Grief Written

Our love arrived at the hospital promptly at 5:40 on a Monday. Sometime between the bruised knees and salty kisses it's heart stopped beating. It arrived quietly, held in my shaking arms. There were no sirens, no screaming, just silent tears. It was placed on a gurney where it was rushed to surgery. I was the concerned loved one sitting in the waiting room. I was the surgeon thrusting my palms against a still heart just hoping for a beat. I was waiting. I was hoping. Where were you? Probably still sitting on that mountain where our love collapsed. I couldn't explain to the urgent surgeon our medical history or past. Everything was fine. Everything seemed fine. And then suddenly everything was anything but fine. Maybe it started when I couldn't look at him when he got in the car. Or it could've been when I turned up the radio to avoid conversation. Maybe it was when he brought me to the edge of a cliff and forgot I hated heights. Or it might've

"I don't know why I say the things I do and I don't know why I can't just trust my baby. I wish I could just bottle it all up and throw it off a cliff never to be seen again. I don't want to be scared all the time. I don't want to wonder if I'm good enough. I hate it. I hate how I take it all out on you.  You don't deserve it. You're only human. The mistakes you make aren't intended to hurt me. They're only mistakes.  Everyone makes mistakes in life, but that doesn't mean they have to pay for them for the rest of their lives. Sometimes the best people make bad choices. It doesn't mean they're bad, It just means their human." -a confession from a regretful boy. July 5, 2015. You know I loved you. You know I chose you. You know that I gave you everything. You know that I did everything to be forgiven. You know that for a long time until the end you didn't treat me how I deserved.  You're ang

I knew underneath it all, He truly did love me. When we were sleeping he used to pull me closer, brush my hair off my face, and pull the blankets around me tighter. He did all of this as he slept soundly. He subconsciously loved me. But I rather have someone choose me in the daylight, with his eyes open, knowing what he was doing. I rather be loved above all instead of underneath it all. And that is why I now sleep alone.

He doesn't love you like you think he does  He hasn't changed  He didn't treat you right  The good times don't excuse the bad times  It's okay that you love him Forgive yourself and him Everything will heal with time  You're beautiful  You deserve the world He's going to be sorry he lost you

You are asking for a little bit more of my time, but I GAVE YOU OVER THREE YEARS What more could you possibly want from me? I gave you everything and all you could do was ask for more. I'm out of more. I'm out of everything. All I have left is me, I don't have anything left to give you. You want to end on a good note but is this really the end? Can an end be good? Nobody likes endings. Endings either get booed or encored. I don't have enough of anything for either of those. I'm out of tears, I'm out of smiles, I'm out of well wishing, I'm out of curse words, I just don't have much to give anymore I'm just a sad girl who gave a little too much. I trusted a china shop of hearts and promises to a little boy who can't help but to run a little too fast and a little too recklessly. I'm just asking this one thing from you. I won't ask for kept promises or change or for you to love me. Or to come back. I'm just

Sometimes you have to do things that hurt to heal.

Authors note: This one was really hard for me to write, but it needed to be written. This one is for Ardon and Olivia, and anyone else who needed to hear this.  The universe had a beginning. According to the standard theory our universe sprang into existence as a singularity around 13.7 billion years ago. And due to it's nature of expansion our universe can be traced back in time to an originating single point. This thought essentially ties back to Einstein's theory of relativity which states that the universe is expanding and the far parts of it are moving away from us faster than the speed of light. The speed of light can be measured in something we call light years, the distance light travels in one year. Light traveling at a speed of 300,000 km/s. Light from the moon travels to earth in one second Light from the sun travels to earth in eight seconds Light from Sirius, the brightest star in our sky, travels to earth in eight years. So every time we look at our

I don't often write about boys I don't love, But here you are. I'm still in love with someone else, and you are too. You're still sad, but so am I. I don't know why I find myself writing to you, Or thinking about you, and sometimes I want to text you, to see how you are, but those moments are stuck in seventh grade when we were just kids. When we actually used our lockers, When we actually took notes in class, When we worried about what people thought of us, but I think we both still do that last one. I couldn't say though, because I don't really know who you are anymore. You're still that boy whose locker was next to mine, to me. I don't know what you've done and who've become, I really don't care. In a good way. I think the universe is funny. It brought us together when we were just blossoming. And in some funny way we're still in each other's lives, In a distant revolving never meeting way. That g

