Too Long

It’s been half a year, and I still miss your mouth on my neck, and that’s so stupid, but I can’t help it as much as I want to. I want your hands on me, you inside me. I want to feel your skin, smell your flesh, taste every part of you.


Solution to Anxiety

Pain ripples through my bones,
sends aftershocks
trembling over my skin,

and I don’t know where it comes from.

I vibrate with hot breaths,
flying fast from lungs
that don’t feel like mine,
while flames rip their way
out of my eyes,
and the air thickens,
pollutes my mouth,
yet I gasp for it
because it’s the only thing
that will fix,
remedy this incessant pounding
of my blood aching to get out
of my body.

For no reason.

Wasted muscles for days,
throbbing for release that doesn’t come.

I have no control.
I am helpless

to choose,
to breathe,
to move,

and that’s why I let you own me,
why I let you command from me.

Because I choose it,
because I have the control
to release my power,
to relinquish all I am

to you,
to your desires,

and all I have to do is

move, breathe, accept.


Is this my life?

Fragments mingle
with whole stories
and they dance around my brain
like they have something to say
when all they spell is confusion.

I lost again
(as if I was ever found)
and I’m not sure if the me I know
is actually me,
if the pieces I remember
are really real.

I do the same things I always did.
But I am




The shards no longer make
whole images,
full pictures
of who I am
and what I want,
what I hope for.

Is this my life?
Is this who I really am?
All broken and cluttered,
torn and misplaced?
Or is this it
and I’ve yet to realize
the greatness of now?
The possibility of present?

It’s all a sham anyway,
this figment of happiness,
this notion of right
amongst a world filled with wrong.

I need fire
and I get



air rising

in familiar patterns
when all I want is



15 Years

How do you live with someone
for 15 years
and they still don’t seem
to notice you?

they see you,
talk to you,
touch you occasionally,
but they don’t actually see you.

When they look at you,
it’s as if you were everything,
but they don’t actually know you,
the real you,
the pieces you hide
because you’re
scared or
ashamed or
the brokenness will
the love.

But isn’t this what they should notice?

Shouldn’t he touch me
and realize the distance
even though we are together?
Shouldn’t he see the ache in my eyes
and wonder what’s wrong,
what’s different?

Fifteen years
and I’m sure he has no clue
I’m dreaming of lives I could live
in other places with other people.

He doesn’t realize how tenuous
this all is,

but shouldn’t he?


Over and Done

You make me ache
straight through my bones.

I can feel pieces of you
falling out of my skin,
ricocheting against memories
I wish I didn’t have.

You make me burn
straight through my bones.

I can see your sad eyes
looking away,
forgetting how we were
closer than skin.

I’ve lost you
and it makes me weep
at the want of
your body in mine,
your words in mine,
your flesh against mine.

It’s been over since it began,
and I still pretend
I didn’t know all along
that this is how it would end.


My Last Message

I bought this journal for you because I thought you could take it with you. No matter where you go. I thought it could be your start, your beginning. The way into writing down the beauty in your mind. I write poems, dramatic and sad love poems to boys who will never love me back. My writing is just pain and loss, but it helps. It sometimes feels pointless, but it’s not. It lets the ache out.

I thought you could write your heart on these pages, the good and bad, the pretty and ugly, and that it might heal you. Just a little. It’s the Tree of Life, a symbol of growth and prosperity and future and past. I wanted you to touch these pages, and believe in yourself, in the passion, the exquisite tragedy inside you that maybe the world needs to read.

I know we are an impossibility, an image of what could have been, but I will always believe in you, in your incredible presence, your story, your heart. Thank you for holding me when I needed it. Thank you for making me feel again. I will never forget you, Cameron. Never. You are in my heart. Now and always.


I bought him a leather-bound journal for Christmas. He said buying him a gift was risky, and then he got weird. I’m mailing it to him with this message. I know it’s over. I’m just struggling to come to terms with it.


Out of Body

I keep having these moments where I feel like a different person, like I’m suddenly in someone else’s body. It’s hard to explain, so I haven’t tried to vocalize it to anyone. I’m not sure if it’s a product of my brain injury or not. And I’m afraid if I tell anyone, they’ll try to commit me. I’m not crazy, but I’ve changed. I can feel it. I was already changing, before my trauma, which is why I think it’s happening now. But, really, who knows? I sure don’t. I just needed to say it. To someone. I needed to release these out of body experiences, these moments of a weird amnesia where I remember what I’m supposed to feel like but suddenly realizing I’m someone, something very different. It’s weird, and these words don’t even come close to describing it.


I Am Sad

I don’t want to forget
the taste of your tongue against mine.

I want to remember
your rough cheek,
your hard hands as they carry me backwards
to your bed.

I want to visualize
your head on my lap,
my fingers in your hair,

and I know it’s all just imaginary,
just fantastic moments where you were mine
and the rest of the world was so far away.

It was you and me
and hot showers and cold evenings
and my head buried in your chest.

It was old books and older records,
stories of when we were young,
and your face clutched in my hands.

How do I forget something I want so much?

I can still smell you sometimes,
taste you on my own breath,
and it hurts,
aches to know

I won’t feel your arms again.


Midnight Confessions

I have these weird moments where I try to reconcile who I am now with who I was in the past. Like…I’m trying to find her in me or me in her…if that makes sense.

I do the same thing with other people too. Like you. I didn’t really know you then, only my perception of you, and even though you’ve been inside me, I still don’t know you. Not really. And you don’t know me. Not really. And the fucked up part is that I really want to know you, but I have no idea if you really want to know me. Because I’m not a good person. I’m not worthy of you and the happiness I feel when I’m with you.

And this is the worst timing. All of this. God do I know it’s the wrong timing.

I just really want to know that sad, angry boy who used to sit behind me in algebra. I want to know the man who makes me pancakes and kisses my shoulder when he thinks I’m asleep.

These are the things I think about.

I’m telling them to you because otherwise I’ll just turn it all to poetry. Like you asked me. If I was going to write a poem. I did. Two poems. Two sad, ridiculous, stupid poems because you and all your tragic brokenness are stuck inside me and as much as I try, I can’t seem to shake loose.

I know you’re probably reading this early in the morning or the middle of the night. I’m sorry to bombard you. I guess I’m too old to not just say what I feel, and this is how I feel. As stupid and inappropriate and selfish as it may be. I just want your arms around me.


I wrote this to a man I think I might want to love, a man I think could change me, but I’m afraid to send it.


Sleep Kisses

You kissed my shoulder
in the middle of the night
when you thought me asleep.
Before you turned away to rest,
your lips brushed my skin,
you squeezed my arm.

I don’t know why that kiss matters,
why those moments with my cheek
pressed against your chest

keep spinning around me,
wrapping me in memories of things
I’ll never have again.

I wish you knew
how every part of you
is perfect for every part of me.

How your love of
words and work and For the Love of Cooking,
your passion for nature
and your hatred for injustice,
the way you touch me
and the way I feel when I’m with you,

it’s all too much,
all so unreal.

I miss you in ways beyond understanding.
I miss the peace you bring.

on the farm,
in the circle of your arms.
That is where I belong.