I should’ve seen it coming:

10th grade and I was falling for you
like every other girl in our grade had.
We had joked about dancing together
and I had glared at you every time a slow song came on.

When you had worked up the courage to ask me,
“Apologize” was playing
and Scott was holding a conversation with you,
while I laughed at your nervousness.

And if we had known Journey
would’ve ended the night,
maybe things would’ve worked out differently.
It wasn’t your typical slow song.

Strangers waiting,
up and down the boulevard.

Tempo picked up and we changed
positions to a waltz.

Streetlight people,
living just to find emotion.

I remember you telling me to sing,
I remember laughing.
I was young
and very naive.

And now it is seven years
and you’re getting married
and I’m happy
for you.

Because for that girl,
the world is a little less lonely,
and you’ve found emotion.



Lately, I’ve been walking through memory.
I have a boy,
who’s toying
with the idea of FaceTiming me.
I creep upstairs
lit by the glow of a phone screen,
and each shadow closes in.

I’m beginning to wonder
if I let the feel of you
seep into my skin.
I’m tip-toeing around rooms
and looking at spots on carpet
where your body once laid.

I’m letting the past get the best of me.

I’m thinking of different places on my couch
where I kissed him
or he held me
and you’re like a stain
that won’t get out of that damn carpet.

Eyes closed,
my chin on your chest,
you’ve been 22 for about 20 minutes
and I won’t let you leave.

It wouldn’t be the last time you stepped into my house,
but it’d be a memory where your girlfriend
and your mom weren’t the first to reach you—

and three years later,
I’m trying not to,
I’m telling myself I’m in mourning,
in healing,
waiting on a plan,
and not re-considering
the idea,
the promising heartbreak,
the never coming to fruition
possibility of

Where’d You Go; I Miss You So

Passion Pit is playing and I’m remembering your profile,
as we drove through Clayton, somewhere on Delsea and I
listened as you sang on key,
one hand on the steering wheel,
fingers on your free hand
tapping absentmindedly.

I don’t ever remember hearing Passion Pit in your presence.

I wrote a story where you died and I visited your gravestone,
with two Coronas, in a baggy flannel and torn up Chucks because it was easier
for me to pretend you were dead than to accept you had willingly left.

I still want everything to do with you.

I have written probably over a hundred posts, prose, poems about you and I don’t know how to stop.
I don’t know what else to say to you to make you get it.
You broke me,
and I’m still sweeping up the pieces, trying to glue myself back together,
rise from the ashes…
but your smile still burns like raided villages,
and your laughter is the like the cries of terrified children
and murder and massacre take place simultaneously;
easier to believe in a harsher reality,
than accept and live with whatever the hell you did to me.

You fucked me up.
You fucked me over.

All without making love to me.
All because you tried to make memories.
All by making promises you never intended to keep.

Old songs are playing,
and I wonder if you would still sing along
if you knew all the words.
I wonder if you’d link the fingers of your free hand
with mine, and we could just drive,
in silence, in moments
that I live in more than reality.
I hate that I still think about these days,
I still think about you this way.
That it’s been almost nine months since August 28th,
and I still see you
sitting in the Lazy Boy as I sit at your feet.

I always bowed down to you,
kissed the ground you
walked upon.

I can’t get you out of my head and I hate it.

I hate it.

I absolutely

1AM Necessities

she thinks she knows the half of it.

you do.

You were there in the throws of it.
Amidst the anger,
The self pity nights,
The night I understood why people got drunk.
The nights we were both too tired to talk,
But we did anyway.
We always did anyway.

I don’t know where we went wrong.

you do?

It’s 1AM this morning
and I’m texting you to see if you’re awake.
You never replied.
But she was in the throws of it;
willing to make mistakes just like I did.
I wanted to ask you why people don’t listen.
To let me rant on about it.
One more time,
To you.

she thinks I don’t know the half of it.

I do.

My Condolences

I still have your hoodie in my bedroom.
I wore it to bed the same night you gave it to me.
My face flushed from smiling while I laughed on FaceTime with

I should have never let you fall that far;

for that, I’m sorry.

