I want you to put me on your tongue and let me dissolve into you like the tiny white squares that turn those glossy hazel marbles into black holes and intense stares. I want you to kiss me and see negative colored rulers in the corner of your vision and I want you to have trouble making a decision between kissing me and observing me while I'm sitting on your chest and I want you to laugh like you did with your cherry colored lip curled over your childish grin over and over and over again and I want you to forget the conversation topic every time you close your eyes because the world inside of your mind is filled with blinking images that you can't quite explain aloud so you settle for little talks about Rosa Parks and Indian style kisses and how the ocean is the Earth's thing or the complexity of butterfly brains and whether or not they remember their caterpillar memories (they do). Describe to me the first time you saw your favorite color and what developed the affinity for it: yours, a glacier blue toy that resembled the ocean and mine, a lavender Easter dress that twirled when I spun. Tell me about your school crushes when you were four and what you got your clothespin moved to the sad face for and I'll write it all in ink on my knee caps because "God, we're such writers" and you'll check the clock in the gaps and search for tunes or lighters and I'll want time to slow down because the nights spent with you usually seem as though minutes are just a few seconds shy of sixty, which turns the little hand pretty quickly.
I want hours, weeks, decades, to analyze the freckles on your face or the pace at which you move your tongue and precisely how it tastes.
I want you to tell me that your brother would like me and about the mountains in Tennessee and maybe next time I'll try to stay awake, unless you want to listen to the way I breathe so fully when I dream.

When I close my eyes, I want to be able to see what you see.
I want you to keep burying the numb parts of you into the warm parts of me.

Why is it I always find myself laying in the wet grass staring up at constellations with a set of chromosomes lighting up a cigarette that don’t belong to you?
This time the LSD flowed through the veins of a boy with blonde flowing hair. I laid next to him and tried to keep up with and envision what he saw and felt that night, and I think he could tell that I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant when he tried to describe it and he sighed with the faintest hint of frustration, but I reassured him with a simple
“talk about it.”
And he began to.
to use his hands, silhouettes against the dark violet sky, twirling and dancing, the stars twinkling and shining light between the shadowed fingers like the sun through trees. he described looking up at a circle of white light of life, and from it stemmed four hallways or paths, and then how there was a giant hand in the sky plucking at the stars, and then how the stars “danced, almost seductively, (no, seductively isn’t the right word, but it’s the easiest way to explain it)” for his eyes only. And how he was melting into the grass on our backs and the way Something by the Beatles made him feel something, and he asked about my writing and understood my anxiety and traced his tattoos in the dark, painting pictures of the ones I’d never noticed, the sparrow, the compass, the hamsa, with his words.
I felt as if I were tripping too, like the tiny tab dissolved into my own tongue for forty five minutes until it made it’s way down the back of my throat with a sip of water. Like I could feel myself melting into psychedelia with each syllable that rolled smoothly off of his tongue. Like the giant hand in the sky was mine, and I plucked the little lights like the strings of a guitar, like they burned my fingertips the way the flames from lighters did when I tested how slowly I could wave them over my fingers before I felt the heat when I was a child. Like the earth grew into me, like vines slithered their way up my spine and my vertebrae blossomed into lotus flowers, like Something by the Beatles made me feel something.
The earth was raw; it was so real.
Yet reality had never felt farther in a sober state.
I felt touched and untouchable, invincible and invisible, desired and deserted.
We finally stood and walked away from our little bed of leaves but they didn’t want me to leave- they tangled themselves in my hair and he told me to leave them in because it looked lovely.
So I did.
And I found you, where I always do.
You were laughing your acid off in the fluorescent lights of your bedroom.
And your eyes were green and your cheeks pink and your palms open and your mind
untouched by the untouched beauty we experienced and the enlightening clarity and the knowledge we sought under the all-knowing night sky.

You know the old saying,
"You want your cake and you want to eat it too?"
Well, you see, I love to bake, and I love junk food.

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.

Here's the truth:
I'm not a good writer.
And there are no words that will make this pain easier or prettier.
So here are a few more truths, minus the metaphors and alliterations and puns and other sorry excuses to romanticize the aches.

