My sadness feels extraordinary,
because I foolishly believe it is special.

Falsely, I pretend I am the only one
who spends days in bed, writhing
beneath the sheets
with a pit in my stomach and a pain in my chest,
as if the same fate doesn’t lie
dormant in all the other rooms of this house.

The longing for something else,
something better,
lingers within these four walls,
but it is not my own.

This anguish permeates throughout
the apartment,
down the block,
out into the world,
infecting both friend and foe

My despondency is not my own,
yet that brings no relief.
— On Brooding

moonshaddow said: Your poems and other writings are hitting me right in the chest tonight. They're perfect.

Thank you, that is so incredibly kind.

When you ask how I’ve been, is it appropriate to say that I slept in your shirt the past two nights? To explain the dreams where I wake up only remembering the image of your face? To tell you that the best I’ve ever gotten off alone was when I pretended you were there?

If the premonitions weren’t so clear, I’d make them up anyway.

How do you time things so aptly? Why is today the first we’ve spoken since you told me hanging on was harmful? Can you feel my unidentified sadness? Do you prey on it? Or are you only intending to comfort? If the former, go to hell. Bring me with you. If the latter, those interests would be better served with our bodies entwined.

Oh God, how systematically we fit. I get scared when I picture the arms of another wrapped around me. Scared they will not compare to your hold. Do I miss you, or do I miss us in your bed? Questions I am afraid to answer. All I want are answers.

Why is it always like this? The cyclical nature, the Tilt-A-Whirl of relationship. I know the pattern, but I do not stop it from recurring. I pay the fare, I board the ride, I spin round and round, mistaking adrenaline for euphoria. I might throw up. We move closer together and farther apart simultaneously.

I wish you would fly across the country.
I wish you would come over tonight.

I refuse to allow myself to open up to anyone else. I want it to be you. I want you to notice. I want you to remember. I want you to care.
Or I want you to be gone.

In three weeks, it will be six blocks. The magnetic pull of the universe. But you resist me. Oh, how you resist me. Teach me to reciprocate. Teach me all the methods you use to release and draw me in again and again so that I may be better equipped for combat. The war is won before the first bullet is fired. Failure is impending and inevitable.

Leave me in the trenches.
Journal Entry
June 12, 2014


If my heart was more than a heart, it would give you a call and pump out all of the words I keep trapped behind my teeth.

If my heart was more than a heart, it would burst out of my chest, throwing itself at your feet, screaming “take me, I am yours.”

My feeble heart, slamming its fists against my ribcage, demanding to be free of the bony barricade.

My incessant heart will not shut up about you. It does not know how. It beats out your name as if it knows nothing else.


When my heart woke up this morning, it wished you were still laying next to me, impatiently waiting for you to reenter the room. You, disappointed I had woken before you could throw your underwear in my face. Me, laughing until my eyes took notice of you, standing before me in only those boxer briefs, freshly cleaned skin gleaming in the natural light that pours so fluidly into your window. My body, longing to wrap itself around yours again. My heart, damn proud to use the word again with such certainty.

When my heart recalled the history behind the borrowed t-shirt wrapped around it as I left, it smiled with the glee of a school girl. I knew better than to divulge the details. You hate the way I remember everything. My heart wants you to know it’s the same shirt you wore that first afternoon we spent together, aimlessly wandering the city.


My distracted heart writes poems for you in business class.

My masochistic heart gets off on making playlists of the songs that reminds it of you and is rewarded three hours later with texts that read “Just got home, found myself thinking of you” and “Do we see eachother tonight?”

Oh my heart, the pathetic hopeless romantic, wants to get day drunk in the park and fuck you in the tube slide. Who will scream louder in ecstasy, us or the playground kids?


My fatigued heart is having trouble circulating blood today. The slow and steady pumping pounds against my chest, but regardless of the amount of pressure, it just can’t get the job done. It deprives my brain of oxygen.

My fucking heart, a paranoid schizophrenic hollow mass of blood, develops an arrhythmia every time someone else mentions your name. I’m haunted by hallucinations of the day my tongue snaps and asks exactly what’s going on between us. It writes speeches that would make a politician cry with jealousy; the convincing delivery is almost enough to trick me.

My forgotten heart hasn’t heard from you in four days. I wonder what you’re doing, but can’t bring myself to ask. Your phony attempts at giving attention are transparent and thin and only result in increased aggravation. I hate you most days, but dream at night of your soft fingertips, strong hips, sure lips, all pressing against me in just the right places. I need to hear you say it. I need to hear the words fall carelessly out of your mouth, words detailing all the ways you don’t care about me or my useless, needy heart.


Last week, heart to heart, standing in the doorway before I turned to leave, you kissed me goodbye. It took far too long to realize that it might be the last time.”

Replace My Heart Valves with Vocal Chords
April 11-May 15, 2014
I did my best to keep up.
You did your best to stay awake.

When that became too much,
you lay silently on my chest,
fingertips finding home
in my collarbone.
I stoked the hairs on the back
of your neck.
I only want you to feel safe
in my arms.

Into the darkness,
you softly proclaimed,
“I’m gonna miss you,”
just before rolling over
to take refuge in the crevice between
my ribcage and bicep
and drifting off to sleep.

You won’t
(or will claim you won’t)
remember this,
but I know it speaks volumes.
Journal Entry
March 31st, 2014


Who I Am This Week

This is a study of the transformations I underwent in an effort to make some rapid, drastic change. It’s a mechanism I resort to as a way to regain some control when I feel very out of sorts. With limited resources and no good reason not to, I enlisted the help of my roommates to bleach my hair. And bleach it again. Then I dyed it. And they dyed it once more. Over the course of four days, I generated a great deal of damage and became five different people. My life is still messy, but now I’ve got a head to match.

(via secretlyspiderman)