Because even when I could’ve,
I never used you as a body.
Even when I knew what
was going on in that head of yours,
I was hoping you didn’t fall blindly.

I wasn’t ready.

I’m still not.

To be honest,
I’m still coming into myself.
Still growing into the person I want to be,
aspire to be,
but to be honest,
it still hurts that
after everything,
you are the one who can’t look at

Remember the names you called me.

Remember when you told me I broke your trust
for ignoring your texts.

For a few months,
we were friends.
Good friends, I’ll give us that much credit.
Because when I was crouched down
in the back of the tent arranging flashlights,
you let me vent.

When Kiana had walked in
earlier that day
and asked to my “permission” to see him,
I said yes.
Not knowing what had already conspired, yet…

Me and her? We’re good.

You and I?
I’m dancing by your side,
I’m actually having a good time,
and you

I was telling my dad about
how I saw you after these months,
after our sort of re-kindled friendship
when I told you I would never be yours.
And I get it.

You hold that against me.

I don’t blame you.

But never claim I pushed you away,
for saying “No.”
I won’t be your lady,
your baby,
your anything,
no remorse.
Don’t try and shame me for that.

Have some tact.

But my dad says
you can’t.
He claims that you’re
“in love with me”.
Even now,
I try to shake off that possibility.
I don’t even warrant a “maybe”.
Because though I did like you
(that much I will attest to)
most of the time,
I was just a brat
(I’ll give you that.)

I think the thing about girls wearing guys hoodies is that,
for awhile,
they smell like a home uninhabited.
They smell like support and comfort
when their world is “caving in”.

And then,

you wash it.

I should have never let you fall that far;

for that, I’m sorry. 

Spilt Milk

And salty tears never made for a good combination.
Besides, as the saying goes, “There’s no use crying over spilt milk, anyway.”
That is the beginning of acceptance.
That is the beginning of strength.
I began to write this with the intent of calling out your name,
Begging for you back,
Having them all be like “Here she goes again.”
For a month, you were my best friend.
But I realize you’re adding to the mess.
I am ripping off paper towels.
I won’t be drenched in a puddle of mistakes and regrets.
What’s done is done.
Let it go.

I am better than this.
I do not need to sink to having tears well up over spilt milk.

These are not the intentions I went into writing this post.
This is God’s way of reminding me not all hope is lost.

Hold on for that self-love.
For that sacrificial love.
For happiness.
For the found freedom that leads to bliss.

But don’t hold on to memories that will only leave a puddle of spilt milk.

There is so much more to my life than this.


I don’t hate you. That’d just be stupid.

I don’t hate that I loved you, and, to an extent, that bothers me because after all the bad, I should not be able to find the good, I should not remember the good.

And I know you’ve moved on and I know I want nothing to do with you…I know that, I can say that and be honest,


it’s not going to take away what I remember about you and that’s what breaks my heart a little bit over and over.

How we could both sit in the cafeteria and you’d play with my drink or my sunglasses, or sometimes we’d sit on the same side of the booth and I’d completely forget the rest of the world was around us, because in those moments I didn’t care if I gave public displays of affection.

How we’d sit in The Pit and I would always try to be closer to you than what was actually necessary. 

How we discussed the versions of “Do you Hear What I Hear?” this time just last year and you shared that you listened to Family Force 5 and that was something I never knew about you.

How we laughed in sync at the Tim Hawkins concert.

And I’ll never forget the way you smiled at me, whether you do or not. 

And I know

I know you’ve moved on and she makes you happy and that’s fine.

And I know you probably think I’m not over you,

you think I’m weak,

and predictable,

and you wonder why you wasted your time.

But honestly, I’m happy.

It’s just sometimes…

some nights

I think back and remember these things

and I try to figure out what went wrong and where

And I want to be vengeful

and I want to be vindictive,

but this is not one of those times.

This is just simply a time where things aren’t what I expected them to be,

and I don’t hate that,

and I’m not upset we broke up,

because it was going to happen;

we both knew that.


It’d just be simpler,

for me,

if no good came with the bad.