I’m sad
and I’m missing you

but I don’t really know
who you are anymore.

Which part do I long for?

Whose arms can I almost feel
enveloping me in warm safety,
in serenity made from skin,
from bones and soft eyes
and all the things
that make you human,
that make you

I’m not sure anymore
who I need
or if I just need
to fix myself.
And that’s bullshit
because I know I do,
but I’m not sure how 

or if I even want to,

and all these
hands and
words and
stir up

the me

I used
to be,
the me
this body
that moves
through life
as if
it were real.

I know the answer
and it’s too hard to bear,
so I pretend
I miss lips on hot skin
and ethereal words
whispered over white screens
instead of fixing the pieces
cupped in my bleeding hands.




Tiny Sadness

It’s strange
to feel
and not feel
at the same time.

I am so sad.

This despondency
but does not dissipate.

No tears fall
to cleanse me
of my sorrow.
No screams rip
from my aching throat
releasing me
of all this pain.

I’m quiet.

The agony
bubbles beneath
and oozes out
in tiny droplets
of biting words
and bruised smiles,

but no tears,
no screams.

Just silence
because no one
listens or cares




Not Enough Glue

I am cracks,
and holes
with no glue
to fix me.

I break easily.

I shatter
with a touch,
and if you dare
to come near,
a breath might
the tenuous grip
I have on myself.


I know you’re
far away,
a millenia
and an ocean
but your arms
might heal me.

The feel
of your words
caressing me
could fix
these holes,

but you don’t want
to hold me anymore.

Maybe you never really did.




Between the Lines

I had
so that’s why
it’s different.

And I thought
you did too
because you sort of
(your head on my chest)
said you did
in between the words
(and out loud)
you didn’t say,
and now your silence
screams in my face.

I was wrong
(as always).

You say it’s fine
(it doesn’t feel fine)
and that I shouldn’t worry
(I do).
You say it’s the same
as its always been
(it’s not).

And I never used
to be afraid
to talk to you
(I’m terrified),
to reach out,
but I can hear
your cold reply
before you send it
(we normally don’t talk much anyway),
and I can hear your feet
pummeling the floor
with your fear
(isn’t that the same as cowardice?)
as you run away
from someone
(even though she’s broken)
who could actually
love you
if you let her.




This ship is sinking,
rolling over,
bubbling beneath
the washing-machine waves,
sucking the last breath
from my lips
like a siren
luring me to the depths of death.

I am here,
screaming into the hollow wind,
because this




and I’m on it
with no lifeboat to save me.

The water floods my mouth,
brine pouring into my lungs
like soot clogging chimneys,
and I claw,
but the lead water
clings like sucker fish
to walls of a tank
that drowns them anyway,

and this


taking me with it.




It’s climbing a mountain
covered in ten feet of snow.
My muscles burn
through the frigidity,
through my clothes,
but I keep going
despite the fire building
in my lungs,
the weight of my body
clinging to each labored step.

Crevasses flower under my toes,
their itchy fingers
hungry to suck me in,
taste my fear as it falls,
trembling from aching lips
peeled back in echoes never made.

This is where I am–
arms flung back,
eyes pinned to the distant floor.
Every moment,
I am screaming
through the climb,
burying my feet in the cold,
all while plummeting
to my death.

This is how it feels to live.
This is how it feels to die.




I Know

I know
I should say

but I have no idea
what to say.

I am a broken human,
one who sees only darkness
within herself
instead of light,

and I’m always wrong,
always over-thinking,
so I don’t think it matters
what I say,
what I do.

Nothing fixes
what I mess up.

Nothing makes right
all the errors I create.

I know I should say
that it’s important to do

but I still have no idea
how to begin.




Small Things

“It’s the small things I remember most, like how she loved  to take pictures.  Of everything. It’s strange how I can still see the light bloom in her eyes when she saw something beautiful. I was always the kind of guy who just let the moment sink into a memory, but she always wanted to capture it. She would snap pictures of me and her pets and other people’s pets. It didn’t matter what it was. She wanted to hold each moment so tightly that I think it’s what killed her in the end. All those photos, those stolen memories she carried around with her, but I think she forgot the living part. The part where your memory becomes the film, your eyes and hands, the camera. She was always snapping pictures. I remember how she’d make me pull the car over so she could catch some fleeting image. She never realized her own would be so fleeting. It’s funny. I have boxes of her pictures but none of them are of her. She spent her whole life memorializing the world, and now I can only see her smile when I close my eyes.”



It Happened–A Conversation in My Head

“The sun will go down soon.”


“An hour or less.”

“So that’s how much time we have?”


“I don’t think it will be long enough.”

“For what?”

“To show you, to tell you-”

“Tell me what?”

“How it all felt like a dream, one where you don’t want to wake up. How you linger in me like the smell of fresh laundry, how it fades by the end of the day, how you keep fading like that clean clothes scent.”

“That is how it feels. How it felt.”

“So why didn’t you say something? You know, after?”

“I don’t want to answer that question.”

“Why not?”

“Because it rips holes in me that remain like that laundry scent you described. Except they stay, the holes , they never leave.”


“That’s it?”

“It’s funny, you know, how we stick to each other even by accident. How we destroy each other without even realizing it’s happening.”


“Something should be done.”


“That’s it?”

“You make me whole and broken at the same time. How to I reconcile that?”

“By kissing me.”

“Will that really help?”

“Only if we never stop.”

“I never have.”

“Me neither.”

“The sun is about to go down.”

“I know.”

“It’s almost over. It will be like it never happened.”

“But it did.”



Hate Me

It would be nice to actually like anything about myself. 


I look in the mirror, and I want to die a little more each time. 

I do things to try to feel better, but they’re always the wrong choices so I end up worse than when I started. 

I wish I saw what people see because they all seem to have good things to say, but I just don’t see it. I don’t understand how anyone sees value in me. 

And then things happen to confirm those dark thoughts, and then the murky fog blocks out the nice things people say and I wind up writing bullshit like this. 

I end up drinking and anger-writing until I pass out, but I never say these things to actual people. 

I hate myself so fucking much.