Every year for mother's day,
I buy my mother a Hydrangea.
And every year,
it dies in the pot before it can be planted in the yard.

I don't know who is to blame.
Is she at fault
for never caring for it the way she intends to
or am I at fault
for allowing the cycle to continue?

I spent the spring semester of my junior year
in group therapy

Every Thursday for ten weeks,
I spent time talking out my short-comings
with other students
and every Thursday,
we were reminded that all of our actions
have a meaning behind them.

So when I think of you and I
I think of the Hydrangeas
and how you never care for me
the way you intend to
and how I always
allow the cycle to continue.

7.5.13

She
was midnight in no where
like thunder in late July
the taste of sour apple slushies
and the bad decisions I could have sworn I was qualified to make.

I
was sweater weather August
a point of view she couldn't see
summer's final sunset
and all of her least favorite memories.

We
were September, like October, tripping through late November
as if nothing ever happened
because she was never one to admit fault
and I've always forgiven her regardless.


She
is a second thought
a forgotten muse
the last of my childhood memories
and the last thing I want to think about anymore

I
am much the same
an uncertain outcome
a  step in the wrong direction
and a reminder of what it's like to dwell.

We
are set in our ways
like old souls unwilling to change
so we'll continue on this way
and pretend it doesn't feel the same

The Winds of Change.

If you are the winds of change,

I am an old home.

 

And when you blow

cause my bones to creak and settle,

You'll have made your presence known.

Leaving my once solid structure just that much flimsier.

And it seems that every dusty old trunk.

and moth eaten article of clothing

forgotten in my over-stuffed attic 

are simply cluttered reminders of what once was.

While the fire in this well preserved hearth 

reminds me more of your tentative brush on calmer days.

And though the warped glass in my dusty old panes

is quick to reflect your every storm,

It is just as quick to pick up on your gentle spring day

and present it back to you happily.

When cold days come 

My siding may tremble under your touch 

But even I know warmer days follow close behind

and everything will be set right. 

So if you are the winds of change

I am an old home, 

accustomed to your ways

and built to withstand you 

And

I think we both gravitate towards the broken.
People with entire cemeteries in their closets.
With bruised interiors and spotless exteriors.
Towards people that need us.

And I guess

maybe they need you more than I do
but it's hard to know someone likes everyone else
more than they like you,
when you like them more than you like everyone else.

Low on your priority list
I suppose it's fine.

And maybe if I liked her more
it wouldn't have been such an issue for me.

And I just want to fucking throw up at the idea of it.
Because of all of everybody everywhere,
it seems odd to me that it could happen.

And I'm stuck on this idea that you'll come around eventually.
Regardless of everything you've ever told me.

And there's this really sharp sort of jealousy tying up my insides.
wrapped around my rib cage.
breaking my bones and stopping my heart.

And the more I think about it
the worse it gets.

And I don't want to be around you anymore
but I couldn't last a day without you
and you just don't seem to get it
but you never did
and I don't want to worry about you seeing how I feel
because I want you to know
but I didn't want you to find out this way
and you said it was fine
and I was afraid I would push you away
but it seems that I'm  not the one pushing.

I don't mind not being there if you don't want me.
I just want to hear it honestly.

Because I'm tired of hurting over nothing.
and I'm tired of being less than something to you.

And unrequited whatever is like drinking hot water
or getting up for the day without having gone to bed the previous night.
Like cracked, bleeding fingers
and realizing that you're alone again after being  
so sure
that things would be different this time.

But I guess you sort of know that already.
At least you claim to.

Loving you is like rain on an otherwise nice day.
Or sitting and watching the sun set on the last day of summer.
Because it's the best and worst things about my life.

So I'm sorry I do this all the time.
and I'm sorry I can't just make it stop.
But thank you for it anyway.

Every time I see them I think about you
And what you said about your dad
In the middle of the parking lot at that Chinese Restaurant
And I held your hand because I didn't know what else to do
But I wanted to kiss you

I'm sorry I couldn't love you the way I wanted to
I'm sorry he can't love you the way you want him to
I'd whisper sweet everythings to you
But I can't bring myself to
Not to get my point across.

So I'm sorry for all of the regrets I harbor
Sorry for mistakes and missed opportunities
Sorry for letting moments pass me by
Sorry you don't know what I mean most of the time.

Because you say you're fine
I'm the one with low self esteem
The one who can't see herself clearly
Maybe it's a two-sided mirror
And you're on the wrong side looking through it.
Maybe I'm more reflective than you thought.

You'll bend until you break if you keep this pace
You'll shatter like dropped ceramic
But I'll pray for heat
And we can burn it all away
For the sake of our own sanity

I'm sorry I'll never make much difference
But I'll be there for you if you let me
You'll be able to find me easily
Behind mechanical chicken scratch on white lined paper
Near the end of every terrible day's hallway
At rusty blue lockers and winter cold parking lots.
I promise.