This morning,
I got a boner while eating an apple.
I was thinking of you,
moving my mouth over the tender flesh.
Take that as you will.

I have never had sex before
I know, strange for someone so goddamn attractive
But no, I have never made sweaty collisions with my fingers or tongue
Maybe this is why my words always make me feel so clean
I have never been taken in, swallowed whole, been savored or regretted
No attention has ever been paid to please my physical body
I have not been touched, soiled, used
Dear Modern Society, you are not alone
I too find my body repulsive
I have grown used to ignoring my naked flesh pass by a mirror
Like it is a zit on the face of humanity
Turning my head away like I’m witnessing a car crash
Careful not to catch any glass in my fragile and illusionary ego
In seeing
my undesirable chest
my disappointing waist
my all engulfing thighs
my spirit-breaking stomach
I am a self portrait artist
I have forgotten the image of my face curled into a smile
I spent so long painting this mask over and over, trying to fool the way it presents itself to you
I will look better
I will look better
I will, never, look better
The thought used to make me sick
I am always experiencing severe stomach aches
Your body will never treat you kindly if you have nothing kind to say about it
I have always lusted over the future
Figured if I pretended this isn't me, I didn't have to feel any shame, any obligation to this failure
This notion is sickeningly wrong
Yes, we have been misguided
Life is not about being normal
And who says skinny is normal
Forget if your friends, your parents, the doctors
Say you are unhealthy
Bettering our character does not involve studying diet plans or counting calories
It should not be our primary goal
It should not be our way of life
An ideal we follow more closely and blindly than religion
The point is not to find acceptance in someone else or as someone else
It is to so boldly love yourself,
Fall deep for every curve like you've sank into the ocean,
Make no excuses why you hang on to your weight so tenderly for each pound is a piece of you that you couldn't dream of sparing
So that others can’t refuse to follow, and if they don’t, so be them
I, have never had sex before, with anyone, but myself
I am slowly learning, that even this, must be done with passion

I was ten
It was the end of my fourth grade summer
You were returning from a two month vacation to your father’s house
I couldn’t wait to come over and play gamecube with you
My mother said, if he’s home alone one more time, you can no longer be friends
We pulled into an empty driveway

She made me tell him myself
I listened to him cry
I was never taught how to handle my feelings
Red faced, scratched throat, tearless
I’M MAD! I’M MAD! I’M MAD!
I was never taught that some things children were not supposed to handle

I was thirteen
It was seventh grade
The teacher tells me she forgets sometimes that I am not an adult
The pastor tells me I have been granted with such great understanding
The parent tells me I am disrespectful
I say, fuck you
They say, not in my house
I say, fuck you again
They hit me
I say nothing

I was seventeen
It was my senior year of high school
I spent night after night arms deep in the purging of your bad decisions
I had poured myself entirely into our friendship
Excuse me for expecting your understanding
Some affection for my wounds
Something in return for all of the lying, the listening, the sinning I did for your happiness
I am sorry you could only respond with unlabeled hate letters
Crossed out but not indecipherable
I apologize for loving you
I’M MAD! I’M MAD! I’M MAD!

He told his journal that I write emo poetry
So I cut out all of our connection
Ripped each memory out like pages of a notebook
You preferred composition notebooks
Have you ever noticed ripping pages from a composition notebook always seems to leave pieces behind
I am still clinging to pieces of our past

I was never taught how to handle my feelings
I’M SAD! I’M SAD! I’M SAD!
I have never felt comfort like ink blacking out a page
You couldn’t see that these splattered words are the way I bleed
My “I love yous” are pleas to look past my scars
I am too afraid to go any deeper than paper cuts
I have no idea what could be hiding inside

I am eighteen
I am tired of disconnected reality
Of fucked up mental reasoning
Of telling you I don’t know what will make me feel better
I just need to feel real

There are only so many ways to drown out your hurt
With pain, with eating, with writing, with prayer
Each builds its own layer of fat
Makes you thick skinned in more than one way

But each is avoidance
What will dwell in you until you let it breath
Let it live as a part of you

The other night I had trouble sleeping
I tried laying my hand across my chest to follow the rhythm of my heart beating
I felt no response
There was simply just too much in the way

You were eating packaged mini blueberry muffins.
I could feel their gummy texture,
Splashing Sugary Smell.

Did you know you're eating a lie?
Those berries are no more than fragrant flakes of
hardened syrup.

Your eyes are a similar blue,
Rotating spokes claiming their reality.
Your hair, lightened, like sugar or wheat.

You are beautiful.
Yes,
"You" are beautiful.

We fall into hypnosis by means of suggestion.
We are conscious, as when we fall in love.
Love me. Love me. Love me.

I learned that dreams occur in our deepest sleep
Our scattered, uneven thoughts giving way to
unattainable desires
I wish I could reach out and feel that you're
really there

I pull down the passenger’s seat visor.