This moment. Right here. Right now. The moment is different while I'm writing this, than when you're reading it. I can't pin this moment's wings to a piece of cardboard, because I can't really catch this moment, and if I did then I don't know if it'd be the right moment. I can write how I feel but when the words are on paper I can't guarantee I still feel that way. And I just want to say as I'm writing this I'm happy and sad and nostalgic all at the same time. I love him but never want to see him again. I'm broken in one way and whole in another. This moment right now is filled with contradictions, And the moment changes like my mind, I feel everything and nothing at all, And I'm just trying to figure out how than can be.

I have a lot on my to do list I've been really busy I just started college My days are filled I tell myself these things to make it okay I don't write anymore, but thats okay Okay? Okay. I really am okay, Usually when I write I'm not. But I haven't been writing and thats okay. Everything is okay. No one really reads anymore, so does it matter if I write if no one reads? But really why I'm writing is to apologize. I'm sorry that I haven't been writing. My apology isn't even really for you but for me. I'm asking my aching fingers for forgiveness because I stem everything they want to say. I'm asking my bruised lips for forgiveness because they haven't had as much experience as they used to... and you can take that statement two ways. I'm telling every piece of me how damn sorry I am for not allowing it to just be. I'm sorry to my back for bending over it backwards for people who don't even bother to kiss

Sometimes I wake up to headlights passing my window, and think it's you

And no words can ever explain the death I felt inside my soul tonight.

Ten word stories: "When and how do you know that it is over?" "I just want to be in love all over again." "Teach me to love myself more than I do others." "I wonder what time my heart read when it stopped."

I never thought someone could become a habit. Habits were the way I bit my lip and nails. Habits were the way I rubbed my left collarbone when I felt anxious. Habits were the way I always brushed my teeth before I washed my face. Habits were where I put my keys everyday when I came in the front door. Habits were the way I always did my laundry on Sunday, just Sunday. But you never realize habits until someone points them out. And you never realize you're doing them until you catch yourself doing it, especially the bad ones. No ground teeth, torn lips, or ragged nails could compare to my favorite bad habit. The one with brown eyes and messy hair. I habitually thought of him. He simply became muscle memory, the clink of keys hitting the tray without me even looking up or pausing at the doorway. I didn't realize he was habit until my teacher caught me biting my nails and lip, grinding my teeth, and she begged me to stop. But I couldn't. I didn't realize what I wa

I know I don't make any sense Because I'm ignoring him Opening his messages without a reply But he keeps typing Until he stops Three messages in he stopped Told me if I wasn't going to respond he wasn't going to write And I know two wrongs don't make a right But I'm not feeling alright Or okay Because he gave up three minutes in Three minutes Like three years can amount to only three minutes of effort I can't respond I want to But I won't And he won't write me I'm trying to preserve some dignity. Because I'm tired of being an afterthought And if I wanted him to speak to me all I had to do was reply But I'm hoping he'll think and try Three years worth of trying He probably won't Because he's not thinking of ways to be with me Or ways to get me back Or ways to get me to respond He's thinking of her with long blonde hair And a laugh like bells The girl who draws and paints The girl he sees everyda

I told you I was exhausted. You suggested I sleep more, To which I replied I sleep for hours and still don't feel okay. "Sounds like depression" you said To which I disagreed. You sifted through causes but found none, And laying here I've figured it out. I sleep but not really. I fall asleep each night with my heart in my throat, fluttering like I swallowed a frantic bird. Because I left my sound on And I'm waiting for you to call, But as time drags on I slow my breaths and coax my frantic bird of a heart  back into its cage. And that bird doesn't sing Neither does my phone. I'm learning to fall asleep alone. And the silence is exhausting.

