Comas, comets; and what they have in common

Sunday morning I woke up from a coma, 

so I raced the sun to the horizon but it beat me there, so I flew to the moon and made a home in its craters. I met a man there, and we talked about earth, we talked about asteroids and I told him I was one. I was born in the belt between Mars and Jupiter and I fell to the surface, though I never really belonged with the stars born to the ground. I was a celestial body melted down and given the name "Amanda"

I told him that no one knows I sometimes cry at night, because before the morning I clear my throat and wipe my eyes. 

I told him things that make my heart happy like wind shield wipers, rose colored glasses, bendy straws, street lights and kids in snow clothes. 

I told him that I'm scared of car crashes and codependency.

I told him about the nights when I couldn't sleep and the intrusive thoughts and how I like my cookies unbaked.

So when you need to talk, point your voice upward, I promise the moon will keep your secrets.

Me You And The Moon

And you will find yourself kissing this boy, probably in the back seat of his car. It's going to be messy because your scared. It's going to be hands crawling on places they should only caress. You will not giggle you will not smile. You will think youre special because it's your first time, but the only thing you will ever be to him is pretty. Darling, you are so much more than pretty. And it's going to be a secret kept only for nights cramming yourself into boys mouths where you don't belong.  

And you will find yourself kissing this boy. And it will be you and him in the backseat of anywhere. It's going to be messy because your nervous. It will be hands caressing, and fingertips touching. And you will be giggling and smiling. And you will know you're special, because he shows you that you are. And darling he thinks you're pretty, but he also thinks you're brilliant and strong. And it's going to be a secret whispered from lip to lip and palm to palm for nights when the moon holding the both of you needs to be the both of you holding each other. 

And you will probably break up. 

But that doesn't make it any less real.

The Hubble Telescope

It's kinda strange how fast you can leave the city going 80 miles an hour. I mean sure I duct taped your foot to the gas pedal, but I also gave you a knife to cut yourself free if you wanted to. But I watched your tail lights shrink. 

This thick skin was just waiting to be good for something. And you thought your sharpest knife should definitely be that something. You lodged it into my left lung, knowing fully well that the left one was the weak one. That the left one was the one that collapsed. That the left one still had problems....and so did the right one. 

I haven't had my albuterol in a bit too long now. 

I want to know what it feels like to be the brick and not the window pane, I guess this time you were both. 

The thing is you were always both, both the victim and the antagonizer. When ever it was convenient you played victim, made me feel sorry for you. When ever you could make me feel weak you'd be the antagonizer. 

Glass shards are always pretty until the thing they cut bleeds too much. And darling I'm bleeding out,

Working faster to tie that tourniquet 

Shaking 

Trembling 

Trying to breathe

Tie it tight so I keep the red

Tie it right or I'll end up dead.  

Trying to tie an armband. 

I can't tie it with just one hand. 

You know I'm not ambidextrous 

I know I shouldn't have messed with this. 

But I guess every hate poem is rhetorically a love poem. 

So We sat in the moons craters at 5 in the morning smoking cigarettes. Which is kind of ironic because without oxygen in outer space, we were still trying to squeeze the last bits of air out of our lungs. And the spaces between your fingers were filled with, well, space, cuz that's where we were, space. We floated amongst the Asteroids and they called us UFOs, but we weren't  unidentified, we just didn't like labels. 

The sun disappeared and I forgot to look at it. The sky is just a tragically beautiful graveyard, and we're carving our own tombstones with black burnt knifes. 

Your pollution is filling my nostrils and seeping into my bones

...But I always thought pollution was pretty. It left a dusky haze over the city and made the world seem not so harsh.  And that pollution catches the prayers from the city, blocking them from ever reaching heaven. 

He throws tantrums like a volcanic two year old. 

He pokes bruises and his mouth is a fountain that spouts lies,

But I guess every hate poem is rhetorically a love poem. 

His eyes were the Hubble telescope. 

And the Hubble telescope looked down again. 

At the Stars in our strands.