I jumped on a trampoline with my sister for the first time today since I was a girl.
It was a strange feeling.
We were closer for an instant
like we were girls again
like each jump towards the sun lightened us
like gravity loosened up a bit
like he laughed
and oh we laughed and laughed and laughed and LAUGHED
the sun wasn't quite ready to set and the leaves were emerald like her birthstone and her hair was long again
and her heart soft and her smile not straight
her fiance looked like Tarzan, the young cartoon one.

i think i know that she's right to marry him
because he felt right on that trampoline
with us girls
like he belonged
like he was always a part of our childhood

i think that's how you know you've found "the one"
when even the memories they weren't apart of
feel like they were experienced together
when you can't remember what it was like without them
when memories of moments in their absence cease to exist

I have a hard time remembering my own childhood.
I wonder what that means...

"Hand-holding-*****."
is it still considered an alliteration if the words sound the same but actually start with different letters?
is it still an abomination if the others didn't mean a ******* thing?

if rubbing my thumbs across his only proved that I was capable of maintaining a relationship with someone for five years
- a sort of reward of comfort.

if the second time was because I was in liberty with
a stranger when it came to emotions and thoughts
but not when it came to exploring and touch
and only because I felt like it fit the mood
and only because I was missing your fingers and his felt close enough

if the third was purely because it was cold and lonely in the cemetery
and for once I craved romance rather than cringed from it
(even though gravitating towards graveyards is a cynical form of it)
but then I shied away from his lips
and we haven't really spoken much since.

does that count?
Maybe so, but I've never been a wishful thinker.
I think your fingers are the only ones that ever
truly touched me.
That I could ever really feel.
That ever made me feel.
I think I want your hands in mine,
but I also really like the feeling of
passing joints between foreign palms

I like heading to liberty
I like half-decade-long friendships
I like headstone letters

I like having a hand to hold.
Who can blame me for filling empty holes
when yours are no longer home?

"Does this happen often?"
"Yeah, it has been lately. She's probably just on drugs again."
"You think she's on drugs?"
"I mean, just pills, but yeah, probably."
"I thought pills made you chill."
"Not when you don't have them."

Begging to be heard by the deaf.
Begging for warmth in the winter.
Begging for recognition by the blind.
Don't you remember?
I'm autumn.
You're the leaves.
I'm the reason you fall.

Screams from her throat came first
Water from my eyes second
Water from the washer third
Arms around my figure fourth
Shakes and trembling hands fifth
A half present brain
A half organized book shelf
A full hearted ******* the floor
Asking to be heard over the pounding
With the wrong words, wounding.
An unplugged record player
A childish knock on the door
A desperate "please, go play"
A desperate "please, don't go"
A desperate "please, stay"
A shaking hand
A shaking pack of tic tacs
A fight not unlike the others
A car door
An empty hearted ******* the floor

all at once
that's how everything hits
But don't worry, broken bones will soon be masked by morphine

I was a coward my whole life.
Maybe I'll make up for it with bravery in ending it.

Nothing I write is pretty anymore.
The adjectives I used to describe you were only beautiful because you were in them. Ethereal means nothing without your laughter sound tracking the definition. Eloquence doesn't sound nearly as charismatic without the wink of your lashes backing it up. I always knew Eternity was ******* but you made it seem possible...
Today I found out the girl in my art class was named Elizabeth and it meant nothing because she wasn't you.

The infatuation begins, one thousand five hundred seventy three miles away from my folded futon mattress on an unfinished floor in a sideways run down house with a gravel driveway and a wonky mailbox, across from a little green-grassed pasture with yellow flowers and "dead end" street signs lining the ditches.

Twenty three hours.
That's not that long when you really think about it.
Twenty three hours.
It's pretty far when you really think about it.

It's only the sand in my hourglass trickling down
over and over
and over and over and over.

(I was going to write the word "over" twenty three times,
but then I thought it might get a little annoying...
**** it; I'm going to do it anyway).

and over and over and over
and over and over and over
and over and over and over
and over and over and over
and over and over and over
and over and over and just
one more time.  

You probably haven't closed your eyes or slept even a grain of that sand. I wonder how many flipped figures found you wondering about me.
It's only the tap of a drumstick to an ongoing metronome left running overnight after the musicians were done with the fun of humming.
You probably daydreamed of me singing lullabies in snow covered trees while your professor went on about 3/4 and music theory.