1. First, a quick question: who do you vent to when everyone you ever trusted hurts you? Why do I find myself questioning this so often?
2. A past lover told me I deserve a relationship with someone who doesn't need a conversation on how my current situation would hurt or not be okay. Regardless, I still feel like it's my fault for assuming you wanted only me.
3. I can't remember the last time I had two meals in one day. You like my ribs and collar bones and hips under your lips too much for me to risk it. I need to buy a new scale because the day before yesterday I weighed 88.6 lbs and tonight it reads 93 but that can't be because all I've eaten is a bagel and some peach yogurt and a cookie. Once again, it's probably just my thoughts weighing me down.
4. I get drunk to cope too often. I'm afraid one day I'll need help. Not because of the amount I drink, but the reasons behind all of the empty bottles.
5. I told you how afraid I was to open up again. I told you how vulnerability kept me from you for so long but I couldn't imagine any more what if's with you and I didn't think you'd ever be capable of making me feel this way so I squeezed your hand and overcame my fear.
6. Your bed started to feel like home a lot sooner than I expected it to.
7. I cried when I read what you wrote about me. I don't know how to take it. I don't know how I should feel about all of it.
8. You're different than when I first met you. I mean, I know that I have changed completely as well, but I hardly recognize you. I feel like I am getting to know a new person I've just met, which is actually sort of nice when I really think about it.
9. It took less than nine weeks.
10. I left all eight of my Harry Potter DVDs, five or so of my books, numerous ponytails and tic tac packs at your house. I'll have to get them back eventually but that will feel like a breakup and we were never together in the first place.
11. I always quote myself. I've always said "I've never been good at closing doors." This is still true. I can't cut you off. But a wise girl once proved to me that flipping the switch and cutting off emotions is a good way to keep my heart safe... When you came back into my life, I had every wall up that I could manage, but when I let one come down, I let them all down. I didn't have any protection or security. I was open. Open. Open. Open. Open and hoping not to get robbed... You either keep all of the walls up and hurt someone or let them all down and get hurt. Where's the middle? I need to find some sort of atrium.
12. I'm not good at not being a writer. Sometimes that's the best way to describe it. I couldn't think of how to word the previous truth in simpler terms or in relativity to the reality of it.
13. I told you about how my parents were addicted to pills, you saw the scars on my thighs, I fell asleep next to you and woke up still next to you. Did you realize as it was happening, how big of a deal that was for me?
14. Your justification was that you thought you meant less to me. WHAT ON EARTH MADE YOU THINK THAT

I forgot what it was like to be around her, i'm so used to being in the company of lighter souls.
The heaviness is starting to sink back into my bones.
The day turns to darkness, and back to dawn soon, and sleep still hasn't come because the battle between eyelids scanning screens and the inside of themselves proved to be easier than you'd think.

You made me forget that I didn't have a green thumb
You were the green thumb, you are the green thumb
and you're still around, you're still here, but not in the dark,
only when i've got the sunshine anyway, because you are the sunshine
and **** i'm not a flower when I'm alone and looking in the mirror at a single silhouette

I knew I was ****** when I started looking for my skeleton again

The truth is you hardly know these bones, you helped to hide them, heal them.

But every moment I spend with my thoughts brings them out more

They aren't necessarily bad, but I don't know who I am
I know what I want, who I want, who I want to be,
but who am I at one in the morning when I slip back into watching
dramas about people with OCD and anorexia and I find myself crying and wishing there was another skeleton for me hold on to...
one thats not mine.


****, I'm even writing again... That's a sign too.

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...

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.

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.

When I was a kid, and all of my friends were kids, and all of us kids lived down the same street that I still live on as a not kid that none of my kid friends still live on as not kids, there was a day in the summer, or the spring....
my not kid brain has a hard time conjuring up my kid thoughts, I just remember walking outside and it was so hot
And we fetched our bikes from the shed and walked them to the blacktop only to find the greatest gift nature could bring us: a thousand tiny caterpillars crawling on the road. We couldn't ride our bikes in the street or we would squish them so we dropped them where we stood and did the only thing we knew we should: ran inside and asked mama for the ziplock bags and collected as many as we could. We thought we were saving them from any cars that might need to go down our dead end road. We didn't know what to do with them so we kept them in the bag and left them in my kid friends parents living room, sealed tight so nothing could get to them.
The next morning we went to check on them and the bag was empty.

Looking back now, I realize we probably deprived them of oxygen, starved them of nutrients and space, and probably separated them from their families.

I feel bad about that, but that's not the point. The reason I am recalling this memory and putting it into words is because I've had an epiphany.
They were robbed a chrysalis, they never flew away as beautiful butterflies.
They slept overnight in a bag with many others, waiting to puddle and flutter before they chewed their way through plastic or they died.

What we did as kids to those caterpillars, it's how I love..
Sometimes I find caterpillars in the pits of people's stomachs and my intrigue is spiked like a child's with wonder, but I always pluck the caterpillars before they get too far..

Maybe I'm a secret sleepwalker and I unconciously let them go.
I sure hope so.

