They all talk of being born with skin of glass. I live with flesh of stones; no mortar holding together my pieces. One harsh touch to crumbling down into a pile of debris like houses after disaster. Houses that home the bodies of the forgotten. Houses of the people I used to love in a time when  love was something I was capable of doing. A time when blood ran through the veins that are now tangled grape vines. When the boulder in my chest once held the names of people whose lips I've once kissed. I am no longer able to hold people without them being a part of me. Whose heart was made into solid rock and built me. I am made of everyone I have broken. I remember you visited me last year, laying flowers at my feet. Crying, begging me to hold you. Begging me to take the pain away. You traced the lines of my composure, you rested your head against my solid chest. The chest that doesn't contain the resonation of a beating heart. I wanted to tell you I am sorry. I'm sorry for keeping them from you, I'm sorry that their names are etched into me. I'm sorry for being the only reminder of the ones whose absence you feared. I still remember the day the carved each death date into my side, It didn't hurt. Nothing hurts other than seeing your tears that shower onto the flowers that bring beauty to the darkness I am made of. Maybe I'll become numb someday... maybe it'll be the day they carve your death date into my surface; maybe death will look a little more beautiful.

In all honesty I've never been good with words. I never knew what to respond after the doctor would ask me what hurt, or what to tell my mother after I saw her cry when my dad left. Poetry is placing words in all the wrong places in order to build something right. Poetry is taking apart the puzzle and forcing the pieces into spaces they don't fit. I tried to write you a letter to tell you that I miss you, the problem with poetry is that there's no metaphor that makes this emptiness inside my chest any more beautiful. There's no personification real enough to make my sheets feel like you're laying in them. There's no simile literal enough to make my heart feel as though its healing. I wish I could place these words on my tongue and roll them out for you to hear, but since I've last kissed you I can't even find the motivation to part my lips. I always find myself questioning why I keep writing; because the problem with my poems is that you're never the one reading them.

I couldn't wait for the day the sun didn't feel like it was trying to burn me, or for the day the rain wasn't trying to fill my lungs. I couldn't wait for the day the highway wouldn't sound like it's calling me to play with it, or the day sidewalks quit threatening to swallow me whole. There was something about the way my fear of love made the words wrap themselves around my vocal cords. I'm sorry I've never been able to get those three words out without sounding like I'm going to choke. I couldn't wait for the day my love for you didn't feel like a consequence or for the day I could convince myself that what you felt for me was real. The truth is I'm not used to people staying longer than I'm able to hold myself back from pushing them away. I got in the habit of writing my love to you on the parts of my skin that I'd never let you see, so that tearing off my clothes would be the easiest way to show you how I feel. My veins are filling with ink now, a mix of red and blue filled with words left unsaid. Some nights I talk to the walls, some nights they tell me about where your knuckles made dents when I'd whisper in my sleep about leaving you; I never really thought you'd be the first one out the door. Loving you was making excuses. Loving you was throwing diamonds in wishing wells, knowing my hope wasn't worth the price. Sometimes when the highway calls me, sometimes when the sidewalks threaten to swallow me whole, sometimes when the rain fills my lungs with water;  letting you go looks a lot like the final death of me.

They wait. They wait in the corners of your mind right behind the "no crossing sign" in an attempt to scare you away. They're everything you've ever tried to push away in any shape or form. If you're wondering what you've been trying to drown in liquor, this is your answer. If you're wondering what you've been hoping would crumble like the final ash of your cigarette, this is your answer. How do you run away from what you're made of? You've been trying. You've been destroying the darkest sides of your mind not realizing the cracks spread further than where you intended. So here you are, broken. The circle puzzle piece who doesn't seem to know where to fit. The grey flower in the field of colorful bouquets, cutting at your stem thinking the picture would be prettier without you in it. The picture would not be the same without you in it. Look at your veins, feel your heart. Sense the movement, the rhythm, the continuation of the pattern. You are made up of everything you've been trying to destroy. Someday someone isn't going to need an alarm clock, you will be their reason. Everyday when it feels like sun is kissing your cheek, it is because the whole universe is happy you're here. So stay. Let gravity be the pull on your body, let this be the pull on your heart; stay. May the music of the wind, the echoes of the water and your footprints on the sand be a reminder that this world would not be the same without you in it. And no, you are not the reason for the sun orbiting around the earth, nor are you the reason the seasons change. But you are a stepping stone to change, you are a future movement. You are a part of a beautiful cycle. Put your hand on your heart, feel the beat on your palm, look at your veins and hear the melody they resonate as the blood flows, hear the strumming of your eyelashes every time you blink, the harmonic symphony of air every time it enters your lungs. I beg you; don't stop the music.

