Grief Written

Headlights across windows still make my heart stop, My eyes are closed tightly but the light still passes by, Somebody just passing through. He's holding my hand in the car, looking at my fingers. Damn I knew I should've painted my nails, The paint in pieces. "Do you like your nails long or short?" I resist the urge to put my thumbnail in my mouth when I respond, "not too long, I bite them sometimes, when I'm nervous or thinking." You're taking my fingers gently from my mouth, "I think it's cute but you told me to help you break the habit." You're folding your fingers between mine. Flashback/Flashing lights. "I lick my lips when I'm nervous," he said. So I watch his lips the whole night. But lose sight of them for a moment when they're on mine, My eyes are closed, And everything else is just passing through.

You always leave me with a semicolon; I'm always wondering if it's the end of your thought, of this, or if there could be more.

My grandmother sold her typewriter and I wonder where it's gone And if it's being written on. The letters on the keys had begun to fade, But they missed the firm hand of my grandmother, And maybe the lovely words that she pressed into the page. And the keyboard on the computer doesn't click the same way, The blinking cursor on the page impatiently urging you on, While the typewriter calmly held your hand until you were ready to speak. Writing  shouldn't be so easy, You should feel the impact of each letter as you type it. It should be as messy as the XXX placed over words, Hastily crossed out, Or the crumbled page in the corner with fresh ink. Mistakes can't be erased, Mistakes should make you start over. But sometimes mistakes are the friends that have fallen away, the ones you know so well, but simply acknowledge with a hesitant wave of your fingers on the street. Fingers shoved quickly back into pockets before they reach

happy 20th to me 1. The words "I love you" means different things to different people. 2. Forever isn't as long as some people would like to believe. 3. Your body doesn't belong to anyone but yourself. 4. Broken hearts heal, they hurt like hell while doing it, but they heal. 5. Home isn't always a place but sometimes a person. 6. Times changes everything. 7. Everybody moves on. 8. Loving yourself is okay. 9. Putting yourself first is okay. 10. Saying no is okay. 11. You can only complete yourself. 12. Sometimes people aren't who you think they are. 13. Sometimes you feel like someone will never love you in that way again, but you realize that maybe that way wasn't good anyway. 14. It's okay to let people go. 15. I am allowed to make mistakes. 16. Life gets better 17. My heart can be filled in so many ways 18. I love poetry but sometimes it doesn't love me 19. Promises get broken 20. Love is real

 Day 28 Like a living thing the wall seemed to grow and evolve. It began with a single picture taped to the wall next to her bed, The first sign of life. Then slowly it began accumulating more things; Pictures, letters, notes, wrappers. As it grew it gained a name, "The Happy Wall." It's pure existence was simply to make the girl happy. It was the first thing she saw every morning. It transferred from wall to wall, hosue to house, state to state. Then suddenly it started to disolve, devolve. If something didn't make her happy anymore, off it came. The problem being, very little made her happy anymore, So down things came with no new things to replace them. Gaps of white staring at her as she woke up every morning. The boy knew all of this, He knew that the wall was a good indicator of your status in her life. He watched carefully everyday, and to his relief their picture always stood. But every night he made her cry the tape seemed to loosen. On

Stumbling, Over my feet and my words. There's a boy dancing with me and smiling but I'm looking over his shoulder, He's not there. I'm not here. The world is spinning and so am I, Of course I want someone who doesn't want me. It's been that way for awhile. Because caring is scary, Having someone want you is scary, And maybe I'll be alone. Just a ghost trying to avoid the creaks in the floorboards when I slip out of beds, I'll hide myself in closets and behind doors trying not to be seen. Don't look at me, You'll see right though me.

I read a myth that says when people are thinking about you they appear in your dreams, And I'm afraid to sleep, Because your lips taste the same there, And so do my tears. I still choke out words like they've got a grip on my heart, And you still look at me the same way. Your hands feel real. And I dont know if you heard me, But last night I told you how I felt. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. Please hide your thoughts away, Give me my dreams back.