How many paradiddles until we can finally dance to the beat?

An even better question:
How many more clever titled playlists,
how many more empty sheets,
can I accept before I accept that I could fall right on my feet?
How many grains of sand?
How many metronome beats?

Maybe I've always had trouble trusting others because I couldn't trust myself. I always claimed to have good intentions but it's my nature to be a traitor and most of the time I will ******* over. But I swear to whoever that I'll always be your most caring lover. my actions will never illustrate my words and I wonder if that means I don't mean them. I feel the words so intensely in my bones, but you would never know. Expression has never been my forte. I can't understand my thoughts and I'm even worse at comprehending my own feelings. I'm the monster. I'm the numb and cold lover. I wish I would have found out who I was before I found out who you were. I wouldn't have let you get so ******* in someone who undoubtedly would hurt you. But what does that say about me? god what does all of this say about me? who am I now? what are morals and values and respect and love and genuine tenderness? I can't remember but I want to.

I’ll spend my whole life trying to make it up to you, and I’ll never be able to, I’ll never deserve you. But maybe I can make you forget all of the bad **** that I’ve done to hurt you. I wish my love wasn’t so toxic. I wish it was still the love that could make flowers grow. I’ll spend my whole life strengthening my green thumb.

Eleven months later, I use a pink highlighter to transform the scarred "ew" on your thigh into "beautiful" and God I still wish I could transform it in your mind as well.

"Have you ever experienced writers block? And if so, how did you overcome it?"

"Well, you know, I used to write about things that made me happy, basically my reasons to live. I had so many words, so many reasons.
And then I got depressed, and you know, I couldn't write anything.
I thought to myself, how do I find the words? What did I write about before? And so I started writing about all of the reasons I wanted to die.
And everyone saw it as poetic."

And everyone saw it as poetic.

Suicide doesn't sound like the bullet that escapes the barrel.
It doesn't sound like the tiny pills hitting the floor.
It doesn't sound like the tightening of the rope or
the chair falling over or the gurgle of water in the throat
or the crushed bones against the concrete.
Suicide sounds like the sigh of relief.
It sort of sounds like hope.

aquamarine beard, lips tinted plum
he grows beside the knowledge tree
smoking a joe while sipping some,
as he fingers dissonance and harmonies,
composing as he hums.
far beyond his peripheral debris:
unearthed charm and wisdom.
ah, if only his eyes could see
the potential of what's to come.

"I'm back, I'm good, I'm right here."
"Wait no, dear god, dear Jesus, lord, I'm sorry."

You were very high.
You were floating in and out of reality and your head was not in the clouds but it was buried underground and you prayed to your god telling him you were not ready to die and you apologized for loving me and you didn't want to go to Hell and you sang your favorite song to lower you back down
but everytime your toes slightly tapped the earth your heart beat faster and your wings began to flutter and you cried and shook and you wanted to erase your whole life and I have never seen you so afraid,
But you were not ready to die.
You're not ready to die.
You will live because you want to.
And I will live because I want you.

I tell myself I'm done until you say that you are not

I want to show you that I'm ******* ok without you
I want to ******* and not feel anything
I want you to feel me and feel everything

How ironic that it is the opposite

I can’t write anymore because the only word that comes to mind is “her” and that word is not mine anymore.

I panic at the thought of you wanting someone else.
I tremble at the words you've written for her.

I should have showed you love when I had you.

Yes I'm angry
And it's eating me alive
Because I want to be the one who makes you happy
But the only time I ever see you smiling is when you're talking to her, or about her, or listening to her spanish music on the radio
I'm so angry that I can't be enough for you
I'm so angry
I'm never angry
I'm so ******* angry I can't see straight

Bliss was sitting close on the cerulean carpeted floors between colorful bookshelves at the library. As she skimmed and scanned for artistic advice and techniques, I was intrigued by the history and works of Michelangelo. We exchanged alluring glances and subtle smiles between the silent absorption of information. I carried her books for her from the checkout counter to her car.
Life was a fairy tale, a fantasy, a novel in the romance section.

Contentment was cuddled next to her on a mattress with one hand wrapped around my torso and the other gently playing with my hair. She told me not to let her forget that her library books were due soon. She excitedly exclaimed that we'd have to go back and search for more.  
Life was the occasional poem she allowed me to read and the words that spilled from her mouth in sweet songs.

