classically me

isn’t it funny,

how many times you’ve been the subject

to each of these poems?

isn’t it funny,

that instead of telling you,

i post a poetic lyrical

piece of literature

for you to never read?

i am a 1700s woman

writing letters she’ll never send

but memorializing them

on here.

isn’t it funny

that it’s been

months

and still, you keep up me at night

and my heart still misses you?

isn’t it funny,

that i am pathetic

and needy

and selfish,

and i hope you miss me.

i hope one day, you ache to know

how i am

so you decide to look me up any way you can

and you come across this

my endless library of missing you

and i hope you miss me more.

i hope it hurts like hell.

i hope you miss me.

there used to be time i would spend hours and hours

simply talking to you. 

we could talk about anything,

nothing, 

simultaneously everything.

you were my rock.

you kept me from drifting too far away with the unabashed currents,

you tethered me to reality. 

no matter how terrible my day was, you’d make it better.

no matter how great my day went, you’d make it tenfolds better.

you were home.

but slowly, things started changing.

you’d grow distant, and suddenly home felt like a stop to somewhere better. 

and then a vacation home.

then not even an enjoyable one. 

once upon a time, there was you and i and we were in the stars. 

but then, the stars misaligned.

we fell apart. 

i know we’re not us anymore.

i know you don’t care.

i know that in the grand scheme, i’m forgotten,

your stars will align with someone else, 

and you’ll blend your soul with them instead.

but if its okay with you, i’d rather remember the us 

with the lovely sweetness and happy memories and 

picnics under the stars. 

if its okay, i’d like to remember 

i’m not the first girl 

who feels her heart aching in her chest 

i’m not the first 

to cry alone 

i’m not the only one 

whose feelings feel like a

chain 

wrapped around their neck

i’m not the first 

i’m not the last 

there are days i miss you with more 

of myself

than i really have.

i miss you more 

the sun misses the moon

the sand misses the ocean

the clouds miss the rain 

the pen misses the paper

the snowflake misses the sky.

there are parts of me i don’t think i’ll

ever

get back. 

you broke me. 

you took parts of me to make

yourself 

whole and in turn left me 

defenseless 

from the missing you.

but i wonder 

on cold and lonely nights

if i miss you,

you know,

home isn’t home anymore.

happy feels like

a distant relative

that never comes around

anymore.

hope feels inevitably

stupid,

dumb,

irrevocably meaningless.

i don’t know how to be okay.

i’m tired of trying.

everything hurts so much

that i can’t even find any

poetic linguistically appealing way to convey.

i just wanna give up.

i miss her.

constantly telling myself

how futile it is

to miss

her

does nothing.

she doesn’t miss me.

she doesn’t need me.

once upon a time,

maybe,

but now she doesn’t.

i miss her so much

it feels like a hand from out in an abyss

has taken hold of my throat

and doesn’t let go

until i cry the choke away.

i curse her under my breath

because i hate her.

i hate her so much

that i don’t hate her at all.

i hate her for leaving.

i hate her for making me care

that she’s leaving.

i hate that she leaves so slowly.

slowly like the sand in an hourglass

pushing through the opening to the

down

like every time she leaves a little more

a little more of me

falling to the down.

the truth is, i don’t hate her.

i want to.

sometimes i allude myself into

believing

i do,

because it’s easier to hate her

for pulling away,

pushing me away,

leaving,

leaving so damn slowly

that it feel like she’s

ripping

my heartstrings

until there’s nothing left

to hold my heart in my chest,

than to admit

that i gave her the power to do so

by not hating her,

but needing her enough

to miss

her.

i hate it.

i hate her.

but no,

i miss the her

that wanted me

to be there

as much as i

want her to be there.

i miss

her.

i hate hearing songs

that remind me of her.

i hate seeing something

and knowing she’d love it.

i hate realizing

there are parts of me

that came about because of her.

i hate that there is

always

going to be a piece of me

that will always remember her,

even though,

i know there isn’t anything about me

you’re so fucking beautiful 

you make me so fucking happy 

my sides hurt so laughing so fucking much 

you make me want to be so much fucking better

godfuck, 

you came out of nowhere 

messed me up in the best way 

and made me so fucking happy 

your best friend might ignore you 

you might feel fat

you might get a bad grade

your parents might get mad

everything will be okay

it has to be 

one day 

it won’t matter 

one day

your face will hurt from smiles

your lips will be bruised from so many kisses

and arms sore from hugs

and maybe you’ll finally get 

sometimes

just feel like i'm

existing.

i don't feel like anything matters.

i don't feel like anything i do

means anything.

and it's a terrible feeling.

i hate it.

i don't know how to make it poetic

because there's nothing

beautifully tragic

here.

i'm just a person

who can't get their act together

so they write about it

and attempt to connect.

