(I think I've lost the ability to start things, so please forgive this poem for not having an attention grabbing genesis)
I've been twiddling my thumbs for almost eight months now
Putting off all that I care about
(And especially everything that I don't. Here's lookin' at you, AP World History)
Sitting around amassing a booklet of words to use in the future for novels and whatnot
But only using them in essays so I seem smarter than I am
(For example, susurrus means 'a whispering or rustling sound; a murmur')
Hoarding anything affiliated with Ben Folds because he makes me feel things on occasion
(I currently have 189 songs of his on my iTunes library; No one understands me.)
Making dick jokes at lunch while masking the thoughts of substance ricocheting around in my head
(Also your mom jokes because no one would think that you're crying internally about the uncertainty of the afterlife whilst making lewd stabs at their mother's integrity(and vagina. Ba dum tss.))
Apparently craving the lingering feel of another's touch
As illustrated by my subconscious through the medium of dreams
(I had a dream a few weeks back that Ben Folds licked my hand; My stomach folded (hahahah, folded) in on itself.)
Thinking that my feelings of misanthropy and apathy and everything else I can't find the words for yet are mine alone because everyone else is too stupid to have thought them themselves
(Even though I know that I'm not particularly special and I should stop being so elitist and stupid)

But I've finally found a light at the end of the table in the last place I'd expect--
(I meant to say tunnel, but hey, the source of said light does sit at my lunch table.)
A cherubic Presbyterian boy with an aversion to all things perverse,
(Which includes my sailor's tongue and occasional tendencies to want to put it on a member of my own sex, thought he doesn't know about that)
A spec of cleanliness on the grimy waistcoat of humanity who makes me want to be the best I can be
(Today when I saw him, I only swore once; I was very proud of myself)
But maybe I'm just jumping the gun
Because what would a good Christian boy want with a heathen like me who isn't even sure she believes in God?
Maybe his prolonged contingencies were merely contingent and I'm just overreacting because of my few and far between incidences of human contact.
(Seriously. Don't touch me.)
Maybe I just want someone to talk to for hours about everything and nothing at all.
(What with me being relatively antisocial, it's hard to find people with similar mindsets.)
Maybe I just want someone to funnel my adolescent attention to
(Because teen movies have taught me that one obviously can't be happy without having a crush on someone at any given time.)
Or maybe it's just because the way the Bible quote on the back of his t-shirt conflicted so humorously with the way he shook his hips to a J-Lo song on "Just Dance."
(Seriously, though, it was hilarious. I was dying.)
Or the way our fingers brushed when we were catching frogs
Or the way he blushed when I stepped out in my bikini
(I went to a pool party today.)
Or the way he held me momentarily in the delirious confusion of the flashing strobe lights
Or the way he got one point higher on his research paper than me a month ago
(He was excited; I was upset.)
Or the way that he does everything nearly to perfection.
I could go on..
But I don't know.
Maybe I'll get over him in a week and slip back into myself.
Because, like I said, what would a good Christian boy want with a heathen like me?

You rested your palm open like the desert
while
we spoke in darkness

I closed my eyes to feel you
growing in that corner of my chest

and I wished I could have touched you
right there
but your voice acted as hands
and took off my skin

and there beneath my humanity
was oil
growing my spine crooked


"Angel don't go", the moon spoke.

darkness crept in like fog
killing everything with its shadow

please understand
I am no angel

I am death's daughter
I am the thing you feared most as a child
I am
all your nightmares
because I am all of mine

The reaper is here to steal the harvest


please don't grow here darling patron,
haunting outlet


Hide,
because I'm hiding

hide from me

I sit on my grave alone
hearing the wreckage of my carnage screaming from
behind
pieces of my childhood in my branch hands


I watch you
behind my body


your eyes reflect like mirrors
and I see

I am the prison gate

She kept me warm

so i gave her my heat

and she re-gifted it

and left

and i was cold.

He tucks me in

with sweet words

that evoke crinkled eyes

and upturned corners

and someone will be lucky

to be his love

someday

She knows the sound

my tears make as they fall

through the ground

because hers have fallen the same

and she knows the taste of pain

when a heart breaks this way

because hers was broken the same

so she indulges me

and loves me

and carries me through the day

and i don’t tell her everything

but she feels my misery

She caught the choke

around my throat when

i didn’t know how to live

and she picked me up

and told me to walk

gave what she had to give.

I’m not fixed,

but I’m still alive,

and she is responsible for that.

He validates me

when i feel i must be crazy

and worthless

he tells me i’m not

without any prompt

and says he’ll always be

Big Brother to me

She sticks around

even though I’m obviously crazy.

