if you dig deep enough you will find

that all of my poems are about you.

maybe they didn't start off that way,

but there will always be traces of your essence

left in my soul.

And because my words are an outpouring

of what resides within me,

there will always be bits of you

living

in the pieces of me.

i saved up napkins

from our time together -

one napkin

from each place we visited together.

i had it all planned out -

one poem

for each napkin

for each place

each moment spent together.

my first collection

unofficially published

just for you.

i would give them to you before our time neared its end.

i started stringing the words together long before our eyes met

based on how i thought the encounter would go.

maybe that was my mistake -

my mind

always getting ahead of reality.

This is reality:

empty napkins lie crumpled at the bottom of my bag.

Is this what they had in mind when they said

"write out your feelings"?

when they said to "be honest"?

I didn't know that I would be

opening a wound that would never stop bleeding.

That I wouldn't be able to tell the beginning

apart from the end.

we were not made to thrive in darkness,

so I take your hands in mine

and place into them

light.

so that you may hold it close and allow it to

seep

into every part of you

every last inch

every dark corner.

and the next time your hands

collide

with someone else's,

I pray that you would pass on that light too.

There is winter in my heart.

did you know,

that trees shed their leaves in the fall

so that they may survive the winter?

my heart isn't dying,

it's surviving.

and when the spring comes

it will bloom

and thrive

and all will be well again.

Honesty.

How do you want it?

In the form of my tears,

because I have so many words that they overwhelm me?

Or in my silence?

Because the words have failed me and I no longer know how to string them together

so that you can understand.

This is honesty:

sometimes I have so many words living inside of me that I wish I didn't have any at all.

And sometimes,

they abandon me.

so,

body crumpled on the floor

fists clutching at my chest

I cry out

begging them to come back so I can have some way

some way to release the storm inside of me.

But the words abandon me and i'm left with the weight of

fear

loneliness

anxiety,

and no form of release.

My words turn on me.

The things that once gave me life,

that helped me breathe,

have stolen my breath.

I used to bleed through the pages,

through the pouring of ink.

Now I bleed through the longing

and it's a dark shade of red.

Longing to be free

free to breathe again.