You told me black was your favorite color,
and I have always preferred lace, myself,
so I found something to make us both happy.

I knew I would see you today,
and if I leaned over in just the right way
you'd see the quick peek of what's hiding underneath
this light summer dress-the kind that lifts off so easily,
and you would wonder if it was for you.

Did you notice?
It was not an accident, but an invitation.
And something about the way
you placed your fingertips over your lips
to hide the smile slowly spreading across them
tells me that you accept.

I AM A ******* ADULT.

At the very least, the status is implied
by the Jenga-tower
of (mostly unopened) envelopes
on top my refrigerator
(which is full of ingredients now,
occasionally,
instead of scraps or dead-end, quick-fix options)

My wine comes in bottles, now;
$6 bottles, on average, but still.
(though I maintain my
unconditional support of the
undeniable
economical benefits and efficiency offered
by pumping it into/out of a box)


Why is the measure of maturity exhaustion?


Two years ago, I bought a file cabinet,
for no other reason
than it seemed like the
'adult'
thing to do at the time.
Inside lies reams of papers
instinct tells me to save.
Some with impressive
time-sensitive, stamped, sealed, italicized importance.
Times New Roman.
PAY ATTENTION.

My plates don't match,
and technically until less than four months ago
I only had one bowl,
but i have a decent can opener and
measuring cups of various degrees.
-No ladle. -
(But how often does one really need a ******* ladle?)


Why is the measure of maturity exhaustion?


A queen-sized mattress
minimizes the volume of my
minimally-spaced apartment.
A point of pride last year
after the 24 it took to shake the twin-sized option.
Sheets with a thread count
low enough for my cat to count to
but I could get some throw pillows,
or a dust ruffle. (do people still have dust ruffles?!)

I am a ******* adult.
What a shock
to discover
from where I sleep on this red denim couch.
(Did I forget to mention, that
I only sleep in my bed like once a month?)
But I can see the file cabinet from here.
Doesn't that count for something?

**Why is the measure of maturity exhaustion?

These days
I spend
a lot of time
not exactly wanting
to die
but just
to be dead, maybe,
to rest.
There's a difference,
or at least
there used to be.
I am regret.
I am self-defeat.
I think about
thinking
more than I
used to.

I guess Depression will do that to you.

My body hurts.
Aches, actually.
It's constant.
In my head,
dull static
But louder.
Thumping rhymically.
Like, really ******* loud
all the
******* time.
Things are heavy.
My arms
weigh far too much.
My lungs
are concrete.
They pump
stale air.
My spine is sawdust.
My spit is mud.
Didn't my eyes
used to be
more blue?

Depression is an ******* who will do this to you.

My words
used to be sharp
and loud.
Electric and
strange, they
tumbled out
of me,
like machine
gun fire,
a swarm
of bees.
Now I have to
pry them
loose, carefully
like teeth.

Depression is mechanical and it's systematically destroying me.

If Love is a Drug,
maybe
I'm actually abusing you?

The percussive April sounds
work themselves into a perfect storm
as the electric Spring hues-
you know the ones:
the shocking orange,
an almost toxic green,
explode with little regard to ceremony
and settle into spaces
that were splintered by winter
and buried away, forgotten and lonely.
It helps me remember that I am not the only thing
to survive the harsh reality of December.

And, trust me, it was easier said than done.
As the world around me shifts and begins to renew
I start to learn to grow back too.

I'm in Love with an *******.
It might sound harsh,
But its mostly just accurate.

He says his feeling for me are in a state of 'flux.'
He says a lot of things like that.

He thinks I repeat myself too often.
It's one of my many flaws he feels compelled to highlight
With alarming frequency.
But he says a lot of things like that.

He ***** me like he has something to prove though.
(Probably because he does.)
It's almost biblical ****; I swear
we can move mountains then.
Or more impossibly,
we can show each other we actually care.

The things his wandering hands can whisper to me
Coupled with the things his hips can scream
Give me brief moments to believe
this is real.

But then its over.
And it's back to
nit-picking
bickering
******* contests.

We will never be comfortable.
We will never behave.

We both know how this will end.

An endless loop.
The world's worst song on repeat.

He says a lot of things like that.

Although it helps us
            write,
It doesn't make it
             right.

You,
darling,
are my longest
day
and my shortest
night.

Temperature gauge
above
20
for the first time in months.

But I've played this game before.
What's your angle, ND?

Finite time is not designed
to accomodate a poet's fate.

No amount of coffee exists,
to make today
seem okay.

Look closely
and find-
sugar and spite
and everything *trite.

Eyes like a screen door
voice like a sigh
we talked through
those spaces
for hours
but you never
offered to let me
come inside.

breathe in,
                 breathe out,
know
         without doubt

i Love you.

Even in the spring
this city is so cold when
waking up alone.

You were just lonely
for so long.


I was bored.

On  more than one occasion,
you said that I deserved nice things.

But you never really understood
how little things mean to me.

Instead, I believe
I deserve to fill my life with nice people,
but based on your behavior
it doesn't seem like you quite agree.

It seems fitting you said,
that we fell in love
watching the sun rise together,
and now we only separately
watch suns set.