Angst was asking her to come to the library with me to search for a good book because even in forced silence I enjoyed her company. I was nervous that her response of "maybe one day" was a premeditated broken promise and that her feelings had faded like the inspiration for my old stories that have been tucked away for years in the attic.
Life was a mystery novel with cliffhangers and hidden clues.

I traced patterns on her shoulder with my fingertips and studied her face as she stared silently at the ceiling for hours.
Finally, with a somber voice and blank expression, she spoke to me.

"my library books are overdue."

I'm beginning to think that her abandonment is as well.

You're starving - not because our relationship is barely surviving-
but because you've been eating someone else's affection and now it's all gone,
and you blame it on being unlovable.
Maybe you should blame it on the fact that you already have honey, you've just lost the appetite for what's yours.

I just want your smile.
Why must you give it to Her?

They say everyone has a chance
for eternal life if they accept Him.
They say "the blood of Christ will
make hearts white and cleanse them."
What about the girl whose heart beats
for another girl under her sheets?
Or the boy who was born in sin
lusting over and loving men?
Who makes those sinners well?
If love condemns me to Hell
then I want no part in this holy land
because I only feel heaven when I'm holding her hand.
And if that's wrong
then I don't want to be right
because her blood will cleanse me
and make my heart light.
So call me Judas Iscariot
or nail me to a cross
But love is a battle I've fought and fought
And I won't take this loss.

How are there people who know her, who aren't in love with her?

Surely, they must be.

And I am nothing but a mess of curls and bones, and she is quirks and laughter and soft lips and everything light in the world.

Why did she choose my hands to caress her?
Why did she choose my breath to align with hers in the night?
Why does she dim herself
with darkness?

I am trying not to
let your silence get
to me because I
know that you mostly
speak with your limbs
and they say love
but maybe your heart
speaks a language I
understand well while your
head communicates in foreign
tongues I cannot translate

She sang loudly through wide smiles, fumbling to find the right words and throwing her head back in laughter when she mixed up the chorus every time.
Her voice soundly lovely and the sun illuminated her eyes and the dream catchers swung in her mirror and her hand felt solid in mine
And the road went on as we drove on
and for just a moment, I think she forgot about her fathers death.
And that moment was hope.

Why do you hurt the only people who actually care about you?
Are you too busy wallowing in self pity and misery
to study the detailed mosaic of a daughter's sympathy?
The brightly coloured tiles paint a picture for you only
yet you refuse to even acknowledge the art.
In case you didn't notice:
I was the one screaming through sobs and helplessly begging for him
to stop, even though I knew you hit him first.
I was the one trying to keep you alive when your skin sunk in
and your bones stuck out and your wrists shook with weakness.
I was the one holding your hand while you were praying to die.
I was the one helping you clean the fragments of broken mirrors off the floor
and I guess I should have known that trying to pick up the glass in your heart
would only leave me ****** and broken, too.

I spent my childhood and most of my teenage life dreaming about my first kiss - the fireworks and electricity and romance - oh god, I couldn't wait for the perfection of the first boy who touched his lips to mine.
And then I turned seventeen...
In reality, most of my kisses were stolen from me.

