to have clouds dim the suns in your eyes,
or to have the weight of the world lay heavy on
the corners of your lips.
And I’m so sorry
the spinning tied you down and dragged you
and hunched your shoulders
all while making you wear a mask–
when all you wanted to do was
spread your light so others could learn to love
themselves, too.

And I’m so sorry we aren’t fast enough.
I’m so sorry people cannot love what they don’t understand.
I’m so sorry you ever believed your life wasn’t worth living.
I’m so sorry the world has let one more light
die.

When You Ask What I’m Writing About

seeing the world in a
drop of rain.

finding
meaning in the leaf that has just
fallen onto the pavement.

discovering truth in the
cracks of the living room
couch.

frantically catching thoughts–
like flower petals in a
whirlwind–
in the palm of my hand
before they escape
back into the universe.

hearing stories in her
breath as she lies
next to me,

how much i want
to kiss her.

seeing the universe through
a kaleidoscope,

smashing
it on the floor
in hopes that the colors will
repaint
the skies.

how reading
perfectly phrased metaphors just feels
whole, and like truth, and
like home.

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.

My Name Never Really Fit On Your Lips Anyway.

Your grand plans
reflected in your irises but
your mind was never here
with me.

You only knew how to
listen with your ears, so
when I spoke with
my eyes, I could scream and still
not be heard.

Your hands were frantic–always
moving, always reaching, always
grabbing– for something in the future.
You zig-zagged across
stepping stones.

You wanted to crown everything
on your to-do list, and my name
was at the bottom. So
I will check myself off for you,
my dear, because
my name does not belong buried
at the base of your toy chest.