Tag Archives: alone

when you have a cold, your nose runs

Who is there
when the lights go out
and the cold knocks on your window
to hold you?

Who lets you know
you’re safe when your own lungs
are afraid to open
for fear of letting in a draft?

Who is there when they are so busy
and your life is so stagnant
and you don’t know how to say:
“Something’s wrong”?

Who can pry open your mouth
when you have tied it with
black lace so pretty, so hurtful
and it looks like you’re smiling?

Who can reach down with their hands
to help you from the grave you’re digging
when all you manage to do
is flinch at the thought?


I’m just… Me.


I can’t get it out of my head; everything I’ve ever said or done like it’s one big ink stain on my reality. Like I’m the only reason why there are fall backs and hindrances.

I swear I’m not a huge fuck-up but I see everything pointing back to me and even while I know it’s false that’s the only thing that sounds right. My head can shake in refusal and nonacceptance but it still presses further and further into my being like once it makes its way through, that’s it. It’s written in stone. It’s truth.

Everyone tries to twist my words and my actions, they try to twist what kind of person I am to fit their lives. Of course then when I can’t find it in me to let anyone in, it’s my fault and somehow I’m still the one fucked up.

These bonds people place on my wrists to theirs feel brittle while they look like diamond to everyone else. One jerk in the other direction and we’re both let free, but somehow they don’t see that.

I’m not the bad guy. But I’m also not the hero.

I wish everyone would understand that I am not their hero.

I am not a hero.

Homes and Houses

I’ve stayed in different cities, different towns. There have been many places I’ve lived and nowhere has felt like home.

I made a reprieve out of his arms and called it my home and that’s the closest I’ve ever felt to belonging.

The closet darkness is the mot familiar thing that hangs around and even that leaves me at times and I’m still not sure if I’m thankful for that or not. At least if it stayed I’d have a final constant.

But it doesn’t stay. Nothing ever sticks and I’ve never been a good wanderer. My skin is too soft, my bones too stiff.

I’m good at giving up, but not at letting go. I guess I’ll call this not letting go of a place to call my own. Of not letting go of belonging.

I’ll rinse my eyes and I guess I won’t give up. It’s in my nature, though, so I always wonder when it’ll show up on my bedroom floor. Eventually the only thing I’ll have left in my hands is the idea of home that I’ve given up, but never forgotten.

Something about that sounds lonely.

I’m not scared of lonely anymore.

The Fear

We curl around each other, too afraid of letting go. The silence stings like glass cutting our skin so we turn the dial up and blast whatever sound that comes on just loud enough to fill the emptiness with anything but silence.

Our hands grip as tightly as they can around anyone else’s just to feel the connection because we feel so far away from everyone. It’s scary how connected our phones make us, while also keeping us so far away. 

I always thought the dark was terrifying. I thought monsters and my imagination were the scariest things out there. Now as I grow older, the scariest thing is how alone you can feel in a crowded room. How alone you can feel when you’re by yourself with no one to reach out to, even if you wanted to. Even if you built the courage to reach out. 

And it scary when you can put out there how terrified you are of this loneliness, and the only thing you get back in return are comments on a screen or a button pushed. 

Because don’t we deserve more than just a button pushed?

Back Roads



Knuckles are white around the steering wheel; tensing and releasing, trying to breathe. It barely works.

There are too many feelings to distinguish between but she knows none of them are good. They’re never good. Not when they come to this.

The stars are hidden behind a thick layer of smog and she hates the city even more for it. The least the universe could do is make her feel a little less alone, just a little.
Her foot presses down a little harder and there’s a lump in her throat. The windows are all rolled down and her hair whips around, licking every inch of her face, her neck. She can feel her heart ever so present in her chest and she just wants to forget she’s even human. How much easier would that be, she thinks.
The wheels straddle the yellow lines as if to try to take up more space. She can’t stand to be so alone, but she can’t go back to that city. To that smoke-ridden husk of a city.
Further and further away down the winding roads surrounded only by wide space and far-off mountains. She doesn’t know how much time has passed and she doesn’t know how fast she drove, but she found a place where stars peeked through the haze. Besides the headlights, she could barely see anything. She parks on the side of the road and lies down, hair curling around the grass.
She was staring up into the inky sky with those stars so far away, finally being able to feel small enough to make everything else feel even smaller. The few trees around shuddered in the wind and it brought her out of her head. It made her heart seem not so loud.
Fingers slipped through the grass to grip the earth beneath it. So far away from things so normal, so natural, and everyone wonders why they feel so out of place. Her eyes close and she breathes deeply, almost trying to suck in outer-space. Just to fill her veins with the stars she craves. To keep just a little bit of reality in the spaces between her bones.
In this dark night, in this moment where she can feel not so hopeless, she thinks she should become a shooting star. See so much without being tied down, with enough speed to not feel anything but exhilaration.
Pushing herself up from the ground, she thinks she might as well try. So her feet strike the earth beneath her and she runs. She runs until her lungs burn and she thinks maybe this is it. Maybe this is her burning just like a shooting star. She doesn’t stop until tears are flowing from her eyes and her legs give out. She doesn’t know how she manages to gasp and sob at the same time, but she does.
That night, under the stars and the sliver of moon, she sleeps and she dreams of being a shooting star.
And in that night, she is.

Closed Doors

When I get home and I unlock the door, then re-lock it after stepping inside, I unfold.
The love I harbor falls out of my head and onto the floor like thousands of pieces of paper, or a sea of sand.
I don’t usually have people over.
You might say it’s a mess, if you saw it.
But you won’t see it.
Because I don’t usually have people over.

It’s Not Really Lucid Dreaming

My dreams are loud and vivid. They feel so real.

But they’re never as real as the feeling I get when I wake and you’re not there, sleeping next to me.