This Moment

I am sitting on my bed of white sheets
that I sometimes like to pretend are clouds when
I awake. There’s a cold cup of tea to my right,
and warm lights string themselves across my wall.

I lay on this bed for one, yet crave a second body. My
legs curl into my chest and I feel the rhythm of my
heart try desperately to reach my knees. I go to sleep
with skeletons beside me, of who I am, who I was, who
I want to be but will never become. I sleep with skeletons
that no longer exist, of men that won’t give me the time of
day, so why would they give me the night? And I am
terrified that this space will be empty forever. I find myself
wanting consistency, a man to listen to my stories of where
I’ve been, look how far I’ve come! look where I’m going! As if
someone knowing my story will make them valid.

But at this moment, I am okay.
I will drift to sleep on soft and white clouds, with a quiet
taste of tea leaves on the back of my tongue. I will kiss
this teacup with the delicacy it deserves. I will brush my
hair and put lotion on my face, because I deserve to love myself
first. I make my stories valid because I am living in them. In
this ebbing and flowing moment, this is all I have. No future,
no past. This moment that drifts with me, and believe me when
I say it’s beautiful. As I fall asleep, the moment does too. And
at least I am certain of the consistency that this moment will be
with me when my eyes open to the sun’s morning yawn.

The Explanation You Will Never Receive

This is an explanation for the Read at 1:06 a.m.

I have complained about you to all my friends.
They know about the times you made plans and did
not show up. They know about the times you never
said you were sorry, and they know all of the excuses
that you have typed over to me across a vast universe
of zeros and ones, x’s and o’s.

But I am not writing this for them. And I am not writing this for you. But I thought that we deserved a place, a way to close the door, pour the dirt, say goodbye. This is where you are to me, on a screen.

Here is what you told me:
When you went home, you told your mother about me,
and she was happy. You were so hopeful for what we
could’ve been. You were infatuated and head over heels
and sprung.

Here is what I didn’t tell you:
When I went home, I told my father about you,
and he was happy. I learned your favorite song on the
ukulele two days after we met. I went to sleep thinking
about the way your hand clenched to my waist to keep
me next to you the night we met. I was so hopeful
for what we could’ve been. I was infatuated and head
over heels and sprung.
I was terrified.

You pushed me away. I told you to leave. You asked for another chance. I left.
A constant push and pull between two magnetic fields that don’t exactly know whether they are north or south just yet, so they draw together only to dart apart.

Fast forward to now. Your second chance.
I fell in love with your words. I fell in love with the
man on my phone who told me he wanted to get to know
me. For the person who told me, he would make time for me.
For the stranger in the text box that said I was the most
perfect girl he’s ever laid eyes on.
And I believed you.
But I never see you. You do not make time for me. You do not
put in the effort. You are just words. You are just a stranger
on a phone screen and I got lost in the transmission signals. My
body started to fray like a power wire and my thoughts ran at
the speed of light as to where you were, why I haven’t seen you,
why you weren’t getting to know me.

I fell for the idea of us.
We could’ve been the Big Bang, you and me. The start of
everything, fireworks ablaze, city lights on the plane home,
a loud fraternity party, Merlot on a calm evening and the
shakes one gets when first getting to know someone. But you
didn’t keep your word. And I’ve lost hope.

I am left alone with these ideas.
And you are left alone with your messages on Read.

You are just a name on my phone. A string of zero’s and one’s, x’s and o’s, a couple letters strung together to create you. But I am real.

Fireworks

“I figured, love is kind of like fireworks.
Now, there are different colors and shapes,
heights and sounds. Some will disperse to the air
in seconds, others will cling to the stars and last
until your eyes shut. But, no matter what kind of
firework sparked in your skin, they all will leave
with empty promises, foggy memories, and a
cloud of smoke.”

Unhappy Artists

Are you afraid, dear writer,
of the bliss that happiness brings? Do your fingers
tremble when there is no art running through them –
they tremble most when there is no trauma. There is
no need for inspiration, lovely artist, if you have an
aching heart. You take your suffering body and pull
it apart, it’s hinges unleashed a burning fire that could
take down cities and you perform how it has not burned
you, as the glue inside its bottle has not stuck. When was
the last time you let happiness flow from your fingers,
the last time you let happiness examine your insides,
the last time you were happy?

Trained Regrets

I do not have regrets –

I have trained my mind to the best of my ability,
that no matter what situation I am thrusted against,
I will not regret my decision. However I acted in that
decision is what I wanted at that point in time; I am
allowed to change my mind, but no matter what, it was
something I once wanted,
something I once thought felt right. There is
no time for regrets. But, if there were ever something to
eat at me at night, it would be:
the time I wasted when I could’ve been writing my novel,
and
that I didn’t kiss you when I had the chance.

Cheater

We are not longer together,
we are no longer us and I no longer wish for
the gratification of your hands. My skin does
not itch for you at night, and I can sleep without
worrying if you will still be there when I wake.
My lungs are full of air and I am no longer
breathing in the toxic taste of your tongue. I am
so goddamn proud of myself. You are no longer
imprinted onto my back like a birthmark.

But what doesn’t make sense,
is how much she still haunts me. I can’t stand
seeing her come across my newsfeed with those
chocolate brown eyes and her hair that seems to
flow perfectly over her shoulders like the calmest
waves. I can’t sit in the same chair she occupied
without my stomach clenching. I can’t stand still
knowing I’m in a place she used to be. Why is
it that I am happily over you, you are no longer a
concern in my life, but she,
she still haunts me.
She is proof of the broken promises you whispered
to me, she is the one with your hands around her neck,
on a night when she was all you could think about,
and you still had the courage to come back home to me.

One too many

I’ve been hurt one too many times, 
and I’ve drunk one too many glasses of vodka, 
and I’ve smoked one too many cigarettes,
and I’ve loved one too many guys, 

and I’m trying to find the balance in between
the good and the bad
and the anchors and the sails.

The ocean is so vast and I’m trying
to find my wave.  

Give Me

Give me your sorrows
so I can put them in a jar
to be kept away in a
dusty, old cupboard.

Give me your sadness
so I can take your weights
that seem to drown you
with your own salty drops.

Give me your tears
so your eyes are no longer
blurry with pain, and you will
see there is happiness ahead
of you.

And finally give me your heavy heart
that crashes into your rib cage
and cries at every pump, so you can
see that there is life beyond this
sadness.