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'll try not to forget the first time I felt you looking at my white shoes and gold shirt and the way i tried to hide my rosy cheeks each time my eyes scanned the gym to find yours meeting my gaze from across the court. I'll try not to forget the way you got nervous when I showed interest and how you wanted to hold my hand but couldn't. I'll try not to forget how desperately you wanted to kiss me in attendance recovery but couldn't. I'll try not to forget how many times you watched 500 Days of Summer in my absence and all 500 similarities you contrived between that pretty girl with the heart shaped tattoo on the bike in the elevator on the rooftop and the one standing in front of you with a hidden scar down her chest flowers in her hair a crooked smile.
Ill try not to forget how many times you tried to be my friend because I told you that was what I wanted and how many times you couldn't bear that. I'll try not to forget the time you walked to my house in the dark just to read words in the dictionary on a mattress with me.

I'll try to forget the days when those words transformed into the absence of them.

I'll try not to forget the books we found at the flea market and the plant soil you spilled in my car and the talks we had late at night in your driveway and the fear of your mother finding out you were with a girl. I'll try not to forget the difference between sesame and teriyaki chicken because I always thought both looked disgusting but they made you happy so I appreciated them. Ill try not to forget the first night I slept in your bed and the innocently hesitant neck kisses. I'll try not to forget the night you desperately wanted to kiss me- and then desperately kissing you.
And how bad it was,
but how it made the sun shine brighter in that dark room than it ever has outside at noon.
I'll remember intimate conversations and the first time I told you I loved you and the way you didn't believe me and the months we spent not sure of what we wanted and how that uncertainty faded as the warm weather did and how the cold no longer comes from the winter but from the absence of your smile when I wake
I'll remember what you said about absence and this time I'll agree with you; absence makes the heart full and fond and full of longing, not hollow.

I'll remember the start in hopes of never having to try to forget an ending.

Strings of wisdom flow through my fingertips
like front-porch-swing storytelling.
The stars are visible through the window tops
as moon eyes stare up at their sisters.

The truth is,
I could listen to you ramble for hours in the backseat of that car.
I listened to you ramble for hours,
just to hear every thought and pun and "but like"
that escaped your once clenched teeth and locked lips,
and after prying open your brain, my jaw was left ajar
in awe of the reality that a shy girl with seafoam eyes
could ever open mine that wide
in such a short amount of time.

The truth is,
I want to dig my hands into your thoughts and pull up roots from the dirt and find that I've got a green thumb.
I want to climb the tallest mountain in Tennessee and have your smile welcome and invite me into your home.
I want to watch your children grow older and want themselves as a mother like their mother did when she wasn't much older.
I want to hear every flirtatious remark dangling from that bracelet of yours clink together as you lift your chai latte from the counter.
I want to question what the time of day is
and wait for your mind to create a clever counter-clockwise comeback that throws mine for a loop and sends me spiraling back down to earth
on the dials of the sun and the mills of the wind.
I want to stop and read every spray-painted sentence on each step of the stairs leading to the perfect amalgamation of essays and creative journals, and analyze the way your cursive gets lazy and then cleans itself up while maintaining an enlightened tone.
I want to venture into abandoned shacks in the middle of the night that are hardly recognizable two seasons later just to find out that it's the wrong house and the open windows mean someone may be home.
I want to see the scribbled out "sandwhich" corrected in red ink.
I want to drink your words and refill and recycle the bottle.
I want to blend the blacks and whites on the palette and create a shiny sensitizing zinc.
I want to be the one who genuinely understands the way you think.

The truth is,
I have this irrevocable desire to listen to music that no one else has ever heard in a pair of headphones until I find a harmony,
and then let it play on the radio for those of us with complexity
to sing to as we stare down the road of an alligator bayou
and become hypnotized by the beat.

the ones who chase the sunset
the ones who dream of dreaming on abandoned mattresses
the ones who never sleep
the ones who find homes in the passenger seat
the ones with endless wanderlust and bare feet
the ones who travel with journals on their sleeves
the ones with open minds and prying hands
the ones who finally learned how to speak
the ones with golden tongues and opalescent teeth
the ones with glowing green lights in their eyes
the ones with ticklish knees and bruised thighs
the ones with unheard symphonies in their eardrums
the ones who grow with the trees and bloom like chrysanthemums
the ones with ideas too big for the small town scene
the ones who perform silent spoken word for their television screens
the ones bubbling with spontaneity and sentimentality
the ones with broken dreamcatchers, lightbulbs, and families
the ones who are captivated by constellations and insanity
the ones who make snow angels on mountain peaks
the ones with freckles, curly hair, and rosy cheeks
and the one with olive skin and emerald split ends
the ones with tracing thumbs and laureled limbs
the ones who have taken each others flaws in
wrapped them in silk and blocked out the bitter wind
the ones who weave orbs with moth wings
the ones who still buzz with bee stings
the ones with the power and voodoo
the ones who don't think like you do
the earth, the fire, the water, the air
the ones who can't help but to stop and stare
the misfit poets;
the ones who dare to care.

