she wishes for brighter eyes.

My mother asked me if I think that my dad still loves her.

I nodded my head no.

I wanted to say yes,

But I couldn't.

I didn't.

She told me that she doesn't love him the way she used to.

Their love has faded.

I've watched my parents love fade since I was 6 years old.

They used to kiss each other every morning before I would walk to the bus stop.

But last week my mom slept with me in my bed,

She held onto me like I was him

And she cried herself to sleep.

It's not supposed to be like that.

Love isn't supposed to just fade away like your jeans

And your hair dye

And your lipstick.

Love isn't supposed to wither away like dead flowers.

Love is supposed to be constant.

Once you love someone that much,

You always love them no matter what.

Or so I thought.

Love is an interesting thing.

One day it's standing there at a concert wearing camo pants,

And she's standing there staring at love because she can't help herself,

She can't help that her eyes turn a brighter shade of green when she is looking at something green.

In this case, it was your green camo pants.

Her eyes got brighter that night,

And the next day his eyes saw hers in the high school hallway.

They were strangers,

Until one day they weren't.

And she fell for him,

Like leaves fall from trees

Like rain falls on Windows

She fell for him.

And he fell for her.

And they talked about how it was because she saw him standing there at that concert  wearing camo pants,

Fate they said.

Meant to be, they said.

And they were happy.

Until one day they weren't.

Until one day it started to wither away.

Like dead flowers.

Love ate at her as she sat in the bathtub,

As tears fell from her eyes that were a lot less green

As tears fell from her eyes and dropped into the bath water.

Creating a pool of "I miss him"

"I still want him"

"We were supposed to be meant to be"

It's not supposed to be like that.

But it is.

7 months later:

It's 3:06 am.

I'm laying on his couch.

He who has a head full of dark curly hair

And a face full of freckles.

He is new, different.

And we didn't meet in a special way.

We didn't meet at a concert,

But we met.

And maybe that means something.

He tells me I'm smart,

That I'm outgoing.

He sees a side of me that most people do not see,

That the boy in the camo pants didn't see.

So maybe it's not about concerts,

Or fate.

Or meant to be.

Maybe it's that it just happens.

Maybe it's that you just meet someone one day,

And something happens.

And maybe the people we meet,

And the people that hurt us,

Lead us to the people who won't.

Who won't hurt us,

Who won't stop loving us.

It's 3:13 am.

I'm laying on his couch,

He's asleep.

I can hear his breathing,

In and out

In and out.

And I've always liked freckles.

And curly hair.

And boys that are left handed.

So I'll give him a try.

And hope that it doesn't wither away quite 

yet.

When it comes down to it.

That's all we can really do is hope.

Hope that my parents might remember what it was like to love each other.

Hope that the boy in the camo pants is alright.

And hope that the boy with the freckles makes her happy.

Because her green eyes have been dull for quite some time,

And I think she deserves someone to make them brighter again.

  

the flower of the sun.

 You never bought me flowers.

Not even when I asked you to.

And every time I pinned a boutonnière to your left pocket,

You took it off.

You told me it bothered you.

And I would nod

And say "okay."

But it wasn't okay.

Because I love flowers more than I love most things.

My favorite memory is of me standing in a field filled with sunflowers that were taller than me,

I was wearing a white dress, my feet were bare

And in that moment I decided that sunflowers are my favorite flower.

I've always wanted to remind people of the sun,

Something that is bright,

Something that is yellow,

Something that is happy.

But I think I might remind people of something a little less bright,

Maybe a bluebell,

Mellow,

Quiet,

A little less happy,

A little less noticeable than a sunflower.

And that's okay.

You never bought me flowers.

Not once.

And I've been thinking that maybe that's why you're gone now. 

Because even though I may not be the sun,

Even though I may not be bubbly,

Or yellow,

Or bright,

I'm still a flower. 

And flowers deserve to be given flowers,

A bouquet of flowers,

With a ribbon tied around the stems,

A bow connecting a dozen sunflowers,

That's all I ever wanted. 

You're all I ever wanted.

But I've been thinking that maybe it's time for me to pick my own flowers,

Tall, beautiful sunflowers.

Yellow, big, bright. 

And when I look at them they will remind me that maybe someday I can be the sun.

To remind me that maybe someday someone will buy me a bouquet of flowers,

With a ribbon tied around the stems in a bow.

I hope he will know that I love sunflowers.

I hope he will look at me like I am a sunflower,

I hope I will remind him of a sunflower,

Even though I might be more like a bluebell.

 

nearly broken. -- I want us all to be okay.

I went on a trip with my parents a few weeks ago. 

My mom almost didn't come,

They were fighting,

Of course.

I flew with my dad alone and right before we got on the plane she called him and he yelled words to her that I wish I didn't have to hear.

On the plane he asked me who I'd rather live with.

I didn't respond.

