Lies, They Tell You

Lies, they tell you:


“You’re the prettiest

Girl I ever did see.”

“I want it to just

Be you and me.”

“You know I’d never

Tell a lie to you.”

“I’m telling you,

Baby girl, I love you.”

“I want only you

To be only mine.”

“Okay, I understand,

It’s totally fine.”

“I just thought us two

Would be paired forever,”

“But if it isn’t me you want,

I will find someone better.”

Growing Pains

You’re the only thing

I used to love

That I hope I outgrow.

Forget the old sweaters

And faded t-shirts,

They can stay

As I await the day

When your love no longer

Fits me.

The growing pains

Will be worth it

The moment I am free.

Miss Me

I hope you’ll start to miss me

Though you were first to say goodbye,

Or at least that you’ll pretend

To regret our early end,

That you can act as well as you lie.

Left Behind

The only day I dread more

Than the day you leave

Is when the remnants of your stay

Begin to leave, too.


Eventually I’ll stop

Finding stray eyelashes

That cling to my pillow case,

And your scent will stop

Lingering on the sleeves

Of all my clothes.

The echo of your laughter

Will fade from the room

That you left feeling hollow,

Until the only thing

I have left of you

Is the memories in my mind.
But even those become fuzzy over time.


My love can build mountains

or it can burn bridges;

it just depends on whether

you’re willing to climb, or will

settle for the view from the ground.

Love Lost

I’d like to know if my name is tattooed

across your pages, crumpled on the floor

because you can’t bear to see it anymore,

if your insomnia is ever prescribed

by sentences of us that never ended,

for you’re too busy mourning to write

the obituary for a love that died.

Writing About Me.

This poem was written just about me.

Call me selfish, for that may be,

But I think I deserve

To gather the nerve

To write about someone, finally,

Who is not the person you used to be.


Now entering Nostalgia, population: 2

A town made for both of us

But I’m here waiting for you.

I don’t think you’ll come by,

But on the off chance you do,

It won’t take long to make your way through.

Letters from and letters to,

Photographs of me and you,

Memories of things we’d do.

Their disposal is long overdue,

But, boy, is that a hard thing to do

When the scars you left still feel brand new.