"I love you" is a curse word. I only whisper it, afraid of being heard. Relishing the way it tastes on my lips like a child spitting out their first "damn."  I check to make sure no one hears me. I love you. "I love you" is a weapon. Used against me in my weakest times, a knife held at my throat. And your lips are warm at my neck, your words are sharp against it. And my heart pounds when it hears them, It senses the threat, When someone says "I love you" what they mean is "I am about to hurt you."  I love you. "I love you" is an excuse, Something we chalk up our rash and hurtful mistakes to saying it was in love. Out of love. It's an apology, a mistake. "I love you" is just a phrase people use when they don't know what else to say. For you it's always been a question, and my heart doesn't have the answer.

I'm in a metal bird flying across the sky, The sky is both above me and below me, Nothing is real anymore. Humans can make anything they want, Life and death. Can we make love though? Roll the windows down with me and drive through the canyon, Let the wind pull your hair, Sting your lips.  The wind won't love you and leave you, It'll always come back. And stinging lips and pulled hair don't hurt so much when they come back. I know a boy who sometimes closes his eyes when he drives alone on the freeway, But he still makes me wear my seatbelt in the car. And he doesn't know it but sometimes I drive really fast at night and think about just letting go of the wheel. I never do though, My grip is tighter than ever, I dont know how to let things go. I wish I didn't go sometimes, I don't know where I am. I'm spinning in circles, I'm a compass needle looking for north. And if only I could find a s

There are still so many poems I have for you, But I dont know how to write them anymore, I dont know you anymore, And we are taught to write what we know.

It's a Friday and I miss you. Yesterday I woke up with urge to hug you, where I wrapped my legs around you and put my face into your neck. I almost climbed into the passenger seat today over the console before I remembered your lap wasn't there and your arms couldn't hold me. It's Friday, and I'm feeling lost. I haven't been myself lately, And sometimes I feel like only you could coax me back. I just want you to tell me everything is going to be okay. It's Friday, and I feel like I can't breathe. Missing you comes in waves, And today I'm drowning.

Whenever I find a pick, My heart thuds, Like a dull note. No ones playing it anymore, And that's for the best, But I do miss the sound of music.

My car is both too big and too small, Its parked haphazardly on the side of the curb, And the house across the street is white with green grass. I'm wondering how the grass looks so green, and how the sky looks so blue, and I'm wishing the trees dotting the landscape would disappear.  Theres too much air, and the passenger seat is too big and too empty. someone should be sitting there, breathing some of this air, taking up some of this space, it's all too much. I can't breathe, But I am, a little too much. Again, I haven't learned the lesson of moderation. And my knuckles sting from hitting the ceiling, But instead of bringing me back to the present like it used to somehow I'm hurtling into the past. And I want to be anywhere but there, Maybe I should sell my car, Change my number, Cut my hair. But none of that will change what happened, and how it felt. So for now I'm holding my breath, Because I&

Whenever you write I listen, My heart has a one way connection, And I feel every word timed with the beat of it. Tell me something. Anything, Because I feel like I've been speaking for too long. I've said too much, But too little at the same time. I dont know if I'll ever be in love again, My heart is a singed forest, And at what point does the universe stop handing me matches because I've proven to be reckless? Only I can prevent forest fires. But here's to hoping that the fire that's ravaged my heart will bring new birth. I could use a little evergreen in my soul these days. Is your fire burning? Is your forest growing? In the end it's the aftermath that defines us. I'm still figuring out what to do with mine.

We often spoke about the moon, the sun, the sea. Tomorrow the moon and sun will meet for a fleeting kiss, Shedding darkness on the world for a moment of privacy, As the night and the day quietly reminisce. Then they'll have to say goodbye, Slipping out of one another's grasp, Returning to their distant love affair in the sky, Some moments aren't meant to last.

I miss you.