I thought the nineties saw the last of leaving voicemails
I thought we left that mess of feelings back at the apartment on that bed
I thought I left your mind as well
I always felt we left too many things unsaid
You toggle back and forth between opening up and closing that chapter
You probably think the same of me
There’s an unparalleled sadness in getting rid of a book you didn’t get to read

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?

Ninety-seven pounds and a stitched mouth…



I feel so heavy. I tried not to eat today.

Two waffles (without syrup) for breakfast,

a raspberry white chocolate scone for lunch.

A bowl of potato salad to hide the suspicion.

An M&M; cookie to munch on.



However, I don’t believe that this is the kind of heaviness

that cutting my calories can fix,

for it is my thoughts that are weighing me down.



A few glasses of wine might make me feel a little lighter.

And, on the contrary, perhaps shattering

a few light bulbs might make things a bit brighter.

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?

I don't need anyone to pretend to care about my apathy.
I want to smoke cigarettes and skip meals and nights of sleep.
I want to cry to Elliott Smith and for the clouds to hide the moon because I need the darkness for a while.
The moon is shy, leave her be.
She's either shy or wants to hide.
The lunarity of my own skin shares the same feeling tonight.
I want to hide.
I want people to stop expecting me to be present, available, ready to listen
just because I have to be.
Just because I'm forced to be here.
Because I'm not being held to the earth by anything except gravity.
I don't really have to be here.
I'm choosing to be.
But gravity doesn't exist on the moon and I'm indecisive like she is;
I go through phases.
Right now, I want to be new.

This morning I woke up smiling.
I kissed your cheeks.
Every tiny thing about you inspires me to write stanzas,
But who wants to read a poem entirely based on the way your face scrunches up in the shower, exposing your pearly whites while you grab loose strands of knots from the suds of conditioner
Or how in awe I am at the sight of the beautifully constructed transition of your chest to your neck and how I envision maroon little passions marks along it every time I stare at your throat vibrating when you speak, and your strong hands on my shoulders, hips, everything.
The way you smile seductively to get what you want and how I never thought you'd be that good at making my knees weak enough to buckle and bow down and give you every thing and every part of me I can muster up or hold in the palms of my tiny hands.
(I actually teared up today while looking at you but you don't know that because I was hogging the water and your eyes were closed.
For a moment I thought you must be the physical embodiment of the perfect human polykelitos wrote an entire novel and carved an entire bronze sculpture trying to create and bring to life.

-----

This morning I woke up and you were smiling. You kissed my cheeks. You told me you liked my cheeks. You gave me butterfly kisses and butterflies in my stomach and you left little maroon passion marks along my neck.

I don't think my body has ever felt more euphoric.
We fit together like Tetris.
Your body felt sacred.
Our passion was electric,
both of our souls pure and naked
just like the Greeks and then Romans painted.
Sometimes I feel like our love is geometric.

the way her eyes hypnotize and magnetize me, pulling me into otherworldly realms every time they meet mine and how intrigued I am to untwist the knots in her mind because no one ever bothered to listen to her beauty unwind or the story behind her necklace shaped like a tree or her affinity for abandoned houses and the treasures in the rubble she'd find

the way she looks at me and smirks and utters something sweet and then realizes she's a flirt so she looks at the road and tries to hide her cheeks blushing like roses and the sentimental sunset spots we found and the hours we spend staring at the stars and wandering around

the way he dreams of pink seashells in grayscale underwater libraries and how he inhales and leans his head back on the seat with his eyes closed as he takes in the indian summer and how he always wears autumn wear and rolls up his sleeves and how it makes me think just how ******* handsome a man can be

the way she comforts me with her optimism and laughs every time like its the last time she may ever get a chance to, how she lives life like she's never gonna dance to another persons beat and she sweeps her own self off her feet and carries me simultaneously

the way her hair flows in the wind out of the passenger side window like flames flicking, like fire burning, like youth glowing, like not knowing anything yet somehow knowing all the right things to say

the way he gets passionate about music and the shriek he does when he gets excited about something FOR ONCE IN HIS LIFE and his charm and wit that could persuade any girl to drop to her knees and feel weak and the way he goes weeks without washing his hair and wears the same hat every single time we meet

the way he giggles at every word one and thing and how his eyes squint shut when he smiles and how he dances with me to Led Zeppelin in Waffle House at 3 am and how he carries his backpack everywhere he goes and how easy it is to carry on a conversation and how his vibes just flow into mine and how he justifies his disobedience with the excuse that he is always down for an adventure and how happy he always seems to be in my passenger seat

