Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Sunday, January 29, 2012

this is what you do when you're heartbroken and you're me

1) youtube on repeat (please don’t break, I know its 14374384584058 of playing this song)

2) stare off into space

3) pack up any reminders of him (this can get difficult)

4) cry

5) sleep, or lay in bed staring at ceiling at 3 am.

6) think of what to say

7) drink. This leads too…

8) text. Fuck me. and

9) call. Fuck me.

10) go out. Im over it! Cry again. Fuck me again

11) tell friend 1 about it, tell friend 2, friend 3, friend 4, friend 1 again. Did I tell you?

12) get angry. Fuck you this time

13) fuck plucking my eyebrows, fuck painting my nails

14) don’t eat. Then eat too much

15) ill work out, ill feel better. New hobby time! This is awkward. Fuck

16) you tube again…

If I don’t laugh at myself, who will?


I need to put away the things.

Let’s start wit the easy stuff.

Sweep my room- there, your hair and skin follicles are gone.
Wash bedsheets
Your slippers are under my bed, your underwear and socks in my drawer
Toothbrush in my bathroom.
Your pictures from your trips- you want those back?

Your messenger bag that was replaced by the backpack I gave you.
Remember your feigned surprise? You’re a bad liar.
You really like that backpack
I got the color you wanted and took great measure to wrap it even though you already knew what was inside.

That was our first Christmas together, before we broke.

Before I knew those apartment brouchers would break me everytime I look at them
Get rid of those.

Your motorcycle helmet is in my closet. It still smells of you. The old perfume, not the new ones I bought you. I don’t like them.

The pictures, lock them.
The image of your face as you held my mothers hand in the hospital…
That one is more difficult.
Your smile
The poetry? It keeps flowing from my fingertips and sent into the atmosphere, reaching no one.

You’re asleep, on the right side of the bed, your legs curled up behind me, hand placed over my stomach.
The memory of your voice and the sound as you whisper “you’re amazing”
The tear that rolls down your cheek because you finally didn’t have to be strong anymore

I have to get rid of all of that and accept the absence

But I don’t know how to get rid of the place you left in my heart or the possibility of
The possibility….

I became a rambler... 1/1/12

I’d ask you what it feels like to be so damn apathetic but that would require you to have feelings in order to answer me.

At what point did you become a stranger in my bed and at what point did our bodies refuse to know each other?

Mine seeks for your warmth every night and at this point in the mornings as well but you refuse it like an icicle.

Did you finally realize I’m not the budding rose bud and did you finally realize my codependency?

I wished to hide it from you and I did a good job, I think. But you see it kept creeping up. I kept putting concealer on it, I kept telling it to shut the fuck up but it kept creeping up like the creases of an old woman’s wrinkles at the worst point.

When she wishes to hide her vulnerability
In the end no one can hide their vulnerability.

And so I hid it.
I covered up the sadness and the knowing and I tried to breathe. But my anxiety disorder prevented me from taking deep breaths from my diaphragm and as my world became smaller and smaller I realized what I had become

A psychological experiment
Lies lies lies

When the lights are off I feel you calling me but I never give you the opportunity to miss me
Perhaps that’s my mistake
Does she allow you to miss her?
Does she wait for you to be the one to call and do you go running to her when you don’t hear her voice or feel her sweet soft vapor on the nape of your neck?

See I can’t give you that opportunity because I’m so afraid you’ll run away against my peering presence

Yours are the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen and go ahead and tell everyone my world is dominated by you and hardly me anymore

You see you’ve made this world so simple and yet so complex. Now that I know what guides my air it sucks ass when I don’t get. No one said this would be eloquent. Love makes us stop being poets…

I feel fine, I feel like I could make it without you and then I see your sweetest sad eyes.
And then I see you hold my mother’s hand as she wakes up from the anesthesia of her cancer surgery.
Why would you lie about that baby?

You see, it would be much easier if I saw everything you did as full of lies.
It would be much easier if I could fit you into my anorexic psyche that counts its calories and its steps
It’s the ambiguity that always gets to me
It’s the feeling of not knowing
Is that that what love is?

See this is why I deeply do not believe in a god.
I’m not so secretly jealous of all those that are able to
All those that are able to place their blind faith into something they can’t see knowing to their core that things will be ok because they are operating according “to plan”

I never knew that shit.
When I let things happen according to plan dishes were broken, souls were robbed of childhood and children waited for the day….

Since then I made it my life’s mission to be my own God

And for the most part it’s worked.
Except for those searing nights when my maps and timelines don’t line up and the floor can’t be controlled by a small 125 composition of flesh and it is then that I am terrified

Because I don’t know what will work
I don’t know if your hand can reach me

And it is then that I wonder….
It’s been a while since I’ve wondered. It really has. Well maybe not so long…

The memory is still too fresh and despite my best efforts to run away, it keeps creeping up
Buddhists say that sometimes things keep repapering in you’re life because you haven’t learned the lesson from it.

I’m 24 and I’m already exhausted from the reappearance of mine.
The thought is there again. Would it be that bad if I did it?

Tuesday, January 24, 2012


What happiness lied there, in that barren land
That makes me want to search for it?

Gravitating toward it like all the atoms and particles of this world
Recording every detail
Allowing my brain to betray me
And my spirit to leave me behind

Perhaps it is the hope that it is not a barren land
That there are seedlings lying there, waiting for your warmth, so that they may blossom
And unveil their concerto

It is always the hope that kills us