It never fails to amaze me,
The casual cruelty of life;
The kind that allows
the person who
gave me everything
to shoot me
and then leave me
in a pool of my own blood.

Irony was originally published in Literally Literary on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I hate that thing my mind does when it decides
To wake me up in the middle of the night
Just to remind me of everything I’ve lost.
The cracks in the pavement,
The trenches on the roof.
The hidden places where I hid myself,
And the dangers of daring too.

I remember the pain that doesn’t spring up except
When I’m drunk on stress.
I remember the horror of my threat-like thoughts
And the stench of distress on a calm night of autumn air.
I remember the dance of dread in my head
When I broke into pieces on the bathroom floor
Looking for solutions that didn’t exist.
I remember the trickle of trauma
And the anxiety of living in a world
Moving too fast for those of us
Who have to fight to get out of bed.

I try to focus on the eloquent expression of the clock,
I try to center myself,
I try to put aside my thoughts.
But time doesn’t hold still
For me or anyone else;
It goes on to obliterate space
And turn night into day.
That’s when I look around
To catch a glimpse of the aftermath
And the rhythm of the night’s decay.

I fight to get out of bed.
I fight to get out of bed.
I fight to get out of bed.

Then I’m left to wonder if I’ll ever rest again.

Insomnia was originally published in Invisible Illness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I know you’re sorry, I do.
You said it not once but twice last night.
Actually no, you said it like 10 times.
And another five this morning,
So I know you’re sorry, I do.

I know you feel the sting of your actions
And the bitterness of your words.
I know you heard it when they rattled
Your brain so loud all night
You threw them up on the bathroom floor.

I know you know you’re guilty
And you wore redemption to work today.
You bathed your body with the syllables of reproach
And you couldn’t leave the house
Without hearing my voice.

I know you searched around and plucked the pipeline
To put me on top of the priority list.
“It’s your day today,” you said.
You “won’t” leave me alone.
So I know you’re sorry, I do.

But that doesn’t mean I forgive you.
You stained my smoke with fire
And then you left me there to burn.
Your bullets are still stitched in my skin and every inch
Is drenched in the stench of your interruptions and judgements.

Because at the height of my darkest hour,
I chose your comfort and you chose my despair.
So I know you’re sorry, I do.
But my feet are still on fire
And I don’t know what to do.

Should I feel what I’m feeling?
Should I even feel this much
For you?
Should I let it go like I did the others?
Should I talk it out and problem-solve?

Should I soothe myself and forget about comfort
And support and love I thought would hold through?
I know you’re sorry, I do.
But my pain is far greater
Than even you.

Sorry was originally published in P.S. I Love You on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The leaves are turning.
The skies are fighting.
The clouds are churning
Up a brand new way
To tell fall.

Story as old as ever;
The trees are cold and feathered.
And I’m thinking about how
Our story will
End.

Autumn was originally published in P.S. I Love You on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Two things you’d never
Expect to explain;
The depths of love
And the heights of pain.

This one-line poem was written as a response to this excellent one-line poetry prompt on Chalkboard by Heath ዟ:

Expectations

When Even Words Fail was originally published in Chalkboard on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Uncertainty.
Endings.
Fragmented thoughts.

Distant relatives,
But still
Relevant in thought.

Bombed.
Dismembered.
Distraught.

I am not well.
I’m fragmented;
Distraught.

Fragmentation was originally published in Invisible Illness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Remember that time
I asked you to die,
And instead of stopping me
You said you’d gladly comply?

Normally you’d almost kill me
For speaking the word of S.
You’d tell me you wouldn’t have it,
That you’d keep me alive.

But in that moment we both
Had too much pain to get by.
We could not stand hurting one another;
It was easier to tell the world goodbye.

I told you I couldn’t bear it,
And you said neither can I.
A crystal clear acceptance to relief
For which we both pined.

So you hailed my invite
And told me let’s jump.
Together, let’s leap
To our deaths as one.

Accident or river?
You told me to lead the way.
I thought how wonderful
To just let go together.

That way neither
Would hurt the other,
And no one would
Cry.

We’d find peace together
Beneath the stillness of haze,
In the blink of an
Eye.

My Love and I on a Day to Die was originally published in Lit Up on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I feel like I’m walking
This whole enterprise

Alone, asunder,
In the depths of the night.

I trip and I fall
And I miscalculate.

All of my darkness
Comes from within.

But on a clear crystal night
When the moon is the beat,

I feel like the light
Could barely breathe.

Asunder was originally published in Literally Literary on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Your voice is like comfort,
Silky smooth.
To soothe,
It seems
Is what it was made for.

To hug me,
Hold me,
Love me,
Wash me clean,
Is what it was trained for.

Unravel my screams,
Protect me.
To help me
With all
It can give.

Like the darkness just sifts
Through your decibels
And comes out clean.
Almost happiness,
Almost a dream.

Your voice is like comfort,
Silky smooth.
Your voice
Is why
I fell in love with you.

His Voice was originally published in P.S. I Love You on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

What if I
Just want to sit
On balconies all day
And write poetry?