THE WAY HE ASKS FOR THE LAST HAIR TIE ON MY WRIST TO TIE HIS HAIR INTO A BUN AND THE FRECKLES ON HIS CHEEKS AND THE WAY HIS HAZEL EYES BURN INTO MINE BENEATH WEIGHTED LIDS AND THE WAY HE SPEAKS WITH HEAVY HANDS IN MORE WAYS THAN IMAGINABLE AND THE WAY HE HUGS ME TIGHT AND EVEN THOUGH HE'S GROWN TALLER SINCE I FIRST WRAPPED MY ARMS AROUND HIS TORSO MY HEAD STILL FITS PERFECTLY ON HIS CHEST AND THE WAY HE GENTLY SLIDES HIS FINGERS ACROSS MY SKIN WHEN I'M TUCKED INTO HIS SHEETS AND THE WORDS HE WRITES AND THE WAY HE READS AND HOW HE REMEMBERS TO CHECK ON THE PIZZA ROLLS IN THE OVEN AND HOW HE SLIPS INTO THIS FUNNY UNKNOWN ACCENT AND HE TAPS ON MY FOREHEAD AND I KNOW IT'S A SIGN OF AFFECTION AND HOW HE CAN'T FOCUS ON ONE SUBJECT WHEN HE TAKES LSD OR ECSTASY AND HIS FIXATION WITH WORLD WAR II AND HOW HE SOMEHOW BREAKS HIS PHONE MORE THAN I DO AND HOW YOUR KEYBOARD SEEMS TO BE STUCK IN CAPS LOCK AND HOW YOU PUT YOUR ARM AROUND MY WAIST WHILE YOU TEACH ME HOW TO PLAY YOUR FAVORITE VIDEO GAMES AND HOW YOU MAKE ME FEEL WANTED WHEN YOU CAN'T KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF OF ME AND HOW YOU ALWAYS COMMENT ON YOUR BREATH AFTER YOU SMOKE LIKE I'VE NEVER KISSED KUSH BEFORE AND HOW MUCH YOU LOVE THE BEACH AND THE CLOUDS AND THE WAY YOU TALK ABOUT PSYCHOLOGICAL EXPERIMENTS AND MONKEYS BEING DRENCHED WITH WATER AND HOW YOU'RE ALWAYS "BOUT WHATEVER" AND HOW YOU GET JEALOUS WHEN I SPEND TIME WITH OTHERS AND HOW SCATTERBRAINED YOU ARE AND HOW YOU'RE ALWAYS IN YOUR HEAD AND HOW TERRIBLE YOU ARE AT COMMUNICATION BUT YOU MANAGE TO PUT IT ALL ON PAPER AND TO BE HONEST I'D TAKE YOUR SILENCE OVER ANOTHER'S DULL MINDED NOISE ANY DAY

AND GOD I LOVE THE LITTLE THINGS ABOUT SO MANY PEOPLE
BUT I LOVE EVERY ******* THING ABOUT YOU AND NO ONE COULD EVER MAKE ME LOVE THE WAY MY HEART ACHES THE WAY IT DOES FOR YOU

The thing about inseparability is that you spend so many sleepless nights trying to familiarize yourself with each and every reason he named the arrangement of those walls "home" and when you finally leave (the candy bowl, the green Christmas lights, the keyboard, the twin size mattress, the bathroom cabinet),
Kenopsia lies in the forgotten combination code and you're left blankly staring at your front door and the splinter in your foot from the plywood floor and the unexpectedly obnoxious ding of the microwave and the look on your moms face when you have to ask which forks are in which drawer and when your cat paws at your tangled headphones but runs when you try to pet her and you remember that she is actually a he and you had to change his name because Matilda wasn't unisex enough for your niece, who's been making all A's in school, no thanks to you, even after the help you promised her was never provided, much like the bowling nights and painting mornings you once planned with her.
And you can't sleep at night because your arms aren't flexible enough to wrap themselves around your torso and rest beneath your neck like his did and your bed makes an unfamiliar screech each time you toss or turn or stretch, or blink, or take a breath and the light can't be turned off with a click of a button and the room is too cold without a radiating body next to you to fill the frigid air with warm words about running toward city lights, and you realize that you've dreamed of a home your entire life and you thought you'd never found it and maybe you still haven't but you've built a structure with his bones and use his curls as blankets,
but what the three little pigs didn't warn you of was that all it takes is a cloudy day to birth a storm strong enough to rip the ribs off their hinges.
The storm hasn't hit home yet, but it's almost hurricane season, and you can't remember where your dad always hid the flashlights from your niece; and light is shed on the fact that darkness houses vulnerability.

