Survive

I became so addicted to the feeling of nothing
that when I started to feel you
I went through withdrawals.
I wanted so desperately to forget about
the nice feelings that ran through my mind
when I thought of you,
because I became so intimate with being alone
that leaving the vast isolation of myself behind
felt like I was killing the part of me
that taught me how to survive.

We try to love what cannot be tamed. Wild horses,

vodka in shapely bottles, angry men and the things
they carry. We have done what we could. They say
anything they can to justify leaving. That we are
always sad. That we have let our hearts burn out
for petty things. That we are too fragile. That we are to selfless.

That we are too dependent.

They accuse us of being too sad to love. 

We’re not sure where we’ve learned
this, to want the things we know we can’t have. 

Chances are,
we are all the same, riding high on velvet blue nights.
Our weaknesses have names and phone numbers,
addresses we can send letters to,
describing our love and poetry. We are praying for sixteen again,
for clear skin and boys
who asked for permission before holding our hands. They say
they can find us by our cheekbones, that they are
small, miraculous sources of light. 

Sometimes we’re safe
but usually we’re not. 

The crime scene tape
should have been our first clue.

I don’t want to talk to him
but his voice is still the only thing that soothes me.
My body feels like a waiting room and I’ve already
tried pills, vodka and blades. Mascara piled on so thick
I can barely open my eyelids but the thing is,
I don’t want to see. You tried to love me once
and ended up calling me a damsel in distress.
I really miss you but I still haven’t
told my therapist. Sometimes it’s nice just to have
someone to talk to, you know? When I’m afraid
I sleep with the television on, volume high
so that the voices in my head won't bother me. Everything
is just static. I am okay. I. Am. Okay. I-am, okay.
I text people and tell them about all the fun I'm having but 

you're the first person I wanna talk to when I get a paper cut.
I sometimes compare my body to a junkyard
and I find bits of scrap metal beneath my bed
from people who break their promises. Maybe
love ruins you a little bit. Maybe we don’t care.
We are so young to hate everything so much.
We can recite the periodic table from memory
but still can’t quite believe it when they say
that they love us, too.

2 am

Maybe, poets write because they have unstable feelings.
Maybe, poets write at 2am, in order to ease it.
Maybe, poets write to contain their feelings in it.
Maybe, poets write hopelessly.
Maybe, poets write at 2am hopelessly hoping, that, someone, on the other side of the earth is awake to read their poems. 
And maybe someone is awake,
And maybe, some do care.

Goldfish.

"I know I have so much potential.

 I know that I'm made of stars and I'm a creation boundless, infinite in possibilities and flowing with privileges far above any other creature.

 But when I think about it all, I'm afraid.

I'm afraid that I'm gifted with so much and yet I cannot be everything in this this lifetime.

I'm afraid that with so much possibility I'd drown in the sea of expectations the world filled up for me to swim freely.

That I'd be this gold fish, suffocating underwater because the aquarium is much too large; that as I reach the other end, I have also reached my end.

I'm afraid that once my coffin is covered in dirt, someone in the crowd would whisper: "Who is she?"

But then, like a gold fish, I swim.

Fruitlessly, endlessly, irrationally.

Because that is the only thing I know now.

Blindly do I go on, thinking all the while: Will the goldfish ever do justice the constellations of stars she's made of?"

Death

it’s a quiet thing,
death is.
because no matter how loud you scream
how hard you cry
or if you slip away on your own
everyone around you grasping at your life
that falls like sand through their fingers
time moves on.
and i still can’t quite understand
how you can go from being everything
made up of stardust
and the remains of galaxies
to being nothing at all
and still life
moves on.

Death #2

Scariest thing is you don't know when its arriving,
Kills you more when you are thriving.

You are left scrounging for breath,
A tragedy like that of Macbeth.

You have few seconds left,
Bereft of loved ones.

Memories roll down the lane,
Except Mother Earth everyone looks at you in disdain.

Now you ain't called by your name,
You have lost your fame

Because in a shapeless flame, 

 death overcame.

~ Just another old poem ~

Universe

She painted stars
On her fingertips
And waited
For someone
To hold on
Long enough
To discover
The universes
They held.