They all say “life goes on,” like I should find some comfort in it. But maybe that’s the true tragedy.


Do you remember… Do you remember the night I told you I loved you? I stood in front of you, naked and bare-boned. Throwing myself into the darkness. My hands shook and my insides rattled. The moon the shape of the slivers my mother use to pull from my finger tips.

My heartbeat, a line begging to be pulled and the distance between us could fill oceans. And I felt myself fall into it. I lay ruins at your feet, falling onto my own sword with the insanity of these sprinting thoughts.

If only you knew from the beginning, I bring my own matches and light myself on fire, as time is the oxygen feeding the flames. And I’ll write you into my world, letters onto my skin. And my words will make you immortal. Because all of this time I spent, keeping you out of my words, trying to make myself believe you weren’t worth the ink, you grew larger than life. And once you leave, I’ll only have memories, because those fade everyday.

I’ve come a long way away from myself in the past few years. I look in the mirror and barely recognize the person staring back at me. And I suppose that isn’t exactly a bad thing. I’ve grown leaps and bounds, but I always seem to find myself back to where I started. Point A. I’ve shed bits and pieces of myself. Pieces I never wanted to lose. And now I am, once again, a hollowed shell of myself. Am I still in there somewhere? How do I learn to allow myself to be happy? And to hold on to the happiness just as I do the sadness? I’m terrified of letting go of all the anger and grief that I cling to, to only become a watered down version of myself. What if all of that is what makes me who I am?


& What would be left of me?

In the night he comes to me, looking for skin, touch, raw pleasure. Looking for it all. He pours everything that is him, his words, empty promises, all of his being, into me. Leaving me full, spilling over. His hands, taking what he wants. Fingers running over the cracks in me, where the light has grown too dim to sneak through. I am shameless. breaking at his will. He kisses my mouth, silencing the scream raging inside of me. It’s 4am and I’m spent. But we aren’t done until he gets his fill. And when the night is through, he’ll silently drain from me what was previously his, until it is all gone, taking along pieces of me that crumbed the bed through the night, letting the cracks expand, filling his pockets. And each time he needs that fill, he will return, leaving me slowly disappearing into the lust stained sheets, covered in my own wasted ruins. He does this every night, until I am just a collection of skin and bones. And finally, the night will come that he doesn’t show, and I will lie in my empty bed, covered in wonder. Is it that he’s satisfied with what he’s taken, or unsatisfied with what is left of me?