The other day my mother told me
I should be a writer.
I did not have the heart to tell her
that I am everything but a writer.
I hear too much in silences.
I think oceans are often lonely,
and trees don't always want to let go.
More than half of my books
are less than halfway finished.
Someone once told me,
"You're too young to be so old",
but I didn't notice,
I was too busy losing things
I never had.
I'm not weak,
I'm just broken.
Most days are overwhelming;
I often think of not existing.
You should try it sometime,
it's peaceful knowing you don't
mean anything to anyone.
It's a shame sadness seeps
through fingertips, otherwise
one day I might write; even though
I am everything but a writer.

I don't sleep much anymore.
It's the same as when we first met,
even though it's not the same.
I used to think "alone" was an adjective,
now I know it's just the state
of not fitting anywhere.
I don't fit anywhere.
There's nowhere to call home.
I hate being awake,
it just reminds me you're not here.
I hate being asleep,
it just reminds me that I'll wake up.
I don't write much anymore.
I have nothing left.
Words can't describe the 
pounding in my head,
or the emptiness in my bones.
So when you ask, "What's wrong?",
I don't have much to say besides,
"I don't sleep much anymore."

It’s December and
I tried to explain to my body
That I need to stay at a constant 98.6 degrees
And that it’s not normal
For those 98.6 degrees to skyrocket
Whenever your bare skin meets mine.
Apparently,
I’d taken a liking
To being consumed by fire
In the middle of a blizzard,
In December.
I’ll never quite manage to grasp
How you make my thighs shake
And my eyes go wide
Each time you’re merely in the same room as I.
Or when you smile.
When you smile,
it looks like all the biblical miracles
Placed into one crooked curve
And you gave me memories
Risque, raw memories that will keep my cheeks blushing and my head spinning
For ever so long.
Although,
I had hoped that by this time in winter,
Something more would’ve sparked.
But you only seem to know of
Pale spring mornings
And sticky summer nights.
I feel like I don’t even know you.
I touched you, I held your hand, I kissed your lips.
You poked and prodded the deepest parts of my tar black soul
That were so beyond your comprehension.
Yet, you don’t seem real, this doesn’t seem real, we don’t seem real.
Am I even real?
It’s December and you’re more of the boy I made out to be in my head
Based on those few blissful moments
Than the boy
Who would warm me up,
To much more than
A constant 98.6 degrees.

*-andrea

And still
My jaw is clenched
And I can feel your
Precarious breath,
Hitting me.
Like
The moment you realize you’ve had one whiskey too many
after you’ve invited that uncanny man
to your apartment.
And it makes me so deranged
I’m not even quite sure
How you can possibly contain the power to make me this
Exhilarated and unsure and electrified
and unbottled.
Every single word that                                                             ­                                                                 ­                      spills out of your mouth,                                                           ­                                                                 ­           
Sounds like the soundtrack to my dreams.
and I cling onto it all, only because
I want to remember every last detail, and
The only sensible excuse I have,
Is that you were my first.

*-andrea

This is a poem about being uncomfortable in your own skin.
Think small spaces,
Too warm,
Too soon.
A car crash.
Being trapped in an elevator.
Shifty eyes,
pure white lies.
Unclear shadows on a foggy night,
salty wounds left open for much too long.

Think about demolishing something,
that is perfectly fine as is.
Think about finally making love to the boy
with the softest lips you have ever tasted
And has those eyes,
Those eyes,
that remind you of home.
Think about the buzz in the middle of your stomach
And your eyes that oh so dramatically
roll to the back of your head
When your closest ones
Pick apart and analyze every aspect of your decision,
Critique
By
Critique.
One
Immoral
Choice
To
The
Next.

This is a poem about mistakes that aren’t truly mistakes
And lust and blood and bruises
And passionate kisses and risky decisions
And sleepless nights and dour girls.
And broken mirrors and ripped pages.
This is a poem about what has become your life.

*-andrea