I whisper prayers into my pillow where you used to sleep beside me, And I grind the words out beneath my teeth. They're said in the rubbing of my collar bone, The reckless curve of my driving, And pulled through my fingers along with the strands of my hair. I hear them in the creak and the thud when my knees meet the ground, I feel the weight of them in my heart as it sinks. Each night I telephone god, and leave him a voicemail. Each night the message is the same, I beg to learn the art of forgiveness. And my body recoils at the thought of it, But god gently reminds me that forgiveness is for yourself. My body has already forgiven me for the way I abused it for your love, The scabs have all fallen away, So why do I have to bruise my knees any longer? I'm learning the art of forgiveness, And I think I'm getting closer because now I can whisper your name in the midst of a prayer without feeling like a contradiction. You brou

My hair is curling around his fingers like a promise, Neon lights glaring in the background, The smell of syrup and rain in the air because we're kissing in an old diner parking lot. And all I can think is "this is poetry." He's smiling against my lips, and I exhale softly, Trying to hold back the words "We're poetry." And I don't have time to say them because he's kissing me again, Pausing only to tell me "people are watching but I don't care." I'm warm despite the rain. His hands are still in my hair. It's all poetry. My heart is ticking like a clock because I need to go, And I've said goodbye three times but the words simply fall out of my mouth onto the floor, And our hands are too busy reaching for each other to pick them up and pocket them. Suddenly I'm in the drivers seat with one hand stumbling with a key and an ignition, the other on your face as I continue to kiss you. The rain is fal

I'm scared to fall in love again. Every boy I've loved had matchstick fingers they lit against my skin ever time they touched me. And I allowed them to do so, Watching the flames getting closer, And yet I was surprised every time they burned me. My god damn heart is singed, But it's still willing to lend its heat to anyone who needs to warm their hands. How do I put out the flames without turning cold? When will I stop flinching every time someone reaches out to touch me? I cannot keep burning to keep others warm.

153 days since my last nightmare, 114 days since I last talked to you, 7 days since I last cried, 5 days until you last crossed my mind, until now. I never liked numbers, But I don't mind these ones. The bigger they grow the happier I am.

You don't love me, You just don't want to be alone, Or maybe I was good for your ego. Or maybe I made you feel better about your life and what's missing from it. But you don't love me, because you don't destroy the people you love. And if you loved her you wouldn't chase after me, Learn to love someone other than yourself, Because if you're not careful that's all you'll be left with.

I drove by the 7/11 we went into the night of prom, You bought three kinds of juices, And four kinds of watermelon gum because you knew it was my favorite. It's a run down 7/11 hidden in Salt Lake City and you can't really find it unless you're not looking. It's 5:32 and I'm hitting the gas pedal a little harder, Because memories only belong in my rear view mirror. Behind me, Never in the passenger seat. Gas stations are only for getting gas, Juice is only for breakfast, And watermelon gum is too sweet.

I have holes in my jeans and bandaids poking out of them, And I know that seems insignificant, But the bandaids are from falling down and scraping my knees. And sometimes when I find myself on the ground I think about you because you never made me get to my feet, you used to hold me up, or wait until I was ready to stand. I don't understand my heart, I think you did more than I ever could. It's always so full of emotion and I don't always know how to handle it. I have all these thoughts and I miss you. I miss my friend. I miss you telling me what to do with these thoughts. I know our infinity drew to a close a long time ago, and I'm okay with that. I just wanted to let you know that your letters are safe.  And that if you're wondering, I think everything's gonna be okay. -Ashes

I wonder if you taste like turpentine and sunshine, you make me feel the way yellow paint looks and I know you understand the feeling because you once tried to capture that feeling. You ate yellow paint despite the toxicity, because you thought it might make you happy. You tried to paint your insides because you were feeling a little blue and that wasn't the primary color you were after. Toxicity never can create happiness, I know, I've tried. Sometimes the things we love the most will kill us, Maybe you were just trying to consume your art before it consumed you. But instead you were haunted by nightmares and suffered a swollen throat for weeks unable to eat. A starving artist. Did you still miss the paint even after it made you sick? No one understood you. They don't understand that art and love rob us of our appetite, hearts, and mind. Yellow is the color of the stars in the darkest night. The night to which you believe is more alive and richly colored

if you're reading this, Read to the bottom of the page... Then stop and never start again. This place is my home, It contains the contents of my heart, And you are no longer deserving of any piece of me. Especially my heart. So do not return. Leave me be.