Not a poem just a thought: He said he wouldn't write anymore, But he did, And he turned my metaphoric being into someone else. Maybe when he wrote that, in between the lines, he meant he wouldn't write about me.

"She wasn't breathing, Her body showed courage, real courage, Killing her so that she could break free of her bones; Her spirit could be born into the world again."

I have a lot to say always. But really I just never say it. I wish everything I wrote was pretty and beautiful. But it's not. Poetry makes my heart hurt. Poetry makes me want to put my fist through a wall. Which isn't at all like me. Poetry makes me cry. Which I guess is a lot like me. I want to quit writing But thats like wanting to quit breathing It doesn't really work. It doesn't make sense. But it does. Scratch that. Scratch all of this. Scratch it all out and crumble it into a ball and throw it in a waste basket. Poetry reminds me of him. Poetry reminds me of him. A different him. A boy wrote a poem. It made me want to lay in a fort with him. Not in a romantic way. Because I'm in love with someone else and he is too and our lockers used to be next to each other when we were in seventh grade and still growing into ourselves. I think we're still growing. He's taller. He's sweet. And I just wish he wasn't

I grew up in a family of seven, five kids including me. So when our parents asked the ever so common question, "How was your day?" Each of us had a lot to say. We chatted over the top of each other with untied shoelace tongues tripping over the words in our mouth.  Our stories tended to fall on deaf ears because honestly you couldn't hear a single story. We were a bowl of spaghetti, you couldn't just get one piece without pulling up another.  So my mother began asking us one by one.  "How was your day?" Addressing each child in their chair, gradually working down the line. We used to go on roadtrips, and with a lot of kids in one small car we started calling role call. We assigned numbers to names, eldest to youngest, and being number four out of five it took some time to get to me. My parents used to worry about my schooling. Because instead of going 1 2 3 4 5. It would turn into 1, 2, 4...3, 5 Or 1, 4, 2, 3, 5 Or

It's the bitter metallic taste of pennies in your mouth. The tension in the air as time pulls tight like a rubber band. His hand gripping one side across from mine and we're slowly walking away. Silence stretching between us. The sting across your skin when it's broken and he says, "I kissed another girl." He kissed another girl. "It didn't mean anything" "I still love you" "I just wanted to kiss someone." And I must've swallowed the pennies, because god I can't breathe. There's something lodged in my throat and it's warm and metallic. Pennies. My palms are pressed deep into my eyes because I can see it. And I want to rub it away because I'm choking on pennies and I don't want my last memory to be of him pulling her in and his lips brushing hers.  The pennies must've dissolved or something because suddenly I can breathe but it doesn't sound alright. It sounds like an old rusty machine grinding down.

In loving memory of the poet Death by overdose of ink to the heart Murder by poem before she wrote it Unspoken words causing a coughing fit The rhythm inside unable to start In loving memory of the poet When she fell it was achingly quiet and the syllables inside fell apart Murder by poem before she wrote it With nothing to fill the sorrowful pit She fell tragically to her own art In loving memory of poet A flame extinguished that cant be relit Meeting a tragic end before its start Murder by poem before she wrote it Since the strongest emotion is regret In her name these praising words we impart In loving memory of the poet Murder by poem before she wrote it

I'm bad at talking about myself, but you asked me to. So here's a post filled with too many "I" statements. I'm currently sitting in my car when class started thirty minutes ago. I woke up late. Or rather my alarm went off and I ignored it. I could've been here earlier but my step mom told me to eat breakfast. She has this weird thing about breakfast. So I eat breakfast now. My school has a stricter tardy policy than absence policy so most days I just skip when I'm late. I really should go to class because I missed a lot this week, I had the flu. My nails are painted blue, but a light sky blue. They're chipped of course. I was in a play last semester. I'm in another one this semester. I'm pretty sure my track coach hates me because I've missed so much practice. I miss playing rugby, they don't have a team in park city. I haven't decided where I'm going to go to college.  Some little girls just passed my car on the way to the ele