the worst feeling is the one when writing is the only release you've got but you've got writers block and you can't conjure the words that explain the emptiness behind your thoughts
the word indescribable cancels itself out and you're left wondering if writing on cave walls sharpens or disintegrates the rock.
I wish I could find the words to tell you that I can't sleep at night, not even under your sheets and Christmas lights, and I'm not sure why. I wish I could find the words to tell you that I never have energy or motivation or an appetite.
I wish I could find the words to tell you that I miss your passion and affection and the inspiration you used to spark inside of me. And even more so the words to tell you that I think you misplaced those things, like your wallet and dollar bills and lighters.
I'm searching under couch cushions for cheek kisses and creative lyrics about the sparks I lit inside of you.
Maybe you didn't lose them though. Maybe I lost the fire.
Maybe I'm the small fireworks at ten pm and you're midnight on New Years Eve.
Maybe you need a bigger flame.
I want you to have that.
I want to be that, but the only words I can think of to tell you are that I've found damp coals in my soul and I don't know how to replace them with new ones.
I wish I had words.
These words are hollow.
Which makes sense because that's all I've felt lately.
I hope you continue to love me when I'm nothing but hollow eyes and dark circles and collar bones.
I hope I can continue to love you in the right way with this skeleton but I feel weaker knees failing me already.
Show me how to float like you do.
Show me how to fly and light on fire.
Let me be midnight with you.
I need to be midnight or I won't make it until then.

That last sentence has so much meaning behind it and I wish I could find the words to explain the symbolism or intensity of it.
I wish I could find words so I could stop with the repetition but I'm just repeating myself.

While you were reading "the Word" in that hotel room in new mexico or California or wherever the ******* slept with her that night, you should have been looking up passages on forgiveness or some other godly, holier-than-though horseshit that's supposed to make you into a better person.

I don't need a bible to tell me that what you did was wrong and I definitely don't need one to tell me that I should forgive you.
Because despite the horrific time we spent together, I know it wasn't all your fault. I've learned to forgive not only you, but also myself.

I don't need an angel to pull me out of depression. I don't need an angel to tell stories to of every glorifying good deed I've done in my life to get me into the gates of Heaven. I don't need Satan telling me I'm too good for Hell because let's face it: none of us really are.

I hope you know that when people ask about you, I tell them how lovely you are, that you're genuinely a good person who's dealt with more struggles than she deserves, who I treated poorly when she deserved her feet washed and her presence bowed to.

So when you tell those same people that I'm a pathological liar,
perhaps maybe you're right.

But I'm not lying when I say, I hope for happiness in your head.
I hope one day you don't feel the burning need to fill others' with pity for you and hatred for anyone you feel is against you,
that burning desire you have to destroy yourself so you throw everyone else into the furnace? Yeah. You know the story.

I hope you know I loved you, I loved you, I loved you.
I hope you know I never wish I hadn't.
I hope you believe yourself when you say that I'm a liar so that none of this makes you feel an ounce better about yourself.

In Jesus name I pray,
Amen.

oxymoron overdose
deadbolt atriums
intersected playlists
the unluckiest clothespin

a mailbox full of compliments
wallowing asterisks
carpeted portraits and
unearthed apologies

it all stemmed from backseat rattling complexity

lighthouse morphine
seventeen somber ached explosions
sipping acrylic reveries
cleverly blossomed illusions

thigh stumbling permission
clumsy german metaphors
thirsty chapter jigsaw keys
worried cities newfound screams

vision confusion and pity bottles
poisoned school affection
oh christ, darling
a deaf chorus

thoughtless phantom
seed eyed stranger
road scarred sighs
***** locked moths
velvet butterflies

a sweeter sleeping spine

growing began expression

storms lack protection
yesterday placed comfort in salvation

the vast presence of a strong man's island mother

hazel vacations
a shattered soldier

trembling girls in sorry gardens, limbs in full bloom

naive humming mirrors

children having mistook living

trees half known

whispered smiles and mattress lullabies

cigarette stories firework insecurities

books begging

floor stopping feeling

if I seem desperate, it's because i am.
i don't care about dignity.
i care about you.

how many nights in a row can I drink white russian daiquiris
and smack ink onto a blank sheet before I realize
that I haven't pressed the "J" key even once
in hopes that my brain won't jumble the letters
and create word searches with only your name in the word bank.
i'm not dyslexic but I do love puzzles.
crosswords, jigsaws, multi-colored cubes,
cryptograms, mazes, tetris, Sudoku...
the only one I can't seem to solve is you.