I think, finally, there isn't a secret left between us. Thank you for telling me the last one. -Ashes

I found a guitar pick in my sock drawer, Another in my purse, And one in a little metal tin that I kept sticks of watermelon gum in. You have so many you probably haven't noticed their absence, But I noticed their appearance. You've lost them and I've found them, Little pieces of you coming to remind me of when I used to steal them from your teeth or hands. I've saved them in a jar, not because I think they'll make their way back to you, but because it's nice to have reminders of where I've been and the parts of you I've seen. I hope my little lost pieces are being found by you too.

I can't sleep, My windows are open because I felt like I needed some fresh air. I used to sleep with the windows open when I was a child, Even when we went camping I would unzip all the windows in the tent and run my fingers against the mesh. I haven't slept with my windows open in a long time, a girl got stolen once, out her window, so I started shutting them. Locking them, and relocking them. I wanted to keep people out, But I missed the fresh air. Occasionally I let some people in, But they could never stay long. Now I just open my windows for the fresh air and the peace. The knowledge that no one is coming in but they could if they'd like to. We could look at the stars from my bed, craning our necks to see outside. I bet you're wondering why this is called ukulele and things, and if I were a good writer I wouldn't just tell you, but I'm going to. Because people could use a little bluntness and honesty. I'm playing the ukelele with the win

"You only cared about my poetry when it stopped being about you"-12 word story for the boy who isn't reading.

For some reason I always come back to you, I'm not sure why. There's nothing tying me to you. Not a kiss, Not a touch, Not an unfinished moment, Not a collection of what ifs. why do I find myself writing to you? You're still in love with someone else, I'm not sure what love is anymore. You write to her and I'm still here writing to you. It doesn't make any sense to me anymore. Your writing makes me wish I wrote more often, Your writing makes me wish I quit writing. It makes me feel things that I wish I knew I had forgotten how to feel. God it feels like youre ripping my heart out and using the blood to write. Something about you makes me remember things about him and him. I'm not repeating myself. I have mixed feelings about you, I wish it was mixed drinks. I don't drink. But sometimes I wish I did. Poetry still makes my heart hurt, just like he does and did. Do you still love her? Is she the kind of girl that you love f

Do not let him mistake you for a puzzle, you are art. You don't need his hands to put you together, to fill your empty spaces You don't need him to look at you as part of something bigger, something to complete. You are a goddamn painting, you are not meant to be understood. You are not designed to be pretty. You are art. Art isn't supposed to be an answer to a question or the question itself. Art simply is. You make people feel things they had long forgotten how to feel. No do not let him mistake you as something he can create, you are whole on your own. Every piece of you is a painting shaped by yourself, dipping your fingers in the sunset and painting your soul to your pleasing. You are a canvas that can only be changed by you. Do not let him mistake you as a muse, You are not a reflection of what he sees in you. You are not up to interpretation. You are your own muse, your own self portrait. He cannot paint or create things he cannot understand, and

I'm sleeping on your side of the bed, And this isn't a metaphor. It doesn't mean that I miss you, Or that I'm moving on, Or that I can't sleep on my side, Or that I needed a change. It just means I'm sleeping on your side of the bed. This isn't a metaphor. This isn't a poem. It's more of a log than anything. Insomniac log #1 I'm sleeping on your side of the bed. But it's not your side It's mine. The whole bed is mine. Insomniac log #1 a bed is just a bed, it isn't a metaphor. Insomniac log #1 reminder for the morning: stop turning people and objects into things that they're not. Sometimes a bed is just a bed, and a boy is just a boy. The world is not poetry, it's a planet that orbits our sun in the solar system and belongs to a universe. Something bigger and outside of us. Still not a metaphor. Things are not always other things. Insomniac log #1 still not a metaphor, still not a poem, Still on yo