I'm afraid. Terrified, really. I've got fears bottled and lining my shelves like numerous beauty products. Donning and dabbing and adorning one or maybe all everyday. To be honest, I'm scared to tell you I'm scared. Because often I'm told you're too young, too brave, too strong to be afraid. Like my braveness or strength or longevity take away the fact that, sometimes, I'm afraid to take a breath because what if it doesn't return? You might just laugh, shake your head, ponder about the morbidity of such a lovely girl. But things leave, people leave and you wont expect it. You'll wake up one day and it'll be gone. You can wake up and all of the sudden the air doesn't want to return to your lungs. You'll lie there gasping waiting for it to return but it refuses. Then you'll understand as your lungs ache and long for it's sweet fragrance that life has a fragility in even the most constant things. I'm terrif

My father is black digital alarm clock with white numbers My father is a worn leather wallet with my baby pictures in the back And the empty brand new wallet that sits in the drawer for years that I bought him for Father's Day but he never used because there wasn't a place for pictures in the back.  He is plaid shorts and band t-shirts that don't match, stained and holey jeans, and a nice business suit with a fancy tie. His hands are the deck he built and stained all by himself.  My father is a suitcase and a briefcase but not in a bad way. He is the man whose lips have never tasted a curse word in front of his children. My father is business shoes that he has worn for years, black leather with black laces.  I would compare him to a tree or a skyscraper but my father is above those types of cliches.  My father is a calm voice, A patient tone, A middle name when he's lost both. My father is a black digital alarm clock with whi

On the back of a chopsticks wrapper: We just met each other, but it wasn't awkward. You made me laugh. Like the can't breathe gasping for air laugh. You fed me sushi, it wasn't romantic. It was nice. You were nice. It was a nice night. A good first of firsts. 3/6/16

And I am so unbelievably angry because my body is a building of muscle and bone, Skin stretched across skeleton frames Delicate materials prone to breaking, But despite the monster beneath my fingertips Despite the thing inside of me pulsing and pounding Despite the gnashing and gnarling of teeth and claws, The grinding of teeth on my ribcage, My delicate skyscraper remains the same. It does not sway when my monster rages and roars, It simply stands there, unshaken, continuing to cut it's silloheoute into the sky. And I am so unbelievably angry because I wish my building of muscle and bone, With it's so very soft skin stretched across my skeleton frame, Would bend and break. Groan as it collapsed in a pile of ruble and dust. That would scatter with a strong gust of wind. I want to blow blow blow away. Ride the wind that used to push at my glass panes, Then get lost. and disappear. Because my anger derives from the fact that I no longer want

If I could look you in the eye without crying, I would say something like this: I hate the way you made me feel, but I will never hate you. But it is highly unlikely I would be able to look you in the eye and say those fourteen words that have been on my mind for weeks.  Partially because it's hard to look at you. Partially because this is the most I've said to you in weeks. Isn't that sad? We went from talking all day everyday to barely looking at each other. It's sad. But we're too prideful to change it. And that is the reason for this lengthy letter. A way for me to swallow my pride and say all the things I wish I could. So here's to self peace. To the boy who isn't mine, We began in the middle of September. I was shy and sad, I missed home. You were outgoing and happy, you were at home. We were thrown together by circumstance, and a meddling little brother who played match maker with his best friend and older sister. It started out as just casual flirtin

Hi. I don't really know how to start this, but I'm sure you know all about me. Or maybe not. If I had to introduce myself it would be as the girl who loved him before you. I loved him. I lost him. And the weeks leading up to the end and the weeks after were heartbreaking. So I'm writing to you to maybe prevent heartache of your own. To the girl who loves him next, He's pretty great isn't he? That boy of yours? I think so too.  Please take care of him. Letting him go was one of the hardest things I've done, don't make me regret it. Make sure to hold his hand and kiss him a lot, even in public. He will act annoyed and embarrassed about your big display of PDA but secretly he'll love it.  He loves hunting, a lot. He will hunt often and talk about it a lot. Listen to him and if he invites you to go, do it. He'll appreciate you taking an interest in something he loves. He'll make you laugh and smile. He tells outrageous stories and jokes, he'll ge

You were just an over glorified version of a love I already lost, I loved and lost him. I can love and lose you.