I've been asked that question a hundred times and I've never responded.

So we sat by each other silently and landed in Florida.

 My back was sweaty and it wasn't from the humidity,

My back was sweaty from the thought of

"Love doesn't exist."

"Love is fake."

"It's not real"

"It's not real"

My mom decided to fly there on a separate plane, 

She didn't want me to spend the week listening to my dad call clients and listening  to him fight with her on the phone,

So she came,

Her plane landed at 2 am and she slept with me in the hotel bed that night. 

My dad was in the bed next next to mine but my mom chose to sleep with me

She held onto me like I was him,

At 17 it's a hard concept to grasp that your mom would rather lay next to you than your own father and her own husband.

They pretended like they weren't mad at each other that whole week,

So I could have fun.

They texted each other from across the room so they wouldn't have to yell,

To "protect me"

It didn't make me have more fun,

It didn't protect me,

At age 7 I started praying to God that they wouldn't finally love each other,

And I still don't know if they do,

I've never known.

I'm ok,

But nights like last night makes my back sweat from the thought of 

"Love isn't real."

"It doesn't exist"

And that's scary.

But I'm ok,

And I think I'm ok because the microwave in my kitchen from their wedding still works.

It opens like an oven, it's hideous, brown 

 and ancient.

But it still works. 

So I think that's why I'm ok,

I think that's why I've always been ok,

Because in my mind that microwave from their wedding means something,

Means something like even though it's old and falling apart,

It still holds on,

Just like they hold on.

some days I want a new microwave,

Because it cooks way too slow,

Just like some days I want them to leave each other, because I think I'd be happier,

But then I think about the microwave and how I've had it my whole life and how I know I'd miss it,

Even though it's Nearly broken 

And then I think about them and how I know I'd miss them too,

Even though they are nearly broken.

Because nearly broken things still work,

That's what counts.

But once that microwave breaks I don't know what I'll do. 

So I'll pray that day isn't for a while because I don't know if I'll be ok then.

The microwave that my parents got on their wedding day broke last week.

32 years. 

32 years.

My parents have always had a rocky relationship. 

But that microwave was always steady.

That microwave always worked.

It always held on.

The light burnt out years ago,

But the heat waves kept on burning.

The fire was strong.

That microwave gave me hope. 

It gave me hope that nearly broken things still work

But now I'm not so sure.

My best friends boyfriend cheated on her.

He lied to her face for months.

And I don't know.

I don't think I'm okay. 

I don't know when I'll believe in love. 

It's a sad thing,

To not believe in love anymore.

My eyes are always dry 

And my smiles are usually forced

And I guess I just want to be happy.

I want the microwave to work again,

To burn again.

But it shut off,

At a time when I needed hope the most.

I guess I need something to believe in.

Whether it's a microwave or a god or a person.

I just need something to believe in,

Something to show me that it's all going to be okay. 

 

Something to show me that thanksgivings aren't always screams that lead to slammed doors and 4 kids sleeping in a car just to feel safe.

Something to show me that Christmas Day is happy,

A day with no fighting,

And no tension.

Something to show me that this life really is happy.

That this life is beautiful.

Becuase right now I feel numb.

And I just want to feel something.

I just want to be okay.

I want her to be okay.

I want us all to be okay.

I hope he comes running.

I watched her heart.

I watched it as it began to beat slower,

 I watched it as the color began to change from cherry blossoms to black and blue bruises.

I watched her eyes.

I watched them as they became less like the summer sky.

And more like the faded pavement in the winter. 

I watched her wear his t shirts to bed,

Trying to hold on to every last part of him.

Trying to breathe in his smell.

Trying to feel him. 

I watched her smile slowly shatter,

I watched her small body crack like glass,

I watched her heart break like mine did.

I watched her miss him,

I watched her want him,

Crave him.

But he was gone. 

 I remember the first time you left me.

It was around thanksgiving.

 I remember my mom asking me what I was thankful for,

 And I remember thinking nothing.

I remember feeling nothing,

And everything all at once.

I remember the day my smile cracked.

The day my body shattered.

I remember the day my heart turned into black and blue bruises. 

All because of you.

But I still miss you every single day.

And I still want you every single day. 

And I still crave you every night at around 9 pm.

But you're gone.

And so is he.

I hope that he comes back for her.

I hope he comes running.

Because watching her suffer,

Watching her bleed,

Watching her melt 

Reminds me of how I felt.

Nothing.

