0

body.

who’s body is this? i ask
when i see the stranger in the mirror
looking so fly.
hello, beautiful.
where did you come from?
do you live here too?
who’s body is this?
strong bones.
strong heart.
strong legs.
strong arms.
who’s body is this,
filling out these jeans
like a night sky
wraps around lovers
talking softly on a beach.
who’s body is this?
it can’t be mine.
but it is.

0

honey.moon.

i want to crawl inside your skin,
be so close i can touch your heart
with my bare hands, feel it beating.
i remember the way this felt before,
i know the way the fire burns hot,
leaves nothing but ashes behind.
i haven’t forgotten that for all the heat,
there is ice and cold and pain.
i hate this feeling of wanting
to love you deeply and softly, completely.
i hate it because it gives you power
that no one should ever have.
i hate that i want to drown in you,
that i never want to come up for air.
i hate that i feel like im holding smoke
watching it drift through my fingers
and im trying to inhale it,
some last ditch effort to keep my sanity,
because there you are,
saying some of the right things
and being so damn beautiful.

0

Clockwork

Razor blades? Or wine drunk?
Will 2009 percs get you high?
Instead of running,
I’m running from things.
Drowning in self pity?
Or is there something fucking wrong with me?
Googling,
—how much tramadol to get me high.
Google says,
—tramadol is considered an opiate narcotic drug.
Razor blades? Or wine drunk?
Are you an alcoholic if you
are too lazy to go to the store for whiskey?
Do you fucking love me?
He says he loves me.
My brain says shut the fuck up.
—no you don’t.
It always happens like this.
It’s like clockwork.
Elation.
I’m so fucking happy.
Restless.
Want to get in my car and never look back.
Depressed.
Sometimes I’m angry,
and that brings shame
and shame feels like shit.
So does angry.
I feel so much.
Razor blades. Or wine.
Fuck.
Like, I’ve been here before.
I know how it goes.
I know it fades,
but right now I don’t want to fucking feel shit.
Unless it’s someone telling me how goddamn beautiful I am.
Talking to you, Cameron.
Think that’s gonna happen?
Fuck no.
Razor blades? Or wine?
I’m drinking the wine.
I’m drinking the wine.
Hey Google,
—does this make me an alcoholic?
Do you know what the serving size is for alcohol?
—Take a sip.
Can I talk to you about your substance use?
—Take a sip.
There are other
—take a sip
coping skills you can use
—take a sip
like deep breathing
—take a sip.
Razor blades.
Or wine.
Wine.

0

fuck.

you tasted like cigars and i loved it
i wanted to fuck you in the parking lot
it was magic and sex and cigarettes,
you bought me dinner,
we talked about the future.
we laughed and we kissed,

and i still feel like shit,
like i dont want to be a fucking secret
am i?
because social media says that I am,
and it’s almost friday,
so i just have to survive one more day at work,
and im fucking drowning
because they say you don’t walk in the same river twice
but this water feels familiar
like maybe you dont want anyone to know
that i love you.
do you love me?
because i think you do,

you packed my toothbrush and
drove it 200 miles away and unpacked it again
on your bathroom sink
and my shampoos in your shower
and my razor
and im wearing your boxers
while im writing this
and you drove 4 hours to see me on christmas
so you must love me,

then why do i feel like a secret
social media, you keep me hidden
its silly, it is,
right

am i just crazy?
is it hormones?
ive been here before and i felt like shit
because i dont want to lose you
but i dont know how to ask you
how do i say, yes, im fucking nuts
and i want to know.
this is a shitty fucking poem,
should’ve been a blog,
but fuck.

 

0

selfies.

I take a lot of selfies and post a lot of shit on Facebook and Instagram because I crave connection and some days, well fuck, I do want attention. I want to know that my presence was felt in the world. No one takes pictures of you when you’re alone, so you do it yourself and say “hey world, still fucking here” or “hey guys, shit sucks actually” or whatever it is you need to share. For as much as social media fucks with connection, it’s also a way to break up some of that loneliness. So if you’re out there posting selfies and looking for someone to see you, you’re not alone. You are brave and you are fierce.

0

Despair.

Despair.

That’s the best way I can think to describe this feeling. I feel like I’m running through water and I’m so fucking tired. I’ve cried every night for two weeks. Dirty secret: I got bed bugs. Or maybe they came with the house, I don’t fucking know. All I know is that of all the things that I can handle and deal with, this isn’t it. I’ve worked so fucking hard to finally get new furniture and a nice house and keep it clean and then this. And even though they came and treated, I know they’re in my other bedroom, but the original guys won’t believe me. My therapist doesn’t even believe me – and that stung. I want someone to get how much this fucking sucks to me. It may not be the end of the world, but it fucking feels that way right now. I’m exhausted from packing my shit up and my family’s supposed to come next weekend and all my shit’s in bags and I’m fucking depressed – and it feels like no one gets it. I’ve barely treading water at work because I don’t have the energy to do it. I just don’t have the energy to care about someone else’s shit right now and faking it is even more exhausting. I want this nightmare to be over with. I want the stupid mattress cover off my bed so I’m not sweating my balls off at night. I want to sit on my couch again – I think it’s safe, but trying to prevent the spread. I want my things back where they belong. I want my space to be clean again. I want someone to come and fucking tell me it’s all gonna be okay and hug me and feel this with me, because it sucks doing this alone.

0

throwback. 5/11/2013

Sometimes the words find you and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they leave you stranded and wanting. Wanting to organize your mind into paragraphs and words and sentences and clauses and decorate them with periods and question marks and the like. Wanting to show the world a colored picture painted from twenty six black and white brushes. They refuse to come until they are forced, unbidden from their hiding places, to show the world what it has not known. To show the world what it has not felt. To show the world a thing in which it has not seen before. Until change pushes them into the open, the words will stay hidden. Safe.

It is in this moment, as I sit remembering a time alone, riding parallel against a train, that the words finally make their way to the surface. They choose to come, after much poking and prodding and faltering at the keyboard. They come, but they are neither moving nor beautiful. The taste of words that will not come, complete nothingness, is bitter on my tongue and I can feel the tingle of wanting that creeps down my spine as I search for the words that seem to be always evading me.

The longer I sit and concentrate on the words, the longer I force myself into the loneliness of that moment with the train, the easier it becomes to find the words that have tried to bury themselves. The longer I sit in solitude and darkness, the more the repressed memories seem to push and pull and tug at the words, driving them into the world that I and they too, are afraid of but must eventually face.

When finally, those words do come, they bring with them pain and perhaps in the end, some comfort. It becomes a miserable game of searching and finding and just so an unappreciative world might know, even for a second that I existed. It is difficult to discuss the depth in which the words are written; a code that will never be fully understood, perhaps even by its author.

To think, all of this because I kept the company of a train today and it seemed not to mind. It did not whisper to me words of wisdom, nor did it offer advice. It simply travelled along side of me and for a small moment, I was not quite so alone as I had felt. For a moment, the strange desire to find those lost words ceased. For a moment, there was no need to explain myself to the world.

Alas, the train was not destined to quiet longing in my heart for the words. It was merely meant to give me a moment of peace away from the things that I could not – cannot – control.