and i don't know why.

i don't know anything.

i don't know what

sometimes i feel like i am a depression.

not the mental illness,

though that can be questionable.

i mean the geographical one.

i feel like there's part of me

that just caves in.

my heart is too heavy.

my brain is too loud.

sometimes it just feels like

everything crashes in.

everything clashes and crack,

and i'm left in the debris.

maybe i'm just a hole in the ground,

meant to be filled with dirty rain water.

maybe i don't have to be whole.

maybe there's nothing wrong with my cave.

i hold something for thirst pass-byers.

and maybe in time i'll be filled with

flowers again.

maybe in time i'll be whole and beautiful.

or maybe i'll be like the grand canyon,

forever a depression but beautifully.

maybe people will find me beautiful.

maybe i am a depression.

maybe i am my depression.

but perhaps i

will be beautiful

for it,

with it.

beauty isn't always sunshine.

maybe art isn't supposed to be pretty.

it's suppose to invoke feeling.

maybe that's what i do.

maybe i am just me,

maybe i am a canyon,

a depression,

a piece in the array of art.

maybe i'm not okay,

or happy,

or really even stable,

oh, dear.

how long has it been?

when was the last time we spoke?

days?

weeks?

months?

it feels like lifetimes.

we fucked it up, huh? 

we were so happy.

you were supposed to be my best friend.

but where are you?

where am i?

you left.

i let you.

you came back,

but the door's still closed,

and i don't think you care.

you left for her.

you left for a girl who'd have rather

see me ruin myself

than talk to you.

you left.

it doesn't matter.

i don't matter.

stop lying to me like that.

an hour's conversation

in the dead of night

with meaningless jokes

doesn't make up for it.

it doesn't make up for how you

made me feel.

how could you?

why did you?

why don't you care?

who cares?

i don't.

i'm trying not to.

but evidently i'm failing

if i'm still writing

this shitty excuse of a poem

for the third time

just so you can not read.

you don't care.

and i wish

it's quite funny

punny,

oh honey.

you make me smile

and laugh

and giggle like i'm three.

and i don't get it.

you're frustratingly cute.

you're irresistibly captivating.

you hold me captive,

my heart for ransom.

and the only thing that'll set it

free

is if i love you.

and god,

some of them are

soft, gentle, and sweet.

they study for hours,

trying to make their mama and papa proud.

some of them are

badass.

they party and kiss someone new every night.

they celebrate life,

and ignore everyone who tells them otherwise.

some of them are

sad.

they cry by themselves when no one looks.

they try their hardest,

and even then, they don't feel enough.

some are

spending hours in the bathroom,

coming out to look like a model.

some of them like boys,

others girls,

some in-between,

not at all,

or all of the above.

and that's okay.

that's fan-fucking-tac.

because girls

are amazing,

beautiful,

strong,

smart

humans who deserve love.

and while not every girl is good,

and boys too deserve love,

how is one supposed to write that

when there's just

today,

yesterday,

tomorrow,

years,

days,

months.

i don't know what i'm doing anymore.

god, fuck.

i'm sorry.

i'm here.

you're here.

are you you?

am i me?

why is the sky on the ground?

it was a bad day.

you're here.

i'm here.

the sky is in your eyes.

it was good.

i'm scared.

i'm happy.

i worry about my frequency of "i."

i love you.

i hate you.

too many feelings.

too many lies.

too much shit for

us.

stop lying.

stop it.

stop making me feel,

the world confuses me

more than i can explain.

i feel like like i'm spinning

and spinning

and everything just becomes lines of colors,

everything too fast for me

to understand.

i don't know what's going,

who's talking to me,

where i am.

everything is so

dizzying.

thank fuck

i have you.

you.

you make me stay grounded.

you're my anchor to reality,

the only thing keeping me from drift,

failing prey to the predatory waves.

you're my medicine.

you're my lifeline.

you make me

want to be

okay.

please stay.

don't go.

keep me from being

fuck.

i don't know which way is up,

or which is down.

my heart is submerged,

but brain stay in denial.

what am i supposed to do?

who am i supposed to be?

you're here.

you're there.

he's with her.

she's with him.

everything,

everyone,

it's all just a blur.

i'm just a person.

an imperfect person with

a gazillion

flaws.

i'm boring,

awkward,

scared,

insecure.

no one wants me to stay.

so no one stays for too long.

it's scary.

it's expected.

i drown in the tears

that i wish weren't mine

but are.

i'm sorry.

i'm so fucking sorry.

i'm not what you want.

i'm not what i want.

i'm not what anyone wants.

so just go.

do what you want.

i don't care.

that's a lie,

but it's one i'm trying to believe.

go.

and just let me drown.

because at least the water

doesn't pretend