tea colored eyes and worried hands

you took my soul with you when you left, but you forgot to tell me what i should do without it.

but that’s okay, my dearest, i can forgive you for that. you were always so forgetful with your tea colored eyes and your worried hands, and you took off in such a hurry that no one could blame you for neglecting such a small little detail.

you were beautiful. did you know that? you had a crooked smile and you were too skinny and your feet were too big, but you owned your imperfections with such confidence, such assuredness, that people would look twice and wonder if they were really imperfections after all. you made yourself perfect through sheer will.

sometimes at night i start to ache without you. all you left behind when you went were some pictures and a sweater and your smell. your smile looks fake in the pictures. i’m wearing your sweater. your smell makes me cry.

you know, when i close my eyes i see all those freckles on your hands. they stuck inexplicably in my mind, a piece of you i never knew i cared about. i wish i could trace patterns in them again, my darling. i wish i could.

you took my soul with you when you left, but that’s okay.

i wasn’t magnificent enough for you anyway.


the stammer

her hands were small and

so translucent

that you could see her blue, blue veins

through the skin.


she had a light sprinkle


sprinkling of freckles

and a sometimes stammer

and he thought

that she was too lovely to

love him


but she swore she did

even though her sticky tongue could never

get the words out



I love– I


I la.la.la.



she would scowl and wish

for eloquence

for a stammer that would let her


her mind


and he would smile and

tell her he knew, tell her

he loved her too, tell her

she didn’t need to say it


but her heart beat

beat beat

beat beat

against her ribcage and

she knew

she had to make him see.


so at 3am she woke him up

and she took him outside

and she pointed up

and she said


“I want to be yours

until all those stars

are gone.”

the broken people

I can’t speak and I don’t know why. There’s nothing wrong with my throat, and my tongue works perfectly well. Doctors always tell me I’m fine. But when I open my mouth nothing comes out but stupidity, half-formed thoughts and monosyllables and sentiments like My, isn’t the weather nice today? My mouth, I think, is empty.

I can’t see and I don’t know why. I don’t need glasses, not even for reading. My eye doctor just smiles at me when I tell him my problems, just smiles at me and gives me a lollipop. But no matter how hard I try I can’t see anything but dirty looks and angry people and fear. Maybe there’s just nothing beautiful left to look at.

I can’t hear and I don’t know why. Music sounds empty to me, repetitive and ugly with beautiful singers spitting meaningless words through my radio. I wonder if maybe they’re sick with whatever I have – maybe they can’t speak or see or hear either, maybe they’re really empty and they just hide it with their makeup and their muscles and their tans. It doesn’t really make me feel better.

I can’t feel and I don’t know why. I wouldn’t say no one understands me because that’s stupid and wrong, but everyone in the world could understand perfectly and it wouldn’t make me any better. I’m surrounded by people who love me, but sometimes I feel so empty inside that I make my arms bleed to check I’m still alive. I guess I am. But I don’t know why.