And everything

                all at once.

he helped.

my uncle took his own life at 20 years old.

his brother hasn't stopped drinking since the day his best friend took a gun to his forehead. 

my mom was 17 and she said a part of her died that day.

my grandma lives with her sons death every day of her life.

been on 20 different types on anti depressants.

but anti depressants don't fix a life.

the pills may help for a moment but a few hours after the shallow the pain comes back again.

one life taken messes up many lives that are just trying to live.

i'm not saying it's selfish.

i'm saying it hurts.

a few hours after the swallow the pain comes back again.

but a few hours without pain is better than no hours.

my grandmas pills don't fix all her pain. 

but they help.

smiling at someone in the hallway sure doesn't fix their life.

but it helps.

i woke up with a bloody nose at 3am last night.

my dad got out of bed and hugged me and i can't remember the last time he did.

his hug didn't stop the blood from sliding down my throat.

but it helped.

and i didn't know him. I never talked to him once. I just knew that he had long blonde hair and he smiled at me in the hallway one morning. 

and i remember because the night before was a rough one

and his smile helped that moment in my day,

it helped.  

But I did know him. 

Our choir teacher in middle school told me I sang too quietly. That I didn't speak loud enough for anyone to hear.

And she told me that if I don't start to speak up people won't want to listen to me.

He leaned over and said "I love your voice."

I'll always remember that. 

I'll always remember them

And him

And the uncle that I've never met.

I still talk quietly

people tell me that I need to speak up all the time

But he heard me 

 he made me feel important 

He told me that he loved my voice

It didn't make me talk louder

It didn't change my voice 

But it helped

He heard me

He helped .

i don't think that's too much to ask.

 i left my creative writing journal in the kitchen and my mom read it last night.

she read every single swear word, every word about him and my brother and she read the page titled "my parents don't even love each other."

she told me she was sorry that i've never known if she loved my dad.

she told me sorry for all the mornings their screaming woke me up.

and she told me sorry that i'd rather be in my car than be at home.

even though the heater makes the interior smell like i'm roasting a burnt marshmallow,

i'd rather sit in there than sit under a roof of yells and fake love. 

why does love stop?

when does love stop?

the book stops at 408 pages

the marathon stops at 26.2 miles 

the song stops at 3 minuets and 15 seconds. 

the movie told me that love never stops

it's always constant

always there

always beautiful

never dying

never ending

my best friends parents were high school sweethearts 

they couldn't spend a second apart 

but somewhere along the way their love died

they're divorced now

he has another wife

a new kid

she's been married twice 

searching for someone to make her feel the way he did

but she's alone with a box of hand written letters from him signed with hearts and the words "I'll always love you."

i have a box of hand written letters under my bed signed with your name ending with a cursive y,

17 and in love,

of course that's going to end, right?

but i never thought i would be alone with a box of letters that i can't seem to throw out.

i threw away that sweatshirt because it smelt like you

but the letters feel like you,

and i can't get myself to let go.

my biggest fear is ending up like my parents

i don't want my kids to learn the f word when they're 7 because they heard it being screamed at 3 am.

i don't want to feel the need to read my daughters creative writing journal in the middle of the night to see if she's hurting

and i don't ever want to read the words "my parents don't even love each other." written in scribbled pen and signed with tears

i want a love that never dies
you know, the deep kind
the dance in the kitchen kind
the slow kiss kind
the laugh line kind
the crinkled noses kind
the fingers always laced together kind

i'm only 17 but i find myself on my knees begging god that i won't end up like my best friends parents, and my parents and all your parents that didn't make it,

"i just want a love that's going to make it god."


"i don't think that's too much to ask god."

airplane window.

I've always wanted to be kissed on a rooftop,

overlooking all of the lights.
i think i want to be kissed on a rooftop because it's closer to the stars.

i've never been afraid of heights

and i think that's why i love the sky so much
and the stars and the moon
and heaven and all of the angels.

I believe in angels more than I believe in god.

And I think that's because in first grade when Mrs Peterson asked me what super power id want to be I said, "id choose to fly like an angel." 

I've stuck with that answer ever since.

I remember the first time I rode on an airplane and I got the window seat. 

(Well actually I was assigned in the middle seat but I cried and begged my brother to switch me)

I remember watching the sun go down and the moon come up and I don't remember blinking once.

I remember thinking that I'm literally flying. 

And while everyone slept I stared out that window and swore I could see angels with long blonde hair blowing in the wind. I imagined they looked a lot like me. 

When I turn 18 I'm going to go sky diving.

I don't want to go for the rush or to go to just say I've been sky diving 

I want to go to breathe in the same air as the angels,

I want to go to see the clouds from their point of view.

I've always loved blowing dandelions and watching the pedals float to the sky,

I've always loved letting balloons go because I imagine someone catching it when it gets to heaven.

I believe in angels more than I believe in god 

I talk about angels more than I talk about god 

I think about angels more than I think about god 

And I think that's because on my first airplane ride I swore I saw one out my window 

And I've never sworn I've seen god 

but when I do see him, I'm gonna tell him thank you for creating the angels 

Because they are what keeps me going.

And I'm gonna ask him if he ever saw any of my balloons

And even if he never did,

I hope he knows me well enough to say, "I caught one."