step 1: cry. this will not be the last time you do this, but for now you are too numb to do anything else.

step 2: throw something. throw anything. throw the thing that is closest to you but also the most breakable. one of the stages of grief is anger although i cannot remember which so use that to justify this.

step 3: cry some more because the noise whatever you threw made when it hit the wall was loud and you just shattered the only trophy you ever got in your childhood.

step 4: burn all of the pictures of her and every letter she ever wrote you. try and let the flames melt the ice that has consumed you ever since she left.

step 5: eat your feelings. you have no one to impress now and nothing better to do and maybe the food will cure that deep filling of emptiness you feel in your chest.

step 6: become a temporary insomniac.

step 7: cry again because it is 4:26 a.m. and you still miss her.

step 8: stay in bed for a week straight because you're too weak from the lack of sleep and the fact that ever since eating your feelings didn't work you stopped eating. plus, the sunshine outside is too happy for you.

step 9: stop listening to her favorite song on repeat.

step 10: go outside. it's a bit cloudier today so you should be okay. breathe in the fresh air and let it fill your dry lungs.

step 11: rejoin the rest of society. and as you sleepwalk through your days try to remember what it feels like to be a human being.

step 12: watch your friend accidentally drop their coffee and laugh at them.

step 13: realize you will be okay again.

Artist:

She loved sketching in that crisp new book of her’s

Delightful girls

Faces she never had the pleasure of witnessing

Pristine angles that didn’t exist, but felt much more consoling to her sharp eyes

Those pages were filled to every corner, every grain with respectable shading

Eyes with a comforting glint of hope

Full lips with an alluring desire

She created the world she wanted to see

one that was beautiful

Impeccable

One that had manifested into her view of “correct”

Writer:

She patiently waited for the moments in which she scribbled in that burdened notebook of

hers

A quick tale, recounting the faint smile of that girl she always came into brief contact with

on her morning bus ride

Words that stung her tired eyes as they left the thin lips of blithe young girls

She exhausted book after book, permeating the once stiff, clean pages with the pain of

reality

Feelings she exposed from the most frightening edges of her mind

Nearly illegible lead marks splattered with stray tear drops

She documented the chaos she accepted as her daily routine

A life that was unpredictable

Impermanent

Her pencil imprinting every bruise that haunted her worn knees from nights in which she

hit rock bottom

The artist & the writer:

She still drew her nonexistent girls

She began to fill pages upon pages with thoughts of this girl

There was a kind of art that manifested between the two of them when they were

together

But she went home to draw soft plump lips

And she went home to write poems about the laughter lines on the girl's face

She never told her she drew

She never read her any of her poems

She manipulated herself into something she hoped worthy enough for the girl to draw

She never really saw the girl’s poems as making her much of an artist, much of anything

For, she thought the girl’s words too imperfect, her letters too indefinite, her stories

lacking the desire she craved

And...she became much too afraid

Artist:

She kept searching for something

A flawless subject for one of her immaculate drawings

Something to satisfy the standards she had built up for her world over the years

But she found herself angered when the models she cycled through had a line out of

place

A slight hinge in their airy laughter

An indent on their soft plump lips

Writer:

She struggled to find words to tell the story of the girl

Afraid her love might disapprove if the syllables did not flow with grace

If the curves of her letters were not smooth enough

She found herself angered when she wrote nothing she loved

Nothing that she could be proud of

Words that did not do anyone justice

Artist:

She doesn’t draw much anymore

Writer:

She writes more now, but never about the girl

The artist & the writer:

Their angles are jagged and inconsistent nowadays

Their words are harsh, never expressing the intent they tried to fill them with

Artist:

She refuses to understand

She goes back to drawing those faces she will never find

Writer:

She embraces the imperfection of understanding

She decides it is time to write her truth

Writer:

In time, she finds a way to make their truth beautiful

it is not snowing

i know it is not snowing

for the snow covered trees above us are merely quivering in the fragile wind and shedding their weight

but i take a hesitant step forward, praying for traction on the packed snow slowly icing over; and i feel it stop

it is not snowing

i know it is not snowing

for i know what it is like when it is snowing

my feet buried in 6 inches that are rapidly growing 7, 8, 9; it is dark and i am covered and still

it is not cold

i know it is not cold

for the sun is shining down on me, reflecting off the pure mountains of snow

i feel it warming my dry skin as it reaches through my layers; i shed one after the other 1, 2, 3

it is not cold

i know it is not cold

for i know what it is like when it is cold

fragile hands turned white and shaking as the wind pushed against my frame and crushed my lungs; i can no longer breathe under its control

i am not in love

i know i am not in love

for my lungs heave with fear at the thought of her craving me

her existence is distant to me; the sound of her voice lost in passing from a brief minute when i heard her once

i am not in love

i know i am not in love

for i know what it is like to be in love

the sound of her name escaping any lips warming my core and letting butterflies loose; the touch of her lips on mine felt like home

it is not snowing

i know it is not snowing

Oddly, I’ve found that not much time has passed since that day we first met. Say, 2 months? But it seems as though time has passed us up in an uncharacteristically swift manner, wouldn't you say? Or, is it that it has dragged us on in one that is uncharacteristically slow? I’ve been thinking about this for a few days now, but I guess recently we’ve realized that my mind has found an inability to place its finger on the truth of things. It was cold that day. But I was wearing a tank top and merely giggled as you continuously asked if I was cold. I’m sure there was a jacket tied around my waist, but I liked the fleeting feeling of you caring for my well being. Although, it is much colder now, and I have started to wear coats and you never seem to ask me if I’m cold.