Snowflakes fall-
tiny, dancing razorblades,
to welcome me to Tuesday.

Friday nights are the biggest lies
That I found adulthood has to offer.

We spend all of our week hopeful;
Clawing to catch up just to scoff at her.

Only to find when we arrive,
We're too exhausted to do anything but blow off her.

In a moment of weakness
I said that I felt
like I was in your world now-
and it's true.

And don't get me wrong,
it's less than ideal,
But I still feel
so much more sorry for you.

Because I am in your head now,

And this time
it's going to take more than
a tank of gas,
a quick **** from someone new,
a million hits from whatever **** you're smoking now, or
a few bottles of whiskey
to get rid of me.

I never had a choice.
This reality has always been my truth,
(And it might be overdue)
but the only difference is
that  now it includes you.

We lost ourselves
for a moment there,
and found eachother
in the aftermath
with hands clasped,
laying shoulder to shoulder.

Passion,
immediate and better (or worse) yet,
unable to be explained;
Not sparked or ignited
but rather somehow
instantly ablaze,
and consuming.
Selfish and relentless
it tore through our lives.
A force so potent, unforgiving,
and undeniably alive.
Violent and manic,
it forced us to believe,
magnetic,
that the universal powers that be
had something for us
waiting up their sleeves.
We trusted it,
followed it,
and tried to exploit every delight
while fighting and protesting,
falling victim to hope,
and subjecting logic to spite.
The rising crescendo was intoxicating,
aching escalation bringing us to this.
But who would have predicted
that this tremendous passion
would not explode
but rather fizzle out so abruptly
with a quick whimper and a brief final hiss?

Tonight
I need violent words.
Not the soft, sweet whispers
of syllables
meant to comfort or console.
I require a certain salty vocabulary
that will stun and shock
and sting the eyes
of the unfortunate souls
who stumble upon it.
I seek the pieces necessary
to construct sentences
that send messages of
dissatisfaction and
distain.
I want to foam at the mouth
and inspire shame.
Tonight,
I need violent words.
to make you realize how small
you have forced me to feel
while manipulating you
to feel the same.

I woke up to see the fog had lifted.
Just another minor inconvenience
Brought to you by March in the Midwest.

The fog last night seemed calculated,
And dangerous
For those of us
Whose moods depend so largely on surroundings.

The fog has always unsettled me;
Dulled senses make me nervous.
The unfamiliar can prompt innovation and adventure,
But in the end, being lost just ******* *****.

Maybe we both
forced out
predictions of love
And lust
and everything in between.
But
it's not that
we ever really
wanted to see each other
as much as
we simply
wanted to know
how much the other
wanted to be seen.

If you need this much
reflection time,
just go buy a ******* mirror;

(I'm waiting)

Because while you're away
investigating,
I am quietly sitting here.

(Still waiting)

Your love
was a
promise
we knew
I couldn't
keep.

Won't you scoop me up
into your arms as if you'll                                            
carry me to sleep?

i'm not
very patient
but to be fair,
you're not very kind.
i think we can agree that
things will even out over time.

Age isn't important,
if you
(and your pen!)
are alive.

I

Kissing you
was like tying my shoes.
(He said)
It was that automatic,
that natural.
It's true.
(He said)
I just want you.
(He said)

Your eyes so blue,
I'm overwhelmed and confused.
(He said)
I can't help but to lose my breath.
Can't help but to drown.
It's true.
(He said)
I just want you.
(He said)

Waking up with you
is all I want to do.
(He said)
Tangled up in each other.
Up in between sheets.
It's true.
(He said)
I just want you.
(He said)

I really just want you. (He pled)


II

I know,
but we're at the end of the road.
(She sighed)
This can't keep happening.
Can't be sustained.
I should go.
(She sighed)
We just need to let go.
(She sighed)

Even though,
I've never felt so comfortable.
(She sighed)
We fit together so snugly.
Our lives and legs  intertwined.
But I should go.
(She sighed)
We just need to let go.
(She sighed)

This just got so out of control.
I'm ******* miserable.
(She sighed)
I feel so conflicted.
Feel so confined.
So I should go.
(She sighed)
We just need to let go.
(She sighed)

We really just need to let go. (She tried)**
*I think we finally let go. (She lied)

Every day my face
remains intact,
chalk up to victory.

sentences,
       words,
syllables,
      sounds-

unstick  your lips/ push them around.

Please invent a tool
to measure the volume of
what the heart can hold.

"You overwhelm me Chelsea."
For someone so uncertain about so many things i am sure of that.
I think
( I speak I scream I want I need I curse I feel I fear)
I love
too much.
At least be comforted
that no one will ever be more overwhelmed with me
than me.

Please ignore the cigarette holes
Burned into my clothes.

I will always lie
And say they aren't mine.

But these secret smoke rings
Carry away unspeakable things
And tonight from this balcony
They are just what I need
to be fine.

Pull your chest to mine.
Lets smash our hearts together.
Beats
        perfect
                   in time.

What's the going exchange rate
for a heart/body, used?

You once told me
How much time you spent
Screaming "I'm sorry" at the stars.

I must admit that I am starting to see
The reason you need excessive apologies.