twenty-three she takes your wrist, presses the pad of her
romanceweak lightand whatyou wantto hear.
i never stopped writing about you, not reallyi stopped writing about you because you broke my heartwith very simple wordsand with no words at allthere was a look in your eye that asked me never to write againnever to utter a single word from my souland for a while i listenedfor a while my words were inside meclenching around my heart like my father’sfist around a beerthey bit into me like my cousin’s teethwhen i went against herand for what felt like a very long timei couldn’t write anything that was realanything that was mefor a very long time i thought you wouldn’t love meif i wrote againso when i did i stopped writing about youi made my writing about me onlyi let it heal me, let it bury some thingsi’ve been keeping in my mind for too longleft hidden in a shoebox beside my bedwhen i wrote about you all i could say washow happy i was to love youto be with you and be able to capture you in wordsbut i realized that you weren’t a poemyou weren’t words on a pagewhat
do not tell me i am not brokeni need people to stop telling methat i am not brokenthat i am not cracked open and spillingout of the shell they created for methe shell that clings and suffocates mei need them to stop saying thatthey'll fix the splitsthat they'll fill them in with concreteand make it betterbecause i am drowning in peoplewho think that they are supportivethat think i am theirs to mold and shapei am not a vase, i am broken chinasmashing against the ground over and overin frustration because i cannot be the kindof beautiful that you want to beyou cannot paint over me and expectthe sharp tongue and the hard eyesto go awayi am brokeni am spilling outi am ripping my way through membraneand shell to find light so that i can breathein something other than liesand i am afraid, i am so afraidof a world where nothing holds me inwhere it is only mewhere i am free to move my arms and legsto dance, to sing, to speak outbut i need iti need to feel a wind that isn't yourharsh breath do
loveis the drinkandthe hangoverallat once.
burdenedsome days I feel burdenedby the weight of the people around methe people who are fully capable ofshattering at the mentionof a word or a nameand sometimes I do not see thisweight as something I have a rightto carryI should not be the one to enter theirheart and take out all the burnt partsI should not be the one to carvemy name in them and tell themthat they are wantedtheir bark isn't thick enough formy knife and most days I just end uphurting them alland yet there are days when I longfor their knives,their signatures delicately nestled in meI long for the heat of a companionable touch,a soft, knowing smile tugging at their lipsand when they are goneI know I will grieve,I'll let the memories wash off me in waves of tearsI know that I will crave themagain along the months,call for themin songs that only we know,that only make sense to usbecause they will come back to me,with my name in their chests,theirs in minesinging and crying with laughter in our eye
MakeMadness saysnowthe way beautysaysyes
StrandThe moon pullsstray denim threadsfrom the frayingshorelineI watch the tidego in and outremembering how I used totake a few of your hairsbetween my fingerswhen you weren't lookingand pinch as hard as I couldas if I were killing a spideror fastening a snapI would squeezewithout pullingyou nevereven knew
Stone and light. Sometimes I am stone,as if the same all the way through.Other times I am light,as if made of only what I have touched.