he kidnapped my heart
like it was a scared little child
but soon returned it without ransom,
battered and bruised,
with a tone of disgust in his voice
and a distant look on his face.
I guess his greedy mind
got very bored,
very fast
with my broken little heart in his hands.

It’s 4:27 AM on a Thursday.
You say I have so much left to give,
even if I have no one to give it to.
I wish I had more to
[these pieces don’t fit]
even if you don’t want any of it.

It’s getting colder outside,
I just keep thinking
more about [ ]
I just keep thinking more
about you.

You were a lot of things for me,
you were an anchor in
you taught me to
but you were never mine.

There are no oceans left
in my fingertips.
Your eyes have

and that’s okay.

[nothing fits]

It’s 5:13 AM on a Thursday.
I’ve figured out how we’re different;
you’re doing okay without me.

I tried writing the other day,
but you took everything when you left.
I was never a writer anyways,
I was just in love with you.

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."

there are
recent revelations
so secret, I am scared
to share them as if they
were birthday wishes and
you never tell someone
your wishes.

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.