burned bridges.

I am not who I once was

all my poetry seems to hit that resounding note

maybe, I can’t get past the fact

I have murdered my old self, and no one notices

or that I love watching bridges burn

the charred remains of the ‘glory days’

a ghost wandering these hallowed grounds,

why do I live in nostalgia?

why do I wish for the past?

when I can recall each plunge of my weapon

and burying this part of me in the back of my mind



I planted flowers in my backyard
and painted the walls yellow
I locked the front door,
and told fear she could
find someone else to room with.

The stairs stopped creaking
with the steps of people that abused me,
and I blared music loudly
and opened all the windows
allowing light to finally touch parts of me

I danced, and laughed
pulled out all the old photographs
of what I had, but never quite lost
I have never felt more at home
in my own mind



someone give me life,

because lately I’m having a hard time staying awake

I laid in my bed–mid day–

and stared at my ceiling in silence

my sweatshirt doesn’t keep me warm anymore

I’m chilled to my core

there is a lump in my throat,

I tried to wash it away

but it’s latched on from my lack of tears

no one seems to understand it,

neither do I.

the basslines in my headphones,

resuscitate me long enough

to keep breathing.



it’s been a long month.

the girl pays for her coffee with quarters,

her trembling hands grasping for another cup,

alone, she sits.

the seat across is empty, someone once sat there

the coffee runs down her throat, and warms her heartless body.

it’s been a long month.


the breath is knocked out of her,

as she watches couples hold hands

a tear escapes, and she scolds herself

too attached; she got too attached

she shoves the emotions away

it’s been a long month.


dear someone, she writes in her journal

why am I alive?

because, all I do is disappoint

and I break beautiful things

I wonder if there a point to this pain?

it’s been a long month.


and, the seconds creep by

slowly, the days muddle into night

she tells the moon about her failings

slowly, the nights drift into day

and she plods along whispering as an excuse,

it’s been a long month.






I cry out my frustration; trying not to break the mirror in front of me.


I panic at night, and know I don’t deserve trust anymore.

Terrible influence.

I compartmentalize my personality, so I can’t ruin anyone else.

Bad, bad, bad.

I throw up, unable to take it anymore. The feeling washes down the toilet, and I know it’ll be back soon.

The feeling of hatred. I hate her. The girl I am.

No one believes I’m going to try to change. Or, how much I cry…hot, messy tears about how I’ve screwed up.

Does life ever get better? Do people understand mistakes? Do you see I’m struggling to get by?

Guilt gnaws at my bones.

And, all I can say is I’m trying, and that I’m sorry for the girl I’ve become.

So, so sorry.







i am a ghost as i walk through

my room and see a little girl

she cries, and no one knows why

but i do…


i pick her up

and wipe the matted hair from her face

i tell her no more tears

as i wipe the ones swelling in my own eyes


we drive for ice cream

and i play the speak now album

she sings quietly; she knows all the lyrics

but so do i…


i snuggle her in blankets

and turn on her favorite movies

i never let her go

and she clings to me tightly


i tell her,

it gets better from here

but she can’t hear me;

she’ll still grow up to be me…