The Light goes out slowly, like a candle whose wick got too short and there's nothing left to burn. The Light burned fast and nobody seemed to realize it was finite. but it was. The Light wasn't always burnt out. The Light had potential. The Light was going places. The Light had ambitions beyond the candle. The Light saw a fireplace and longed to spark a flame like that, a flame... that meant something. Sometimes there were dreams of the Light being a star, or a meteor, or something bright enough for others to make a wish on. But the Light is going out. The Light will go out. But when the Light goes out-  will anybody really care?

They said
“Man the dysphoria feels great today.”
and what I said was “I’m sorry”
and what I wanted to say was “I love you”
and what I mean by that is I love all of you. Your body, may seem like pieces of 18 different puzzles to you, but to me; your body is an abstract picture at MOMA that just needs to be stared at a little longer. Your body, is five feet of curves and stretch marks and beauty that can not be quantified. When I look at you I do not see the crumbling infrastructure I see the built up edifice. I see two legs holding up my world. When you take off your shirt I see the stomach that held butterflies just like mine. When you strip away your binder I look at ******* that may not be the same size but they somehow both fit perfectly in my hands. Your neck, holds the chords to every one of my favorite songs. Your lips kiss me with a ferocity, your teeth, crooked and twisted still smiling at my bad puns. Your nose, you complain is too big but is the perfect shape for me. Your eyes are so dark you say they are black but I see the same color I like my tea. Skin, seared with the comments of either too dark or too light. You see yourself as broken. But I don’t think you’re right.

For a long while I’ve wanted my feelings to form some semblance of a precipice that I could call poetry. Instead the more I build up the more I want to throw myself off the top. Fly by the stack of almost published that lies on my desk. Fling myself past the crumpled up papers of lost ideas soaring towards the can.  Ricochet from the side of the trash to sit with eraser pieces. This poem is just another idea, wiped away from the precipice.

The first time we said hello
I was fifteen
You two years older
We thought that one night was a lifetime and a lifetime was a second
We took one night by storm and took less than six months to be the other's "yours forever"

The first time you said marry me
I said "not yet"
Because somehow in that little old head of mine I thought that was a promise for someday

The first time I took my shirt off for you
You stared and did not care if I was self conscious
You told me I was beautiful
You told me I was ****

The first time we had ***
I cried and asked you to stop
and you did

The first time I was angry at you
I did not know why
And I'm not sure if  I do now

The first time we said goodbye
Was really the last time we said hello.

They ask me as soon as I tell them my secret. “Well what’s it like having your abuser for a teacher?”
What’s it like? Really?
It’s walking into your sixth period every day wanting to say what’s on your mind but remembering there’s a leash tied on you. It’s listening to her pretend to be kind and the only thing that’s on your mind is how much she’s the opposite. It’s staying silent, watching her flutter and laugh and joke as you choke on air that’s too thin or thick you can’t tell the difference. Actually you can’t tell anything anymore you used to be so sure of everything, now you can’t even tell what part of your teacher makes you consider forcing yourself to puke so you won’t have to walk through the door. It’s counting minutes and seconds before the school mic turns on and dismisses you from hell. You asked what it’s like? It’s like screaming in a soundproof box, while your teacher is the one who’s closing the locks

She sits me down at the age of sixteen to tell me to be prepared. I'm sitting scared the words dead are going to slip out of my aunt's mouth but instead she drops the opposite with the 2 syllable Di-vorce.
Really? I'm forced to believe some woman truly thinks I can't handle the separation of my parents when I have often hoped their flame would rekindle. No. There was no fiery passionate affair. No candle holding their words of love in a bottle. No this was a pile of ashes already before the match was struck. Be Prepared? Be prepared at sixteen for divorce?
How about be "Prepared" at fifteen to have your girlfriend tell you she is beaten by HER PARENTS.
How about be "Prepared" at fourteen for your best friend from age 4 deciding you two are no longer speaking. Weeping at your bedside you will wonder what you did. Or maybe what you did not.
How about be prepared at age thirteen. Be prepared to realize you have a crush on someone who is not male. Be prepared when you divulge your tale for her in bed, to respond she does not share the same secret.
How about be prepared at age twelve. This is the year you will cut your arm... and like the feel. This is the first time you hope it doesn't heal.
Be prepared at age eleven. Your "Parents" will decide moving you 324 miles away from your hometown is the best choice for the entire family. 324 is the number you blame for the circumstances of age twelve.
Be prepared for ten, when when you will feel dumb, for the first time in your life. This will be another thing you use to blame for twelve.
Be prepared at nine, because you will grow ***** and kids will say there is toilet paper in your bra even when there is not. Those snot nosed kids aren't jealous either, they're just mean.
Be prepared at eight, you will move to a new school for the first time, and have a horrible teacher for the second time. She will convince you that maybe the bullies are correct.
Be prepared for your seventh year alive. You will strive to impress a teacher but he will instead say you are wrong. Be prepared to be strong.
Be prepared for six and five, Kindergarten is a new world and you fight to stay alive.
Be prepared for four, three, two. What you do here may as well determine your life right? If you sleep through the night, if you happen to be good with a ball or anything at all. These will set you on a pre-set path
But number one: Be prepared.

Step 1: bow to your partner and hope they bow in return this is the first of many false acts of kindness you will receive
Step 2: move forward. A dance of this variety will require close quarters, and may result in attachment
Step 3: hold on. Get used to your partner leading. It’s time for you to be less than, that’s what you are. A scar left on them because you, you are the one to blame, right?
Step 4: glide right. You’re right they say shes left but you know they’re wrong. This song is on repeat and you know the only way to stop is take a seat but if you want to do that refer to step 3 this dance is not optional.
Step 5: follow her when she moves back the threat of her leaving somehow makes you stay. The day is not done. You are not about to lose her you are not about to be the cause of destruction you are not about to break a heel trying to pull away so balance on those sticks you call shoes
Step six: go left. your partner is right and you can’t question a rhythm.
Step seven: step back
Step seven: evaluate
Step seven: is your chance
Step seven: your body says run
Step seven: your feet are frozen
Step eight: hold onto your partner, you must get used to her leading. She says Do not stop dancing, not even if the music stops.
Step nine: who are you to question, glide right because she hasn’t left
Step ten: move forward, it will take her aback. Somehow you’ve found a way to lead
Step eleven: now you are the one who has left, but that does not make her right
Step 12: step back. Turn off the music. Bow.