Boys with lungs collapsed and egos bruised, if you love her then you are lucky because the girls like to ride their bikes down paths carved in childhood scars, picture perfect smiles framed on walls melted like crayon wax in colors that stuck to the wallpaper of her bedroom. Had paper thin dreams that she learned would blow away with the wind in her chest someday. She often folds into herself until salty tears spill like waterfalls carved in her cheekbones. And if you dream about her than you are lucky. Because most of us lost her before she even waved, hello. She walks in fear of leaving behind footprints and if you love her than you are lucky. Because most of us are too drowned out to believe that she’s still got the fire in her heels. Paper dreams ablaze, she brings them back to life. So if you love her, I hope you know that you are lucky.-H



“People are beautiful.” He said, such a small statement yet it left me feeling every ounce of the weight of my bones beneath my very skin, fingernails scratching at my lanky arms with frustration. It’s 3:00 am and I fail to find sleep, there are too many fucking sheep, before there are none. A burnt out cigarette and a can of Diet Coke later I’m still thinking of the curves of his rose tainted lips and the wrinkles around his smile as his eyes fill up with ecstasy or passion he’s got me by the chest and I can’t breathe.

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Yesterday’s Ghosts


You’ve got ghosts of yesterday that slip into your morning tea as they enter your system to haunt your bones they make your soul quake. And I remember those November nights on swing sets in the park, with frozen toes and hands that refused to stop shaking at once. The chattering of your teeth against each other like spoons that clash in cups of coffee that we cling on to just so we can stay awake. I’ve stopped reading the news it makes me want to puke, how when a celebrity dies at fifty-six having lived a life of fame and love and safety, they cry saying she was taken too soon but those tears you waste away on a person who never knew your name. I’d much rather raise my voice for the little ones that died in Syria, let my tears flow like streams that fall in agony for the ones that were born among gunshots that never sounded like fireworks in the sky to welcome them upon this earth. I’ve stopped watching the news, there’s so much blood and there’s so much pain I’m afraid I won’t be able to write it all away. I’m afraid my ink might not be able to hold the heaviness of the stories that need to be told. I’m afraid my readers might get bored. They’d much rather hear about that celebrity…yeah who was she again?-H

The Little Boy


I remember once I watched a movie, wait..or was it a TV show, let’s just pretend it was a movie. And in this movie there was a kid, about seven or eight years old. His skin was rosy-pale, swollen lips, he would bite them whenever he got nervous or anxious. His hair twisted in prominent curls a shade of caramel blonde to be exact. And his eyes, his eyes were blue, a deep shade of calming blue, people would say, but to me they just held worry, I would see ounces of worry locked within the sea blue orbs. When I looked into them they wouldn’t remind me of the sky when it’s clear, no they made me feel pity. And they made me feel sympathy.
His cheeks were always flushed because of the cold, they lived in Alaska a family of three. You would think they were happy but they were far from that, the boy never got to hold his mother’s hand because it was always accompanied by a cigarette or two. His father he wasn’t a drunk, he wasn’t a stoner either, he was just born a complete asshole with no actual reason to be a shitty parent.

But when I watched this movie the thing I lost myself most in wasn’t the boys story, it wasn’t the boys appearance or his struggle, it was the moments that he would stare into space and then not come back for hours, he would get disoriented without even moving. In those moments I’d like to think that the boy would’ve found himself falling through the cracks inside his brain until he came across a safe place. A place to land. A world or a universe he had built for himself, where his imagination was the ruler and he would ride fire-breathing dragons at absurd heights, but he would never be scared. He had built this world where fear did not exist.

He would also not be alone in this world, no he would never be alone. He would have friends, dozens of them and they would be elf’s in costumes, he would go on adventures with these elfs and he would do anything to stop himself from being pulled into reality. He hated it there. No one would hug him, no one would hold his hand. He had no friends and there were no fire-breathing dragons to carry him for miles in the air.
There were no talented elf’s who played guitar or cooked meals on the campfire. However there was loneliness in this world, there was fear a ridiculous amount of fear that would never let him sleep. And there was pain, a type of pain he didn’t understand yet. Because he felt it but then he didn’t, because an aspirin wouldn’t kill it, it wasn’t the type of pain you would feel when you hurt yourself because you’re clumsy, no its the pain that you feel when the world hurts you, over and over. It wrenches you heart and twist your mind until you can no longer believe. Until the cracks in your brain that lead you to your world get clogged by the actions or words of others. And soon you stop seeing elfs and mermaids and dragons. Your imagination dies, so does a piece of you deep inside.

I’d like to think the boy never got hurt, he was safe. But that’s not the reality, it’s just my imagination, I wonder how it’s still alive, after so much time spent living a shitty life.-H