****.
Once again, I'm stuck.

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

December 31st, 2016
Sometime around 10:40pm
On a balcony in the closest thing to a mansion I've ever been in
The weather was the worst weather for a New Years Eve party I'd ever seen and yet, there we both were, on that balcony overlooking a dark and foggy field under electric blue lights shining upon red solo cups.
I first noticed your sweater, where a hypothetical pocket would be, a little girl in a yellow dress holding a purple umbrella, standing in the rain. Salt?
Salt.
I then noticed how you looked European, only to find out you're from Florida, but living in New York. I didn't get that information from you, your cousin filled me on who you were.
At some point, I was in conversation with some friends sitting under the blue lights, with a small plastic pastel pink cup filled with chardonnay, and as you walked past me, you quickly tapped the tip of your beer bottle on the rim of my cup, a tiny toast, without even looking at me, and you just kept walking to wherever you were walking to on the balcony. I'm not sure what about that exact clink intrigued me, but I looked down and smiled at my cup in thought for a few moments. I ended up observing your mannerisms for the rest of night.
You had a cigarette tucked behind your ear, a sinister but pristine set of white teeth behind pink lips. The bags under your eyes complimented the blue in a way that when I looked into them I could see the nights spent awake, probably at a skate park, or some ***** New York alley, smoking *** with girls with septum rings and stiletto nails.
I moved closer to the table to see who was winning the game, like I always do when I don't feel like engaging in small talk with old acquaintances. You mocked me for my black and mild and asked to have a hit. You offered to share your behind-the-ear cigarette with me and I accepted, and lit it with my flannel pocket lighter.
We passed it back and forth while you tossed a ping pong ball back and forth across the table.
At 11:40, I left without saying goodbye to run towards my midnight kiss, and made it just in time. I'm not sure if you got a midnight kiss.
I hope you did, under the fireworks. But something about you makes me feel like you didn't deserve one. You looked like trouble. But I don't know anything about you except that you said you were twenty one which I'm almost sure was a lie, off about five years, give or take.
Our meeting was brief and both pleasant and bizarre.
The fact that we met in Louisiana was a lucky happenstance.
I'm not sure if I'd even say lucky. Our chance meeting has had no true effect on me, except perhaps, maybe next time I pull out the salt from the top shelf of my pantry, I'll think of you and smile in that weird sinister way you do.

January 3rd, 2017
9:05 pm**
I was closing the coffee shop after a long downtempo day. I had almost everything done when my boss texted saying he had some things to do, and that he'd be there soon. He told me he brought a friend, named Elif (which I later secretly googled in the office to learn the origin of) that he would like me to meet. "You'll like her."
And I think I have just laid eyes on possibly the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.
I shielded my irritated pink eye behind my hair, along with rosy cheeks at the sight of her.
There she stood, tanned skin, long brown hair with blonde tips, a soft smile, softer brown eyes, natural thick eyebrows, a septum ring, green socks over stockings with flats, a mustard yellow cardigan, her own handmade crystal beaded bracelets up her arm.
God, where did he find this girl?

He made us lattes, and we talked about my tattoo that she inquired about, but she'd never heard of Shel Silverstein and I was afraid to make a fool of myself and say something dumb so I kept the explanation short and sweet.
She held a peppermint mocha latte with whipped cream up to her lips and inhaled with a soft smile, and I wish I could've captured that moment forever, it was so sweet and heartwarming, to look at her small figure like her core was gravitating up into the cup, her shoulders right below her ears, her fingers wrapped around the red paper mug.
As he pulled a shot of espresso for me, steaming whole milk even though I mentioned I'd rather almond milk ("it's better for latte art"; showoff) he mocked me for always showing up late, but she thanked me because the way things worked out, he was able to leave early to spend more time with her because of my mistake, and I claimed it was what the universe wanted to happen, and she laughed. And that felt nice, to hear how she laughed.
She was so soft, but also genuinely easy to talk to, and thrilled to talk to me, and she was just so cool. so so cool.
She leaves tomorrow morning to return home to Georgia, not Turkey, like I thought, which we both agreed would have been sad.
I wish I did not get introduced to her the night before she leaves, but I am glad that he knows me well enough to know that I would greatly enjoy her presence, even if only for a short while.

I will add that he had little love marks on his throat, I'm sure which were from her, and that makes me very very happy to know that he has found someone that I think is almost as interesting and dynamic as he is.

I hope to see her again. She said she'd make me a crystal bracelet and gave me her email.
Maybe one day I could email her and maybe if I ever happened to end up in Georgia, or her, back here, we could have a cup of coffee together and I could read her The Light in The Attic.

We're in your bed with the blinds down and a book in my hands and my hair in yours and there are no complaints and you could do this forever as long as we had a little change in scenery.

Click.

We wake up to tangled limbs, sandy toes, and terribly translated Spanish sentences in Cancun.

Click.

