Tag: spilled ink

We as a species are always trying to find comfort in purpose, as if we need to justify our existence on this planet by having a ‘reason’ for being here. You do not need a purpose or a reason to be alive on this planet. You have a right to be here simply because you are.

Rather than seeking comfort in purpose, find freedom in understanding that you have no purpose, and that is okay. You alone are enough.

i realized that sometimes i’m scared to be alone because i feel like i have no purpose, but then i realized this. // a.s.m

I. i saw your jar full of wrappers
and thought maybe you’d just developed
a sweet tooth recently. though
it never occurred to me that
white waxy wrappers
can carry
fun-dip powder and pixy stix, too. 

II. i knew something
was wrong when
clouds fogged your eyes (grey and heavy
with rain);
so heavy
they could not look straight.
so heavy
they kept sinking. 

III. at half past midnight you left
to ‘be right back.’
45 minutes later and i felt the thunder
shake the house; i knew
there would be rain 
in your eyes. 
At eight forty-five the next morning 
(you normally never wake up before eleven), 
you ‘stop at a friends’
before breakfast and return 
empty-handed but eyes full, 
veins full, blood full 
of calm, full of ocean waves and 
lullabies, full of 
ice so cold you feel like you’re 
on fire. 

IV. you are forgetting 
more and more 
about me these days. it seems
you’re drifting farther away, 
farther into
your veins. 

V. i know that
i don’t know
how your mind rolls
on the tracks in your skull.
i never will
feel the hunger in your veins
for a needle that bites 
so good. but every time a new
track mark paints your arm,
the train that’s riding them
runs over my heart.

for alex: i see you dissolving in front of me and am not sure what i’m supposed to do. // a.s.m

my mother asked about you today.
i didn’t know how to explain
that your name
on my tongue is like
novocaine;
that i’ve been waiting so long
for the numbness to
fade.

i still feel numb when i hear your name. // a.s.m

I haven’t lived long, but I’ve lived long enough to know that closing myself off to the world doesn’t prevent pain; it only postpones it. I am learning to live with my heart off it’s hinges and the door wide open because pain is going to enter regardless. It is better to enjoy the time I have in the sun than waste it worrying about when it’s going to rain.

things i wish i’d realized before: don’t miss out on incredible experiences and incredible love just because you are afraid of getting hurt; the world is going to hurt you regardless. love fearlessly. // a.s.m

please please please stop building
these walls just so that you can tell me
i’m crossing the line.
remember when we shared a
womb for nine months?
there were no lines then, just
innocence and warmth. i want
to take you back there.

remember when the doctor explained why
you were so small and weak when you were born?
i took
all the nutrients from the placenta.
i took
your strength, and i wish i could
give it back to you now because
i’m scared to see you fall
knowing i cannot do anything to save you.
i want this to be my fault.
i want to take away this
darkness within you and burn it myself
so i cannot watch
you crumble.

i wish i could transfuse to you all
i’ve learned from the scars
on my arms and thighs and the heartbreak
i’ve been given and the heartbreak i’ve caused
so that you wouldn’t have to feel it all.
i am standing with my hands up
ready to surrender myself in your place, but
i know i cannot do your time
when the prison is within the walls of your mind.

for my brother, Alex: i want to save you from your addiction, but i know you have to learn how to fight it on your own. please know how much i love you. // a.s.m

sometimes
reality is a red chevy 4X4 that
hits you at 103 mph– 
windshield crashing
broken glassy
eyes
realizing all you want nearby
is someone to hold you–  
sometimes it moves 
too fast. 
sometimes it leaves you
breathless.

your life is not definite. it is fragile, and your presence on this planet is in everybody else’s hands but your own. // a.s.m

slip dreams into my drink tonight 
so i may write you poetry 
from the skies within my mind. 
knock down the dams and let the water flow 
from the nerves in my brain,
through my veins,
out my hands, onto this page.
twist your fingers between mine
and pull me back down when i get too high.

a.s.m

I. i remember how you sat next to me
in the backseat of her car
as it sped down the highway.
we smoked
out of a sparkly pink bowl, watching our cares
disintegrate as we blew
them out the window.
i remember pretending
to look outside so I could watch the way
you collapsed into yourself 
as you exhaled your last hit. 

II. i remember the way you reached for me
in your sleep that night, and
i whispered that i loved you
because i knew you couldn’t hear me. 

III. i remember the day i saw you
for the last time. i walked you to the bus stop, 
waving goodbye long after you had disintegrated
into the horizon. 
i sat by the side of the road and
cried because it was then that i realized
you take the happiness you bring me
with you when 
you leave. 

IV. today, i forgot how long the
drive down
that highway becomes without the
anticipation of seeing you
to keep me company.

little notes to leah: i still replay memories of you all the time // a.s.m

you cracked me
open
and started reading at
chapter 12.
this was long before i knew you
liked to read the last page before 
you started the book.

you wanted to skip the intro and jump right in; i wanted to savor every page. // a.s.m

i asked you for space, 
but i don’t think your shadow understood
because i see it’s reflection in the sky
in the shape of the crows when they fly.
i know you have no reason 
to not want to say goodbye,
but remember how i made you feel 
when i whispered my way into your ear
to form mountains up and down your spine, 
where your imagination would crawl to 
places i did not know existed.

maybe you’ll always exist in me somewhere, but you wanted more than i ever thought i could give. // a.s.m