Afternoon Coffee is always better for reasons I don’t care to name.

 It’s seven in the evening and the smell of coffee is calming.

Laughter erupts, as I stand alone in the kitchen staring at the kurig.

Coffee drips into the mug I should’ve thrown away months ago.

It’s old,

Like me.

Shit.

I think about love sometimes,

And how much of it I've spilled onto my shirts.

Contrary to beliefs,

Sleeves, were meant for absorbing things.

I wonder, if this was worth calling into work for.

Does dying count as a sickness?

Because, this must be what it feels like.

I told him to leave,

And I meant it,

Yesterday.

But this loneliness...

The coffee calms it,

The anxiety of “Holy shit! What did I do?!”

I love you,

But God,

We are not meant to be.

Because I love you.

My heart is so heavy with love,

It spills.

It stains.

...and you step over the mess it makes.

Unlike my sleeves, you do not absorb.

You turned off your phone,

When you promised you’d come.

You turned off your phone,

And I kept calling.

This love,

how it spills.

It’s embarrassing.

But this coffee,

it will heal.

Eventually.

Closure.

A,

 I never told you thank you for lending me your family.

And I never apologized for my mother dying.

So here it is.

Thank you.

And I am sorry.

                                       -S.

FRANK

I stopped blaming my father for my faults a long time ago,

But, its easier than telling people that my mother was the first to break my heart.

Not allowing people to love you, is usually a trait for women who have daddy issues.

Not girls whose mothers died when they were young.

I’d say Fuck, but I promised I’d find a new word to emote my sadness.

Fuck.

This is hard.

27 is hard.

Who would’ve thunk it?

And lately Frank Ocean’s been on repeat.

Swim Good, Shelby.

Swim.

Just keep…

Breathing.

Names.

There isn’t a word for girls still up at 12:57 am writing poetry.

It’s a school night for some,

But there’s a noise in my head that won’t stop knocking against the walls.

God.

There should really be a word for us,

Girls.

If you look close enough,

You’ll see that there isn’t a distinction between melancholy and broken hearts.

Gray skies have a tendency of being over-bearing.

I guess that’s why I can’t seem to pick myself up this time around,

The weight of it all.

You’re smile should be a crime.

And the way your lies reassure so easily…,

God.

I will not forsake you.

I will not…

Always

You didn't understand why I didn't believe in love.
And so I told you,
With love, theres always hurt involved.
That no matter how much someone loved you,
they always, somehow found a way to hurt you.
Maybe,
Sometimes,
Always.
You loved the chaos that was housed inside of me,
but, 
you also tried to tame it.
Remold it,
Change me.
And when my flames consumed your efforts,
You left me wounded.
Love isn't real.
Theres always hurt involved.
Maybe,
Sometimes,
Always.
                                                  -Shelby

Ersatz

And no matter how much I try

I just cannot seem to master the New York accent

Two and a half years and still…Maryland wont let me go

My scarlet letter shows every time I open my mouth.

God.

Will I ever be cool?

These tattoos aren’t getting me the type of guys… who like girls with tattoos.

This isn’t what I was hoping for.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

And when the hell did 26 happen?

Where’s the ring, house and kids that are supposed to be fulfilling my life?

This rented room, doesn’t even count as an apartment.

Fuck.

I should’ve foreseen all of this.

All those school suspensions were for a reason.

I’m a fuck up.

No wonder fuck is my favorite word.

And praying for better is moot.

I can’t pull myself up by my bootstraps,

I’m starting to think that, that’s a requirement.

But I don’t own boots.

Not even Uggs,

Fuck.

This has to be my karma.

But taking my mother away from me was a bit much.

I’m sure I wouldn’t be this much of a fuck up.

I never thought I would be “that” sibling

The one that becomes a screw-up.

And the sad truth is,

I’d rather stay in New York, broke,

Than go back to Maryland.

Where people I don’t even know, will know for certain,

that I am a failure.

January 2nd

Mom,

I keep disappointing god.

The guilt,

A constant strong hold.

Is this how dad felt with his demons?

And my struggle with coffee has only gotten worse.

I seem to need just as much at 3 a.m as I do at 7.

Tell me I’m just being dramatic,

And that these cigarette butts aren’t the beginning of another

Addiction.

Another romance, with something that can’t hold me at night,

Or kiss my lips,

These... wanting to be kissed lips.

And the swearing has gotten worse

Fuck, is my new favorite word.

So is Jesus Christ,

Fuck.

Jesus Christ, I hate this feeling.

I can’t seem to form a coherent way to describe my emotions.

And its officially January 2^nd ,

Which means I wasted the first day of the new year.

Story of my life.

Fuck.