1. A stage kiss, with a boy who dreaded even speaking to me in theatre class.
2. A boy I barely spoke to, using me as an example to show others on how to kiss a girl, with no warning or permission, he grabbed my face in his and harshly crushed my mouth with his (This is not how you kiss a girl).
3. The first time I was ever intoxicated by alcohol and the thought of a cute boy finding me attractive. He poured me whiskey and whispered empty compliments in my ear. I woke up laying on the cold floor the next morning alone (He didn't find me attractive, he found me drunk on the idea that he was the first tongue in my mouth).
4. An awkward ride home from waffle house with a half stranger, with my best friend in the backseat because we just had to sneak out of the house, that led to a goodnight kiss that I didn't expect, nor did I desire.
5. A twenty year old soldier that I met on vacation at the beach, after having admitting to hating sand, he threw me in it and kissed me and asked me if the tiny grains were such a bad thing after all (they were). He mimicked the waves of the ocean with his tongue but this was before I knew how to swim (at least he tried to be romantic, I suppose).
6. A late adventure at the park with teenagers who were more dangerous and rebellious than I, which ended with a quick smokey kiss from a boy who was darker than the night and higher than the stars that shone above our heads.
7. A tall boy with shaggy hair who played The White Stripes songs on guitar and smelled like beer and cigarette smoke. He left me with a hangover,swollen lips, a neck full of hickeys, and a mind full of guilt as I tried to hide the splotches from my parents the day they came back from vacation.
8. A drunk game of truth-or-dare at 3 am with my best friend; the first ******* the list. Of course, one of the guys spoke for all of them when he urged us to make-out (we should have seen that one coming).
9. A younger boy who got angry at me when he realized that I wasn't drunk enough to have *** with him the first time I met him.
10. A man in a pop punk band that I met in the party vibes of Bourbon Street. He kissed me behind Momma's back (and my best friend behind mine) and slid his hands down my high-waisted shorts and I don't quite remember his stories of fame, only his name.
11. He had sweet eyes and brown curly hair and he seemed like a gentleman, but I guess the ***** changed us both.
12. The chaste and charming piano player, who I dreamt of running away with since the first time I laid eyes on him in ninth grade. That apartment bed meant more to me than it did to him. He only used me for experience (I guess the piano wasn't the only instrument he played).
13. "Can I please kiss you?" I hesitated, because I felt dizzy and drunk and disbelieving. I didn't want to forget any detail of the first kiss that actually meant something to me. I didn't think it would mean anything to you at all. But even sober, we both wanted it. So I said yes, and kissed her. And now I don't ever want to stop...

Thirteen.
The Unluckiest number.
Too many thoughtless lips and tongues and mouths and hands that touched only my body.
But you kissed my soul.
How did I get so lucky?

the red slashes on your hips intersected at angles to form letters
of words that you thought were worthy of being sliced into your skin
but you're nothing close to disgusting
you're beautiful and captivating and kind
and I know you're afraid that I will love you less
when I see you at your worst but I promise
that I will wait for you when you take hours to feel pretty, even though I think you already are
and I will still kiss you when you have the smell of onions on your breath
and I will still love you with blood rushing down your legs because you hate yourself and you can't do anything right
and I will still think you're perfect when the scale reads higher than it did last Wednesday
and I will still comfort you when you scream at night because of the hauntings that come with closed eye lids and fading consciousness
and I will still hold you when you're crying so hard that you can't speak.
I hope that I am never the cause for why you consider these things
to be flaws (and I know that I cannot stitch you up or save you with love) but I hope that I can help the insecurities fade, like the scars on your hips.

October
I feel that I have an unconventional belief/idea of love.
• To love is a verb, I think it's more an emotion rather than a permanent state of being.
• It can be used and expressed in different ways for different things, but it is all the same love. I may love some things or people more than others, but it's the same feeling. I love my mom and dad, I love reading, I love lasagna, I love the feeling I get when something is more amazing than I originally thought it would be.
• Love isn't a serious thing. It's okay to say to people you may barely know or at random times.
• Contrary to popular belief, I don't believe that you never stop loving someone. You can be in and out of love with someone, at points people are worth loving and at other times, they are less deserving. And I don't have to love them in that moment.
• Love is temporary. If I love a boy tonight, it doesn't mean that I will and/or must love him in thirty years, or six months, or even tomorrow morning.
• I am capable of loving several people simultaneously because several people may deserve my love at that time. It's a feeling that should be shared and expressed whenever appropriate and there shouldn't be consequences or guilt associated in sharing it.
• I don't believe there comes a point when you cross the line of liking someone to loving them, this line to me doesn't exist. You are not aware of the moment you fall in love with someone, because there is no definitive of love or falling into it.
• Love isn't a fairytale, myth, or fabricated term. It's real.
But I think the term and feeling of love is more romanticized than anything.

April*
Oh God, I think that I'm in love and everything has changed.
• Can a simple emotion really have this great of an impact?
• This is different from any other emotion. It's stronger and it hurts better than the love I have for coffee and ***** and my stepsister
• Love, it's a thing. And even though we were drunk when we admitted it, it still meant what we wanted it to mean.
• I won't ever stop loving you because you're never not deserving.
• I will love you tomorrow morning, and in six months, and in thirty years.
• It can't possibly be temporary because there are visions of us growing up, around, and into one another and still being happy together in the future
• Love like this isn't felt with everyone. I could never look at anyone the way I look at you. It's not something to be shared, it's special and specific to one person.
• I think I fell in love with you that night we laid on the mattress together and I traced the lines in your hands with my fingers.
• Love is when what you want finally aligns perfectly with what you need
• Love is what I feel for her
• And it is the best ******* feeling in the world

"I like boys."

