Hot mess.

As you struggle to part with your sheets,

you look up at the ceiling and dance with your thoughts.

Found so many things to do so young.

You push yourself up, stagger across the room

dizzy with the plains and valleys of your moods.

Your dreams are but light-years away.

As you pour yourself a cup of stale coffee,

you wonder if you’ll ever get there.

Ten years, you tell yourself.

Ten years and they’ll see.

Reaching for the stars,

your heart grows weary

from all the NOs and MAYBEs;

from all the lives you’re not living.

Silent, starving

while the room keeps spinning.

You’re too high in the clouds

and you yearn to come down,

lest you crash and burn

from coming too close to the sun.

The day just started

and the light shines through the curtains you bought at too cheap a price.

Your dreams come at too steep a price.

Your lonesome self

assuaged by empty kisses each night.

The void filled with far too many

handsome strangers who

wouldn’t give you a second thought —

not after they’ve had their fill of carnal bliss.

Nightmares keep you up,

leave you gasping, aching for air.

Tears fall

as you wash off the night before

from your hair.


You have me at the soles of your feet.

I am the doormat you wipe your dirty shoes on

as you make some place your home.

Every time you close the door behind you,

I am left soiled

and bruised.

Yet I greet you everyday

with a brand of welcome that only I can give.

So you look at me with such familiarity and warmth

as you enter an abode of rest.

But you never once looked back each time you leave.

Honey, I am home —

lay your tired bones on me when you get locked out.

You may think I’m replaceable,

but I will still wipe your dirty toes clean.

Honey, you may not think about me all the time,

but under me is where you will find the key.


How does one truly forget?

How does one make amends?

In the dying light of day,

I caress the parts of my skin that knew you;

the parts of my skin you once touched,

kissed, ravaged.

It still remembers the hunger

that manifested from the longing

in your soul.

We were lonely.

We were bruised.

With our bloody noses

we soiled your sheets

like it was what we

were born to do.

I struggled with your silence,

while you fought to keep me out.

Tumbling and wrestling with

what-could-have-beens and

unrealized potential,

we lie blinded,

weakened by empty promises

and regrets.

It was apparent that the victims

far outnumbered the dead,

and that I was the main casualty.

You are incapable of change.

You are incapable of love.

So how does this go?

How does one

become truly free from you

when all I have been doing is cry

behind this smile?

How do we unlearn the truths

that we have come to know

like the backs of our hands?

Darling, we were never meant to soar.

With a weary heart,

I have come to realize that

you can never really fix a person.

but you can love the fuck out of them, or

fuck the love out of them.

And so this is the nature

of all great romantic tragedies —

that the Romeos and Juliets die,

but their stories

and their pain

live on.