“And all I ask in return, is that you don’t make my emotional availability any limited than what it already is”. 



This lifestyle must fit me. 

Laying next to a man who’s heart isn’t mine, yet isn’t his either. 

Before engaging, I studied you. Thinking that your earthly sign made you as grounded as the descriptions say, coming to a conclusion that maybe “indecisive” just may be your middle name.

How foolish of me to think that a man of your caliber just had no clue what he wanted. The truth is you didn’t want me, or her, or her. You made a habit out of placing the hearts you prey on in a vending machine and choosing which one you’ll dispense at your disposal. 

And it’s always me, it’s always we. 


The distance between my bed and her heart are pretty far, yet you still make time to drive miles into my soul and become one with everyone, but me.

I’ve decided to settle and take what I can get and hide behind strings that I agreed wouldn’t attach.   


In my head I caught a break. 

You carefully handmade a box perfect enough to house all my insecurities as you scratched them off my list and molded me into new. You were my realtor.

You fucked me in places that I was afraid to call home, and I still found solitude in you. 

As I look at the lot where they plan to build, I’m picturing the most beautiful foundation. My expectations grab me by the hand and I can imagine how put-together this home will be with the help of my blueprint and perceptions. 

As time went by, and the house was finished I stood at the front doorway as I would at an alter. Nervous and anxious because this was a new life for me, and once I turn the key, I am one with this place as I would be with you. 

As I step over the door step, I’m immediately disappointed. Kind of like I am with you. 

I sat down and laid out my expectations and the foundation I wanted and just like a politician you trumped your way into making me believe that you’d make me great again and I allowed it. 

Realizing that your first 100 days in my heart were only to reel me in and break me in half when it took me so long to become whole again. 

So now here I am, in the empty home of what could have been love as you’re on your way to signing another client. 


Preparing for the arrival of a child that isn’t mine.

 I said this would be a deal breaker for me, but the truth is, my love for you made me completely blind to the reality of your 6 year treatment. You kept a picture of the most precious fetus in the drawer next your bedstand where I now hide every memory I’ve ever had of you. I protected your mind as you cried and had nightmares of your aborted child and not even that would have kept you next to me forever. 


Tiptoeing around the house to preserve not only your beauty rest, but my sanity. 

One false move across a faulted floorboard & I’ll be forced to hear how I’m not quiet enough. Which will turn into how I’m not pretty enough, which will turn into how I’m not fit enough to play a role in your life I was the only one to audition for. 

Take 2.


I never knew what being emotionally drained meant until I felt it. I ran away every person who came into my life and presented themselves worthy enough of receiving my love.

 If I had taken the initial steps to rebuild myself quicker, I wouldn’t be sitting here by the window alone, wishing I had taken the chance on love when I had it. 


Jumping off of a bathtub seems like such an easy task doesn’t it? Imagine a shower rod so strong and powerful that even being connected to a rope that intimately hugs my neck will keep me swinging sturdy and balanced. 

Before moving into this home, I made sure that the ceiling in my bathroom was high enough for this moment. I had them hand craft steps in order to get inside the tub because I didn’t want the fall to be “ordinary”. I needed it to be dramatic. 

The house I have is built from tears and lack of compassion. I used to make Facebook statuses pretending to anonymously seeking the opinions of others on how to cope. Trying to weed out who has the right level of compassion for me to reach out and run into their arms for help and everyone failed. Because I had it harder than others, and chose to swing as my way out, I’m probably listed in the dictionary as a coward according to your definition. 

While I was pacing back and forth in my room popping pills, and playing tic tac toe with my wrists, I was losing it. I called you and told you I felt depressed and your response was “lol, girl”. “You’ll be alright”, “pray about it” and all I needed you to do was fucking listen. Listen to me explain again how I didn’t think I could recover from heartbreak. How I still haven’t recovered from my dad beating me, to the punch. Wait, I forgot I was supposed to just deal with it. 

This is me dealing with it. Let’s hang.