He's thinking about
His book.
And how he's going to write her into it.
She's a shelf that doesn't hold anything
But a few memories here and there
And some day dreams.
Her eyes sting
And her voice just sort of floats above everything else.
Like a sheet of clouds on a hot July morning.
There's really no place to acknowledge a power so fierce
Using just the ink from a couple of pens.
But he's going to try to capture the way her lungs give out
During long drives down busy highways
And her dark glasses always seem to be locked forward.
Her toes curl in her flip-flops
And she never opens her mouth too wide.
How can words describe someone
That only the pounding of a heart can imagine?

I** would like to thank you.

thank you for making me feel disgusting in my body,
and telling me i'm not worth it.

thank you for judging me,
and getting upset with me over nothing.

thank you for telling me not to talk to anyone,
while you're miss popular.

thank you for helping me hate myself,
for putting so much negatives in place of my only positives.


thank you
for making me laugh
for taking away the pain
for numbing my brain
for making me forget it all
for letting me fall in love with you
for leading me on
for tempting my lips
for treating me special
for making me cry
for over sexualizing my body
for calling me ruthless slurs
for not having the guts to approach me
for telling me you didn't believe in me
for turning me down
for telling me to find someone new

oh thank you,
for being you.
for showing me who you really are.

madison i hope this world gives you hell,

only because i want you to run back to me.

i'll comfort you through the storms,
but i guess you don't need it.
you don't want it.
you never did.

most people are prescribed medicine when they're upset,
but i never obliged.

why let something else control you?
why not try to get stronger rather than paying for stronger doses?

i never took my Cipralex because i know it just makes it all worse.

you're still faking a smile if it's only there because of prescriptions.

My mother keeps dropping hints
About the increase in size of my waist
About the decrease in space between my legs
"Are you really going to eat that?"
"You shouldn't be snacking that much."
"If you're hungry, you should probably just drink water."
"That won't digest well if you eat it now."
"You know that's going straight to your gut."
Sometimes in the silence of our house late at night I can hear her whispering, "You're not good enough."

I love you too, mom.

I loved how easily words were spread when they wrote,
how a sentence could be a paragraph with less words.
I remember how much time I spent reading,
how my life revolved around it.

I'd memorize words and phrases,
even traits,
but it would never be enough,
so I kept going back for more.

and more,
and more.

I'm starting to remember why I loved fiction.

if your voice was a song
i would ride your pitch until i could no more
i would sing along until my voice became weak
i would imagine your lips
and your perfect pronounciations
with want
and denied obsession

we dress up at night because in the dark they can't see our imperfections
we hold on tight because we know when we let go we wont be able to retrieve what we have lost
we keep things from people because we're scared to lose them

but imperfections never leave,
your fingers will burn from holding on so tight,
and no matter what there will always be loss.

so why do we try?