August 2015

Then Again, Maybe You Were Right.

I spoke too soon, it seems, for you made a home in my dreams.
While I slept you kept running yourself through my head,
Like, “I won’t be dead yet.” I said, “You don’t understand.
We had no control. They stole it; love’s been so unfair to me.”

“This time I choose to let her go.
I will not let my fear become the only world I’ve ever known.
I know my heart, kiss my mouth, set me free – I’ve wounds to mend.
And we’ll be more than friends, my dear;
I fear I’ve changed my mind again.”
Then Again, Maybe You Were Right – La Dispute

The Surgeon & The Scientist.

I can feel you healing and I hate it,
like a harpist without hands you only bang the strings
you used to love to touch so much
to hear the dissonance drain violently and then dissolve, 
like all the songs i sang, but never once could make you smile.
My God, I would kill to make you smile,
and reach out to my hands, soft and frail,
to make good on the love that you swear still exists,
and still thrives,
though we’ve buried our bodies in blood
and old lies, like, “I’m fine” and “you look so much better than him”.
But don’t trust the surgeon with your heart,
she’s drunk and sips from poison cups, and
don’t you trust the scientist,
he says “life-is-like-a-wineglass” as he spills his drink
like secrets
all across your dress and says:
“My dear, I must confess, I never thought you ever knew
what love was like, for real.
I never thought you needed me.”
La Dispute – The Surgeon & The Scientist


I’m left lifeless

time and time again

learning how to breathe

learning how to live

I wish I could see the things

that poison my veins

But these rivers run through me

both racing and swallowing me whole

Will I ever learn?

Will I ever learn to let go?

I imagined something more than this

I suppose my heart’s a hit or miss

I reminisce of innocence

Before the color left your eyes



A Broken Jar.

So here goes,
One last letter now. One last attempt to make sense.
Who have I been writing to? I’m not sure anymore.
What have I been trying to accomplish?
It’s a mystery, I guess. Self-made secrecy.
Things get cloudy and now all these stories and
The struggle as an undercurrent, both get blurry by the minute both get blurrier.

So, which voice is this then that I’ve been writing in?

Is it my own or his?
Has there ever been a difference between them at all?

I don’t know. I don’t know.

One last desperate plea. One last verse to sing.
One last laugh track to accompany the comedy.
Have I been losing it completely? Losing sanity?
Or has it been fabricated, fashioned by the worst of me?
I know I knocked the table over because I watched the jar break
and I’ve been trying to repair it every single stupid day
But won’t the cracks still show no matter how well it’s assembled
can I ever just decide to let it die and let you go?

All my motives and every single narrative below reflects
that moment when it broke and will I never let it go
No matter what? Now I am throwing all the shards away,
discarding every fragment, and fumbling uncertain towards a Curtain call
that no one wants to happen,
that no ones going to clap for at all, but that still has to be.

La Dispute – A Broken Jar

So Now, Tell Me How Your Story Goes…

Were you told as a child how cruel the whole world can be?
Did anybody ever tell you that?
Tell me what your purpose is?

Who it was that put you here and why?
Did anybody really put you here at all?
And what of those necessities?

Like how to cope with tragedy and pain?
Did anybody ever show you how?
When it hits will my heart burst or break or grow strong?
Is there really only one way to know now?

I’m not sure if I’m ready yet to find out the hard way
How strong I am. What I’m made of.
I’m not sure I am ready yet to walk through the fire.
I’m not sure I can handle it.
Do you think if the heart keeps on shrinking
One day there will be no heart at all?
And how long does it take?
Am I better off just bursting or breaking?
Because I don’t see my heart getting strong.

Tell your stories to me. Show your bruises.
Let’s see what humanity is capable of handling.

Tell me what your worst fears are. I bet they look a lot like mine.
Tell me what you think about when you can’t fall asleep at night.
Tell me that you’re struggling. Tell me that you’re scared.