Blocked the sun beating bright into my eyes.

It is a repeat each day

Every morning colder, each one as bright.

I am a repeat each day

You can feel that I am colder

But I am losing every ounce of light

Soon, there will be snow

The ground no longer will worry

of being exposed.

He can sleep, and wait to wake until he forgets his worries.

My eyes, drooping, close pleasantly with that thought.

At least one of us has warmth in his future.

You have left only

one wick burning.

There were countless opportunities

and you simply walked by.

Do you even remember

the faded text on the side?

The memories etched deeper

than your skin?

Our old saying?

How can going home

never mean me.

How come your sickness

I can never cure.

You don’t even realize

the wax is pooling

And we’re getting closer

and closer to sea level.

Soon,

There will be nothing

but ash.

Soon enough,

you will see.

I want to drag
Off the fuming feel of my
Rejection.
I am always the outer chair
The cold edge of the mattress
An arm swung around an
Empty cushion
I have lost all sense of security.
Every noise I hear is the
Reverberation in someone else's eardrum
I keep smashing glass bottles against cement floors
Pleading
For some type of auditory response
But only feeling plastic thuds across tile surfaces.
I want you to understand I need
To be asked twice to know how I feel
And realize I talk as a barrier not as a release
I'm not just two ears with a closed off chest
I bleed too
I feel pain
I know all too well
What it's like
To feel that you're intruding on
Your own invitation
I am not happy.
But I'll be fine
I was raised with a forced sense of independence
I learned that some things you had to reach for yourself
Find some stool to stand on when no one would listen
Cry, but then stop and take some action
Use your hands for more than making fists
And sometimes
You won't be strong enough
Sometimes
You will lose
The waves have a funny way
Of knocking down
Your sand castles
Right after you finish them.
But I promise
I will be okay
This is not the first time
And surely not the last
That I will be the one
Taping up my wounds

We are
Not our
Father's sons.
Cut from
Similar cloth
But of a different
Pattern
And stitching
Able to
Weave our
Own stories
Into life's great
Tapestry

We do not wash
Our hands
Of smoke
And drink in
The evening,
Scrub the
Night's filth
From under our
Finger nails
Love women
Who are not
Our mothers
Restless for
More of our
Cure-all poison

It's funny how
Different life
Looks through
A glass bottle.
It's funny how
Different we
Look if you
Don't watch for
Too long

No, we are not
Like our fathers

Well 

We are
Like them
We must remember
There
Are
Certain traits
We cannot ignore
Certain desires
We cannot break
having to
Acknowledge
Those generational
Flaws
Pass them off
Before we pass
Them down

Oh there is
Another with
Your face

Whose look
Lately
Isn't quite
The same
As yours

As it has
Always been

As you wish
It were

My strong
Spirited
Brother,
Do not
Let a frown
Hang broadly
From
Your face

Threading may be
Permanent

But moments
They are
Temporary

Maybe we
Will have
To undo
Some loops
Start over
Again
Think of
What idea
We even
Started with

But always
Remember

We

Are in control
Of our
Own
Destinies.

We

Are the ones
Threading
The needle.

You sat
tasting
the last bits of your
rolled up
nicotine
while I was
dripping in sweat.
You had a beaten-down
expression and I
couldn't tell if I
perspired from
the heat in the air
or the tension
inside the car.
I was frightened.
Of you.
Of myself.
Of all that I knew
was about to pass.
In this night.
And through
my lips.
You said this shit
had killed Elvis.
It's fucking
plane wreck man.
Quite.

I am covered in dust.
Not coarse, made of earth,
broken into the air by slaps of
rubber soles or tires.
No. A finer mix.
Left to collect on my
stagnant being.
My limp body,
stirring not even once,
throughout the night.

I will admit that I am terrified
of taking rest.
I've spent so long dreaming,
and have just opened my eyes.
Now a tiring grasp threatens
to take it all away.

How long will this cycle repeat
before I grow wiser?
Knowing when to break free
of my own binding.

Being able to say,
this all is just too much.

We laughed first.
A deep hush in our throats.
My head tilted back gasping in tune.
Your foot shifted.
Feigning dependence.
I could tell
you knew I needed the attention.

Now,
I'm not saying the
barbeque sauce
was a bad deal,

It's just,
the off brand
was a better one.

But maybe,
it's the way the sauce tastes
to you.

Or maybe,
it's the way your dad used to rave
about the way
the sauce tastes
to you.

And seeing him excited about anything anymore
is worth the thirty
extra cents.

Today,
I read trees
and sky
and power lines
on my way to you.

It did well
to look up,
before I had to
look down.

There was a heart shaped card
hanging down from the ceiling.
Laughing at the irony beneath it.
A home had been destroyed.

I watched you get fucked up again.
Like a fool, I just sat there.
You become more of a bastard,
every time you get this gone.