I have poems tucked in my ribcage, like babies tucked into wombs. I have so many things that I want to say, lines unspoken. But like babies you should never force them into the world until they're ready. Until their developed, Comfortable, Ready to face everything outside the safety of my body. So far now, I'll let them grow in my heart. Stretch their syllables, Lines kicking every now and then. and when they're ready I'll deliver them here to you.

You're scattered...and I'm not. I'm constantly at a stop light, Getting mixed signals. Stop and go, maybe just slow. It's wearing out my break pedals and my heart. You started writing me only to stop. I'm in an endless dance of you pulling me closer and pushing me away, Spinning in and out isn't so fun when you have nothing to focus on or hold onto. Dancers do something called spotting when they twirl, it allows them to turn without getting dizzy. But you haven't given me anything to focus on, or a finger to hold onto. Don't dip me if you don't plan on bringing me back into your arms. The floor and I have met way too many times. If forgetting is what you need to do, to be happy, please do. Just don't pull me down memory lane if you're not willing to accompany me down it. The thing with the nightmares is the longer they happen the less scary they are. If you know what's coming next it doesn't send your heart int

Hendrix? Luna? Maybe Lennon? I've only ever been okay at guessing. Why do you have to choose? You could be both. I grew up being told by my father that I could be whatever I wanted to be, and I believe the same of anyone. My children will grow up being told the same thing. I would never judge you. You only ever have to be yourself around me. I got a lot of things wrong, I made a lot of mistakes, But giving you my love and support will and was never one of them. I hope you will feel it for the rest of your life. All I want is love and respect, the real kind. But I'm okay with giving it myself for right now. With love, Shaely

Hi again, I miss you. That's nothing new though. I have a list running in the back of my mind of all the things I would say and do and tell if you were beside me. I have unheard words floating up to the ceiling every night, but it's okay. It gives me something to read when I can't sleep. Companionship in any form is always nice. What's your dog's name? I'm sorry about college. That phrase can be interpreted two ways. You're not stuck if you have an idea of where you're going. Maybe you just need a map. Writers block comes from an unconscious fear that people are reading what you're writing. Honesty is scary, especially when its the contents of your heart. So write like no one is reading but you. Admit things you don't want to say out loud, those are the things people really want to read. I wish things were different. I want to be the bandaid for all your problems. I want to be the arms you seek shelter in. I want to be the bed

This is just me checking in to say, I miss you. Sometimes I lay in bed and think of all the "could have beens" With the 1975 playing in the background. A band that I never used to listen to. I like to check in, and read blogs that never get updated. I refresh pages even though they'll never change. Hi. I'm just checking in to say, I hope you all get the endings that you wished for. I hope you all have someone to give your words to. I hope you are all doing okay. I was just checking in to say, I hope everything is okay. 

Loving you was an airport. Polluted air and waiting taxis and moving taxis and people with places to go. People who were coming home. People looking hurriedly at monitors or tiredly at the crosswalk street with a little bit of sighing in their eyes because they're home. It was confirmation numbers and printed tickets that you couldn't lose. The smudged ink on the ticket because I was afraid it would slip my grasp. I can't get where I'm going without a ticket. I can't lose my ticket. License please. Where are you headed? Where are you from? What's your birthday? What's your name? I'm stuttering even though I know the answers. It's security, walking straight. Trying to not look suspicious. Removing my shoes, placing them in plastic bins to be carried away. Are they dirty? Afraid that I'll track mud onto the carpet? No it's to make sure I didn't have anything hidden. Empty your pockets. Take off your coat. It has to be t