I tasted the ocean in my tears as they kissed my cheek , but why? Is comfort synonymous with love? Or is comfort simply mistaken for love? To love is to be comfortable, but that doesn't make them one in the same, does it? Like when you can't bear to bid farewell to your first baby tooth. Or when you kick and scream at your first battle of scissor versus tresses. A gash doesn't pain you, but when your eyes catch a glimpse of crimson waterfalling from your wound, it's agony. You taste different on my tongue today. Sweeter than ever, but I for once, crave bitter. Can a corpse be revived once its gone. I'm on life support, I'm a vegetable under your heart's control, but I am secure.  I am there. I am breathing. But I am not feeling. Do we pull the plug?

I felt like I was home, but with a lock that I no longer had the keys to; with blinds that undressed themselves when the sky cried and the heavens howled. The pristine ivory paint began peeling away, uncovering cracks that freshly existed, and floorboards whined with the lightest of pressure. Shadows formed where the sun used to sleep and Warhols warped. Mice claimed the basement, while spiders housed the attic. The grandfather clock struck at 11:52 instead of midnight. The house stopped settling at night and that burst of air at 2 in the morning, never tickled my toes hello. The bluebirds stopped kissing the window when the sun graced the horizon, and the steady traffic decided to resign from it’s alarm clock duties. Water dripped instead of flowed from the faucet, and the bristles from my toothbrush were unorderly and awry. Doors that never shut, locked with ease and some doors never opened again. Frocks that I favored, I suddenly loathed, and family portraits shifted into obituaries. I kept the light on and lit a candle and realized, I was no longer home.

Who Am I?

So what am I now; the leftover, ashy remains of a cremated lover? The piece of a candle wick that will no longer catch the flame of a burnt down match, or the balmy wax slipping between your fingertips? Am I freshly laundered sheets you bury your aging face under, or the blanket of security you hide behind? Am I the worn down tires skidding against damp asphalt? Am I the sound of a kettle crying, or sugar liquidating into stifling cup of tea? Am I your pupil or your iris? Do you see me in a kaleidoscope of colors, or the lack of light? Am I the rupturing follicles of ringlets kissing your neck, or am I your fresh roots sprouting? Am I the musical playing at the stroke of midnight, or simply the ticking of the minutes? Am I the pistol your tremulous paw is clenching, or the bullet ricocheting into your gaping mouth? Am I your mind's logic, or your heart's chaos?

"Take your hands over your bumpy lovebody naked, and remember the first time you touched someone with the sole purpose of learning all of them. Touched them because the light was pretty on them and the dust in the sunlight danced the way your heart did. Touch yourself with a purpose, your body is the most beautiful royal. Fathers and uncles are not claiming your knife anymore, are not your razor, no put the sharpness back lay your hands flat and feel the surface of scarred skin. I once touched a tree with charred limbs, the stump was still breathing but the tops were just ashy remains, I wonder what it’s like to come back from that. Sometimes I feel a forest fire erupting from my wrists
and the smoke signals sent out are the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen."

My Darling

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My darling

I don’t know if it’s a downfall or an act of complete selflessness, but it’s absolutely what I do. I focus all of my energy, time, love and efforts into someone else so I don’t have to dwell on my own flaws and my overwhelming amount of imperfections. Maybe it’s cowardly. I’m terrified to face myself and battle that battle again. I don’t know if there’s ever a surrendering white flag in the war with one’s self. I know how far I’ve traveled though and how far I still need to go. Im not certain where my wandering may lead, but I am positive that I want you, with me, every step of the way. I want you to know all of my secrets that have yet to be unraveled and engage in whatever mishaps, mayhem and miracles have yet to come. You’re nothing I imagined for myself and I’m convinced thats why I fall harder with every laugh. Thank you for bringing me happiness that’s unquestionable. Thank you for being you.

Her

"But you spoke of her like she was the most beautiful, statuesque woman you had ever laid eyes on. I envisioned her to be towering and perfectly proportioned with flowing locks and these mesmerizing bedroom eyes in a shade of grey that is uncanny."

"She is none of those things, except the most beautiful woman that my eyes have had the pleasure of encountering. No more than 5'5 and a little fuller than your average with short, anything but flowing, curls. Delectable almond eyes in your everyday shade of brown. But it was more than just that; there was a fire, a sadness, behind those chocolate irises. Something so hypnotizing and captivating about this woman. Unannounced and often subtle, a beauty, oh believe me, a beauty she was and is. Not all of the world could see her beauty, but the few that did, man were we the lucky ones. And that's how you know she's a beautiful woman; because you never look at any other female the same after her."

The Remedy

Is anyone ever really cured? Will I always be the slightly suicidal, overly emotional, codependent yet insistently dependent girl who's a little unsure and entirely too certain? Will you always be the obsessive compulsive alcoholic who insists that she's cured but drowns her sorrows at the bottom of a cheap bottle of vodka? Is there really any cure for life or this constant self inflicted pain? What about the demons inside of us? Can we ever kill them, or are we only feeding their never ending hunger?