The way she sat there,
wrist poised,
pen in hand,
ready to carve his name
onto the page
with such ferocity,
you knew they were once

And the way she sat there,
wrist poised,
razor in hand,
ready to carve his name
into her skin
with such tenderness,
you knew they were once



The bruises bloom
purples and red
like wildflowers
that turn my skin
into a beautiful meadow
by salty tears
and seemingly forgotten
I tell people
I am only gardening
and they smile,
But the thing about gardens
is that sometimes
they house a couple weeds
and try as I might,
I can’t keep them
from spreading.

It’s 12:19 a.m.

Have you ever cried so hard,
so violently,
that it isn’t just
your body quaking underneath your skin
or your bed shaking with your weight
or your floor quivering with your unsteady steps,
but your world seems
like it too
is crumbling around you?
Have you ever prayed
to a God or gods or anything and Everything
you may or may not believe in
that tonight,
just for tonight,
you would be able to fall asleep
before you fall apart,
ripping yourself to shreds
at all of your haphazardly-sewn
Have you ever found yourself Googling
to make sure that no,
people can’t experience ghost limb symptoms
for other people
at two in the morning
while you go over lists of movies
you once planned to watch with him?
Have you ever started to write a poem
in the early morning hours
(when you know he’s probably asleep
but you’re hoping he’s awake and thinking of you too)
because writing about it
is all you can do
to handle the pain
the way your therapist told you to last year?
Have you ever looked at passersby
and thought,
“How can you go on living normally,
when it’s killing me
to take a breath alone?”

It’s now 12:26 a.m.
and I can truthfully say,
I have.