She’s already seen me go through my worst.

She just listens and takes it in

and we go for a walk

and another day passes

while she is my friend

It all began as an observation,
a mere innocent study,
to watch people in cars,
from cars.

First, the tired workers,
who glared and stared in the road in front,
who slumped in their seats,
who held the steering wheels in a glum manner,
who had dark circles in their eyes,
who had cans of beers at the back seat,
tired, weary, drained, exhausted,spent.

The cheeky children,
who yelled at their siblings,
who wrestled with siblings,
who sat listening to lectures,
who texted with their phones,
who went tippy tappy with their laptops,
who ignored the world; reading,
innocent, busy adolescents.

Of course, there are mothers,
who glance at their sleepy children every few minutes,
who smile at their babies dotingly,
who gave loud lectures to kids,
who smoked cigars,
who was on the phone,o was just driving ahead,
loving, fussy, unleisured.

There were the out-going,
who head-banged furiously to booming music,
who sang aloud to radio,
who chatted enthusiasticly with passengers,
who smiled the whole way through the journey,
who stuck their hands out to feel the wind,
who had nothing to worry about,
free, wonderful, liberated, loose.

Also, some were fretful,
who needed to visit hospitals,
who had their heart broken,
who got rejected at interviews,
who lost someone,
who is obviously in anxiety, who were simply drunk,
worrysome, tired, sad.

And then there's me,
who had nothing better to do,
than to watch and observe,
and felt many things should be changed,
eccentric, weird.

The nights are long
Once the sun sets, the thoughts come back
Something about the absence of light drawing my mind back
To the darkest of times
The gun in my mouth, blood stained sheets
A handful of pills in my lap, so easy to swallow them all
Tying nooses for practice, just in case I ever need them

All those things?
They really happened
And they feel like so long ago
But in reality, it was just
8 months ago
That I decided to fuck it all
Roll the dice, end my life

It was the only failure in my life that ever made anyone proud
Which is sad
But most things in life are sad
Just like me
A broken boy, age 16
So young, to be so damaged
Released from the hospital because i was "fixed," whatever the hell that means

Struggling everyday now just to wake up, move past those nightmares
Over caffeinated, lacking sleep
Splitting headaches, fear of anyone I meet
Anxiety so constant a bother
It never lets me be free
So any and all interactions are tinged with more dark thoughts
Like, "i'm messing this up, she must hate me"

All day is like this
Forcing laughter, always tinged with hysteria
I don't know if anyone notices
I highly doubt it; nobody ever notices me
But even if they do, they say nothing
But I suppose there is nothing right to say
To some lost soul, losing his sanity

Your back is almost broken.
Your mind is almost taken.
Your sex is just a token
Of the hearts you've broken
On the day you kneel down.

You used to know the clean cool water
As it drove itself around the bend.
But you forgot the notes from father
His will found you talking without end.

Find the silence frozen in you mind,
The half-song that was your pride.
Feel the stomps of boots on soil.
That's our rythm, and the sign its time to move.

You feel the hands of thunder reaching out to touch
The lightning you forgot was still hidden in your groin.
Everything else you know doesn't matter that much.
Lets find our masks and guns and go find the coins
That only we know were ours, but still belong to us.

You will know the answer to the riddle in her cries.

You will remember every word you ever heard.

You will finally know why you did the things you did.

You will agree with all the reasons why she left.

You will see there's no wrong, but only right.

You will see the dirty dreams she dreams at night.

You are the rapist and the raped.

You are the guard at your master's gate.

You'll hear the the secret that you feared.

The music of the game of masks.

You'll know the end has come and gone.

The sound of lightning when it comes around.

On the day you kneel down.

My heart aches, from time to time,
When I think of all that's been left behind.

How I wish I could go back,
To retrieve the things that I now lack.

Is it just me who feels this way?
I feel there's so much left to say.

At least I have memories, with those I'll never part,
Holding them deeply, deeply within my heart.

The moon peaks,
catching the glimmering
snow, the rustling trees
 
But I long for the cabin,
the cabin up ahead
 
Kissing the night,
as she would me,
with warm firelight
 
A small crack offers entrance
and, as in before,
I sit beneath the floorboards
 
Notes drift through the cracks,
and soft thumps echo down:
the ghosts of dancing feet
 
I catch them in stride
 
They show me glimpses,
but only glimpses
 
To reach, to touch, my
still heart yearns to
join the lonely dancer
 
But what would she feel?
 
The slip of one hair?
The chill of silent breath?
The crawl of closed eyes?
 
No.
 
Better to stay, sleeping,
beneath the floorboards