SarahEatsAirplane• Show poetry

I’m not finding beautiful things anymore.

Now I can see beauty in the strangest things like
cemetery gravestones seeming warm like my skin on autumn days and
the slight sting in my throat when I inhale another cigarette and
spinning walls when I get high and
grinding teeth together.



































Your body holds so many memories.

When I feel your palms, the scars and callouses remind me of the night we layed in the field, stoned, and I asked you "do you think there's zombies in the field?" The eight freckles on your chest remind me of the times I tugged your shirt off just to count them, just to make sure I counted right the last time. And your eyes, your sea-water eyes, they remind me of the way you stared at me. They remind me that I love the way you look through me. I swear, I almost see the love within your irises.
Almost.



































I still want to feel his breath on my neck. Days are slowly getting colder, and my skin aches to feel the warmth from his lungs; the goose bumps just won’t go away. It seems as if the cold sinks under my skin so deep that even he has a hard time warming my bones. And sometimes when I think I need him the most, he’s gone. And I have to try to warm my existence by myself. I have to be strong and learn how to keep myself from crying when I’m losing control. But sometimes the strength is hard to summon when it’s buried deep beneath the tears I try not to cry.

(Relapsing.)
[That’s why I cut myself again,
Trying to somehow get deep enough
To reach the strength I thought I had.]























I should know better than to try to smoke my problems away. I tried to ignore the fact that my phone had been unusually silent for almost a week. I wanted to get high to forget that I hadn't heard his voice in days. So I inhaled enough of that thick smoke to drown out the screaming from my lungs. My favorite part is the neutral area between the inhale and the high, the point when you're just waiting for your head to fog up and the walls to start pulsing.




























The orange light from our cigarettes seemed out of place; everything from the sky to the tips of our fingers was tinted blue. Finally, I exhaled. I realized I had been holding my breath the entire time, as if wishing it would make me slowly disappear from the driver’s seat. But I realized I was still there. I took another drag from the cigarette and chased down the smoke with cold air. I exhaled again and turned to face him.


“I need help,” I said. And I was right because
Sometimes, it’s tough to piece together
A girl who isn’t supposed to be broken.
That’s when he held my hand in both of his
And said, “that’s what I’m for.”