Tonight the freckled sky winked at me,
well that's what I'd like to think
but really it did to all, because the gown
the Moon wears out seduces and bewitches us.

It flirts around with many, a two-timing lover,
and though I'd like to think of me differently
I can't leave this unhealthy relationship,
thus I pretend she's mine to dream and write about.

At times I despise her,
cunning and frigid waiting for me to glance up
at her.
Always out of reach and yet she tells me she's near.
We fight,
I don't see her in the sky for days,
I suffer,
she hides behind the velvety veil of opal clouds
and all I feel are the droplets of my tears.
However, those times don't matter,
I love her unconditionally even while she goes and
lures in another.

Tonight,
her speckle lashes flutter beneath my fingertips
her twinkling lips like sparkling water
her body is chilly from a night of walking
and that's fine,
I'll warm her with my words and caresses,
because tonight belongs to me and no one other.

She's the open window and the closed door.
She's stale and bitter, but tastes as sweet as freshly picked fruit on days the sun rays make love to her skin.
She's everything she tried her hardest to be, she's everything she didn't want to become.
She's the kind of girl who drinks herself to sleep on Sunday nights, hoping to find him in the same level of desperation.
She basques in his absence, she grieves in loneliness.
She is not who she is, she is a side effect of who she was made to be.
I've never seen anything like her.
I've never known anything like her
I was always aware of her, but I never feared her.
I never knew she'd become real to me.
But I found her. I found her in the bathroom this morning.
I found her once my head came up from the faucet after swallowing six pills too many.
I found her in the honest glass.
She smiled at me and glanced down at my trembling hands.
I looked her in the eyes, and welcomed her home.

I am Anger.
My soul is a storm,
a tsunami of rage.
My mind is blank.
My eyes are black.
The heart is a bomb
ready to explode.

I am Sadness.
My soul is a lake,
a large pond of stillness.
My mind is busy.
My eyes are blue.
The heart is an empty bottle
ready to break.

I am Fear.
My soul is the night,
a ghoul of darkness.
My mind is everlasting
My eyes are there, yet hollow.
The heart is the earth
crumbling under me.

I am Happiness.
My soul is the sun,
a ball of fortune.
My mind is free
My eyes are bright.
The heart is a drum
beating to the sound of my laughter.

I am love.
My soul is flower,
a plant in blossom.
My mind is racing
Eyes are distant.
The heart is a jewel
shining through my skin.

I am Emotion.
My soul is the universe,
a vast opening of many things.
My mind is awake
My eyes are full.
The heart is a meteor
ready to change it's direction.

because sometimes
metaphors aren't obvious enough

The tree stood like a soldier at ease,
Like a slowly exploding electric wire,
Like dendrites grabbed out of the brain and magnified,
Like a shout becoming a thousand whispers,
Like a train track diverging,
Like a telephone pole,
Like a shoelace untying,
Like deaf people clapping,
Like a book with the pages leafing in the breeze,
Like an umbrella defying the sky,
Like a policy splintering into regulations.

I constantly find myself reaching out to the side of my bed where you used to lay, and disappoint myself to have even set an expectation that I might have been able to touch your skin. I won’t lie, I've let myself fall asleep in the arms who have dared to hold me, but they've never felt like you. The day I woke up alone to a single sun ray beaming on my cheek, I realized that I held love in my hand almost as tightly as you held the door handle the day you left & I guess that’s been sitting on my mind for so long that I forget to welcome in any other thoughts. I let myself hate who I am, because you couldn't love me the way I thought you did. I hear people talk of love as though it’s the sweetest thing they've ever tasted, while I sit there listening with a bitter blandness on my tongue. I find myself clutching onto bottles of ***** and pills I never end up popping, almost as though my hands have the habit of holding on too tightly to things that aren't good for me. The problem is that I've never found this feeling in anything else but you. I've never longed for something so badly to the point that without it, I can’t function. My knees are so heavy, my head is constantly spinning I try to see the reflection of your face in the windows at night when I play your favorite songs. I write with my fingers in the snow till they go blue, messages to remind me this isn't permanent so that when the sun comes out and they melt, they will have been proving it all along. Trust me when I say, numb fingers can never forget the feeling of something so warm. And kissed lips will always remember the ones that made them tremble.