I think I’ve decided that you aren’t a particularly warm person. But wait, that isn't fair is it? Have I made a blanket statement? Have I cherry-picked? Am I missing evidence? Reasoning? But my mind has started to defog and I think I am now able to finally identify a moment or two lost in too many seconds and I’ve decided that that statement doesn’t quite do you justice. There were a few moments, indeed, where I found some warmth in you

But as I said, those were only moments, and they have passed.

Although, I guess I have always enjoyed the sensation of watching my warm breath turn to steam in the freezing air.

it had been months since

i had seen such warm eyes

eyes so intriguing

so welcoming

it had been so many

in fact

i had sworn to myself

i would never see such eyes again

i would never fall in love again.

and then i met her.

warm eyes staring down over melted chocolate

once separate hands discovering

the essence of teamwork

and i swear i saw our fingertips

start to shift to the colors

of the other's

tan and pale melting to find a middle ground

calloused and soft

each finding out what it is like

to work hard

and to love gently.

her voice was soft

deep

you wouldn't imagine you could ever hear something

that sounded so beautiful

so much like home

so much like fresh coffee on a saturday morning,

and then you looked back up at her.

her fingers

their likeness to mine slowly starting to fade

wove between the metal strings

i hoped one day i could play like her

but there are some things simply meant

for viewing

for admiring

some things you must learn to understand

can never be touched

never be reached

and i found comfort in that

in her.

the deep scent of spice and

insomnia with just a hint

of lust

has stained my sheets

has coated my blankets with

a thick layer of heat

even their existence

intoxicatingly alluring

close proximity could tend to be

fatal by any standards,

the spots where her skin electrocuted mine

have drawn intricate tattoos

have branded me for the world to recognize,

the t-shirt once stuck

taut to my curves is full

of jaggedly torn holes in the places

she urgently pulled it tighter,

i have a new birthmark burning

on the side of my face where

she rested her gentle hand

it creeps around my neck

like her long fingers once

did, is it possible

to get the feeling of another's

lips implanted onto your own?

i'm sorry you're upset

i will say that over and over again until i have no voice left to say it. until my lungs are empty and i can no longer muster enough air to choke it out one more time.

i'm sorry you're upset.

but you know what i will not say?

"im sorry for saying that"

"i never should've said it"

"i take it all back"

because those words aren't me but somehow managed to find their way into my default phrases and i'm tired and i mean so tired of having to apologize for sharing my feelings.

she didn't have to apologize when she broke my heart and told me the whole time i was working so hard to keep us from sinking that she was too busy loving someone else so why must i apologize for telling her how it affected me?

it's only fair isn't it?

last time i checked conversations were two-sided.

as were friendships.

because for so long i had it engrained into my mind that i was only a shoulder to cry on and was not there to offer feelings, thoughts, or any words that weren't "i'm sorry" or "i love you."

it was like i was some sort of doll.

you pull a string and i spit out a pre-recorded comforting phrase telling you that everything is going to be okay.

but where is my voice animated doll telling me that i'm going to be okay because i swear i'm convinced that i'm not.

i've been trained into keeping my mouth shut like some sort of puppy.

i share my feelings, she cries.

i share my feelings, she starts yelling at me.

i share my feelings, she loads me with guilt and fear

until i am paralyzed and have nothing to do to relieve the pain except say "i'm sorry" i refuse to be that person again, refuse to relive that piece of agony.

so, i'm sorry you're upset.

i want to write a poem about you.

i've been wanting to write a poem about you

for so long but i

can never find the right words.

can never find words good enough

to say everything i felt for you in those moments.

i tried to write you a poem once.

but those words didnʼt do you justice

and iʼm afraid to think that i

will never find words that can do you justice.

that can do us justice.

because there was something about

what we had that was oh

so magical i

canʼt seem to place it into words.

which almost seems fitting.

the way we were never able to place

our thoughts and feelings into words

for one another to understand.

and maybe that was our downfall.

we spent so long trying to write each other

a poem

with words that could do the other justice

that we never

said anything

at all.

I'm so incredibly tired of you trying to act like you love me and you care about me when in reality you never did. well? maybe one time you did. I have not yet been able to isolate the moment in which you transformed from the sweet young girl that broke me out of my shell of loneliness and trouble making friends to the person that broke my heart and managed to abuse me day after day for over a year and I swear I can not remember the last time I looked into your charming blue eyes and recognized the person I saw.

there's a quote from the great gatsby, it's about falling in love but I always felt that it almost too perfectly fit our so heartbreaking tragedy of a history. and don't worry, I couldn't help but remember it as one of your favorites (we both know I was always too good at remembering; or maybe it was that I was too good at listening and you too good at talking about yourself) "I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun." and it is sad but true, I was so deep in the sad excuse for love we had that I was blinded to what was going on, and by the second I realized I could no longer escape. and I was trapped in your thin but surprisingly strong arms for so long that now I can never forget it and the damage that you have caused can never be undone. so are you happy with yourself? are you proud of what you've done? you know I defended you day after day when my friends could not stand the sound of your name coming off of my lips. tried to convince my family you were a nice girl (at the same time maybe trying to convince myself as well.) I stood up for you, against the people that truly cared about me. for what? a kiss. one small kiss, one small moment where your lips slammed into mine. a moment that I thought would bring me so much happiness, but in the end only brought me satisfaction for about 15 minutes then tore me down more than it ever couldve brought me up. truly my 15 minutes of fame huh? or, were they yours?