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My father taught me to put "stolen from" rather than
"This belongs to" on all the things I own
And ever since then, 87% of the things I ever lost
Found its way back to me

Some with a sharp laugh,
Others with a roll of the eyes,
An awkward shrug,
An apologetic grin

But people are different, of course

You can't put a tag on them that says
MINE
Especially when they don't even know that they're
YOURS

But in daydreams, I've claimed you, time and time again
I've brushed the hair out of your eyes
Branded your forehead with a kiss
That has a mark that spelled my name

In my mind, I've claimed you, time and time again
When our eyes meet across the room, across people
And our fingers brush as I hold your hand,
And our laughter echoes in the same space

I've saved all the pieces you hesitantly give.
Your tall-ness, 
Your dreams,
You very first memory

I've held them so close to my heart,
I've turned them over in my head so many times,
That they've left dents and bruises -
And I wear each one like a badge

...

But it doesn't matter now, does it?
Because even if I have you memorized
Like the answers to a test I would have gotten an A in
It doesn't matter, because someone got to you first

So I wonder why, I'm still hoping
That one day, you'll come back to me
With an awkward shrug, an apologetic grin
Finally, telling me, you belonged to me all along

Let Me Be

My life is riddled with what ifs, as most people's are. But even knowing that, my regrets still lie heavily on my shoulders, still stuck in the pit of my stomach, still clings to me like a second skin.

"On watching someone you love, love somebody else..." 

Sierra Demulder's voice echoes in my mind: love somebody else... somebody else.

She floats around that tiny apartment, and it reminds me of a ghost trapped in the place she died in. And again, it reminds me of another of her poems.

"But what do I do with all this leftover love?
My hands were built for crawling on. 
How do I write myself gently. 
How do I not worship the shipwreck that stranded me here?"

Even though I say I'm tired of sadness, there's a part of me that isn't. There's a part of me that welcomes it - no, that clings to it. It's much easier to be sad than it is to not be. It's easier to fall into despair... It makes me think about a man thrown overboard:

He is floating on his back, staring blankly at the star-ladden night sky. The stars shine like diamonds but the light just rolls of his eyes. He is breathing, but only softly. Breathing without effort, breathing as if he's practicing to drown. 

Then the mermaids come with no song as a warning. Hands emerge from the water, and they are worse than the Grim Reaper's. The sky is black against the stars, but the sea - even blacker. And when the hands pull him into the deeper darkness, there is no whimper. There is only silence.