Tell me that you’re terrified of life.
Tell me that it’s difficult to not think of death sometimes.
Tell me how you lost. Tell me how he left. Tell me how she left.
Tell me how you lost everything that you had.
Tell me that it ain’t ever coming back.
Tell me about God. Tell me about love.
Tell me that it’s all of the above.
Say you think of everything in fear.
I bet you’re not the only one who does.

“All Our Bruised Bodies And The Whole Heart Shrinks” – La Dispute

Tell Me What Your Worst Fears Are…I Bet They Look A Lot Like Mine.

Respect yourself enough to

walk away from anything

that no longer

serves you,

grows you,

or makes you happy.

I’ve been there, done that. Honestly. I was in a relationship that was “comfortable” for seven years, but it did not make me happy, nor fulfill me in ways I needed to be. I was scared of change, scared to be alone, terrified to try and be strong. But it was worth it. Now I wish I’d left much sooner than I did.

But it doesn’t mean I’m better than you, or smarter. It means it’s hard to let go, and I understand, and I want you to know that. No matter what you’re going through, letting go is hard. Getting out of your comfort zone is hard.

Psychology says,

always go with the choice that scares you

the most,

because that’s the one

that is going to help you


This is absolutely true. How do you expect to learn, grow, experience love and beauty, if you’re never moving forward, trying to stay “safe”? Be a gypsy. Be free. Don’t be afraid of love. Find the one you love and let them burn you. Find what you love and let it kill you. Embrace the fact you wear your heart on your sleeve. Fall in love with yourself. Fall in love with the way you fall in love with everything and everyone so easily, with the way your eyes sparkle when you smile, and with the way you absorb your entire being into a truly mesmerizing piece of literature.

I may not be able to be there physically to love you, to help you find yourself, as much as I’d love to do that, but I’m here in spirit, in mind and soul. No one should let you ever feel the way you do. I’d create for you a life you’d need not escape from, hide from, if I could. I’d catapult encouragement, affirmations, and affection at you until you were forced to the realization that you are a galaxy of unimaginable exquisiteness, and never again let you believe you are anything less.

For You.

So, say something, I’m not holding back
Before the scene we made goes and fades to black
‘cause I can’t wait while you think this through
We don’t have endless time, remember who left who
‘cause I won’t wait, won’t wait for you

Your lifeless eyes don’t hold the
Same desire anymore, I can’t ignore
So long I’ve wondered, but I think now I know
You’re not coming home

All That Remains

MY Perdition, Not Yours.

I will not blame someone for taking things personal, perhaps they don’t see the big picture when I “cut” them out, or drift away from them. Some people don’t, and will never understand the extent of, or complete effects of my depression, and that’s fine, I never expected anyone to. So does that make them a bad person for being angry with me when I turn away from them to dwell in my dark place? Not at all. It just means they don’t understand that I “push them away” or drift off for their protection. I’d rather keep my dark cloud above myself than bring it unto someone who’s world is big, beautiful, and flourishing. I don’t want to be the one to bring negativity into their light. It’s almost as if I’d think of depression as infectious, not wanting my poison to contaminate someone else’s veins.

When I don’t reply to messages or texts, or calls, when I cancel plans, it’s because I’m in a really, really dark place. Maybe my pride is all too much, but I don’t ask for help, ever. I’d rather stick it out on my own. Sometimes darkness is beauty as well, and I’ve yet to seek out my beauty through my struggles. But it is something only I can do on my own.

Cancelling on you, not replying to you, pushing you out of my life…I don’t do it for me. You may think I don’t care, or that you mean very little to me…but hey, get this, I actually do it because it means that I care -immensely- for you. I’m saving you from falling into my aphotic, chaotic, abyss alongside me. It is -my- battle. Not yours. Let it rage on, in due time, I’ll come around.

And just a tip…Being angry with people who want to be alone in their depression and won’t let you in, makes things worse for them.


Though I’m weak and beaten down,
I’ll slip away into this sound,
The ghost of you is close to me,
I’m inside-out, you’re underneath.

Don’t let me be gone.
Don’t let me be gone.

Don’t let me be.

I’m a goner, somebody catch my breath,
I’m a goner, somebody catch my breath,
I want to be known by you,
I want to be known by you.

21 Pilots

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