But I like your soft and feminine hands as they lightly tickle my spine and I love your smooth shirtless body laying on top of mine.

"I like boys."

But the taste of your glossed and pouty lips
and the feel of your thighs brushing the sides of my hips
will forever be my weaknesses.

"I like boys."

But I can't help but cry at the sound of your delicate voice when you sing sleepy and slurred lullabies
or your heart pounding along with your heavy breaths and sighs
and I can't keep my hands from grasping your every curve and limb.

"I like boys."*
But all I know is that I never felt any of this with him.

I was not looking for you, but I am so glad that I have found you.
I thought I was lost, and then I realized that cuddled on a mattress on the floor in your bedroom, with your hands on my waist and your lips on my neck and breathing to the sound of your heart beating through your chest,
is exactly where I am meant to be.

I thought her hands were holy
And then I kissed an angel.

I should melt every time I hear your laugh.
I should crave the gentle touch of your strong fingers.
I should swoon over your hazel eyes, your soft smile.
I should have held your hand, walking through the flowers.
I should have let you kiss me on my doorstep.
Because maybe you could be good for me.
Maybe I could learn to love you, if I tried hard enough.
Maybe I should try hard enough.
I've been looking for a simple solution
and I've finally found you,
so why don't I want you?

I will get what I want this time
because I can be selfish too.
What I lack in charm and eloquence
I make up for in bravery.

That night, the moon and stars were barely visible through the clouds. That night, you said you were glad that neither of us were in our own beds. The words came out slowly in broken fragments and your voice was raspy in hypnagogia, yet somehow it still sounded like a euphoric dream. That night, every inch of our bodies were touching and even when it was almost physically impossible, I somehow still had the intense yearning for you to be closer. Now it's 1:13 AM, and tonight, I am in my own bed, feeling empty and craving your arms around me. And you're in your bed with cloudy thoughts and constellations made of cravings I'm unsure of...
*Is it selfish of me to hope that we are seeing the same moon?

I think I fell in love with someone who I should not have fallen in love with.

* the kind of boy who rolls blunts from torn out pages
  of Revelation that once belonged in his father's bible
* the kind of boy who writes his secrets and insecurities
  on cigarettes and then smokes them, leaving only ashes
* the kind of boy who is thirsty for liquid love rather
  than the intangible feeling of intimate emotions
* the kind of boy who waits at the railroad track for
  rushing trains that will never come to take him home
* the kind of boy who firmly believes that destruction
  is a form of creation and if this is the case, he is an artist
* the kind of boy who finds solace and euphoria in dystopia
* the kind of boy who is likely to break my heart in
  hope of healing the broken fragments of his own

and maybe I'm the kind of girl who will let him.

I wanted to tell you that you have nice hands
but before the words could casually come out of my mouth,
they were stifled in my throat and my mind was consumed
with the thought of how they would feel upon my skin;  
lightly running them through my hair,
or firmly grabbing my hips and pulling me closer to you,
or gently and delicately caressing my scarred and
imperfect body with your soft touch.
I wish I could sculpt your hands,
every line on your palm, every vein in your wrist,
a smooth marble replication of my favorite part of you.
But art would still be incomparable to the real thing.
A sculpture could never capture the reality of the feeling I get
when tracing every indention and wrinkle and crease
with my nervous and trembling fingers.
I'd much rather the genuine and delicate warmth.
*They say palms tell stories, I hope one day yours will tell ours.
And I hope that the lines on your hands read that you belong with me.

I was just one autumn of many to come
Just a change and something new.
I was just one winter of your life,
Enjoyed only for a short while, and then wished away.
I was no more than spring to you,
Nice, but dull and simple and ordinary.
Just one summer,
A break that would soon come to an end.
Eventually, you yearned for
a new autumn,
           a new winter,
                      a new spring,
                                 a new summer.
Like seasons,
Love never lasts.

dreams of tangled limbs and locked lips
soft heartbeats and fingertips
a foreign feeling, and perspective too
I am more than happy to have found you.
Our souls are connected, don't you see?
I have to know, do you dream of me?