We're hungover from pina coladas and white russian daquiris in a Russian red hammock hanging off the coast of Honolulu.

Click.

I open my eyes to ivory smiles and mountain tops and snowflakes in your lashes and smoke cascading from your lips because it's legal here and I love seeing you in your element.

Click.

You yawn to the sound of our mixtape softly playing, wrapped in your aunt's quilts in the back of our van parked overlooking the rust colored rocks topped with lavender reflections in the lake.

Click.

The sun greets us with golden rays leaking through the gaps of shadowed hills that mimic the autumn tinted hazel eyes I'm staring into.

Click.

Hazy gray fog surrounds us to the point we can't see our own hands, only each others faces.

Click.

We roll around on hundreds of palettes of the most famous of artists as we take in the spectrum of colors from inside the Antelope Valley Canyon and we whisper in each other's ears what part of our own bodies each shade reminds us of.

Click.

We're warmed by a fireplace in a quaint house made of stone surrounded by fluffs of white and glacier blue tranquility and a tiny spec of sun fighting to shine through piles of dull pink and gray clouds.

Click.

We're chapped lips and dry skin beneath 900 year old trees and thousands of stars and the man in the moon is looking down in approval like he finally got the perfect candid shot he's been trying to capture for centuries.


We jump into images of the world like old cartoons.
I want to explore every one of earths phenomena with you.
Canals in Venice. Cathedrals in Versailles.
Cu Chi tunnels in Vietnam. Cueva del Fantasma in Venezuela.
I want to spend our nights under the northern lights.
I'd disappear somewhere in the Bermuda triangle if it meant I wouldn't ever have to find myself without you by my side.

I want my happiness to be found in,
my life to be measured by,
my dreams to be slept under,
and my time to pass by,
the sunsets watched with you.

We'll vagabond our way through the seasons and changes in scenery and grow as tall as the trees we carved our initials into.

I've been thinking a whole lot about Gatsby.
A whole lot about the past.
About second chances.
The green light.

I should have seen it coming,
that first time on the gym floor
when you wouldn't hold my hand when I asked
and you watched as embarrassment and rejection spread across my face
or the second time after attendance recovery
when you hugged me too long and waited so long to decide whether or not you should kiss me that you just didn't make a decision
and you watched me walk to my sisters car in the back of the school's parking lot with my hands probably in my pockets my eyes on the pavement and my lip between my teeth
or the third time in my car after a day at the flea market on valentines day when we pretended to not to notice the fact that the plans we had made aligned perfectly with the calender's lovely little notice in the bottom corner of the 14th square as we sat in the dark so close and yet so far and you told me goodnight and retreated inside
or the fourth time just a few nights later when I built up the courage to slightly graze your skin with mine as we talked about life and I still wonder if that took you by surprise because I was so scared and nervous that I couldn't do it until I closed my eyes and you must've been nervous and scared too but you managed to keep it disguised
or the fifth time when I got too high to drive home so I slept over and you didn't want our bodies connected in too many places so you intentionally shifted each time I did to create empty sheeted spaces
and I snuggled close into your neck and I could feel something in you this time but you rolled over and slept until I was awaken for a favor from a past lover and I left


or the last time, a few months later,
after I told you I felt us ending and you told me there were people who could make both of us happier than we were and I cried and I held you tight and we spent some time outside admiring nature and the bugs and when it came time for me to leave all I was left with was a hug and "don't text and drive."
It took everything in me not to turn around as soon as I pulled out and ask for one last chance to kiss you
just one more, for the memory, for old times sake, for anything
but I was tired of being brave
and I was tired of making the first move
and I sure as hell wasn't going to make the last one.
So I unlocked the wooden gate, and drove on through the cooling twilight.

But this time I'm having trouble
seeing the green light at the end of the dock.
This time when someone questions me, I know the answer.
"Can't repeat the past?"
Why of course you can't.
I'm not a fool, and neither are you.

A pair of eyes, darker than the coffee he brews,
and curls that hang like a body from a noose.
She wouldn't have known if it weren't for the bruise
there on her left knee and the red and purple blotch left on her throat,
which screamed louder than the cries that escaped it.
And to the boys and girls who lingered the next morning
with hands folded perfectly from mouth to ear as they whispered
about the girl who was marked with indignity and shame;
about the girl who was left with no one to blame
but herself for an act that she did not ask for.
And as she knelt on the carpet below him,
she prayed that someone would save her but instead
she received an unholy feeling of guilt and disgust and regret,
imposed on her by the very people who handed her the alcohol and cigarette
that poisoned her lips and lungs and logic.
She couldn't recall her newfound promise to herself to gravitate
towards the boy who would lightly plant kisses
on her collarbones rather than her *******;
the boy with eyes sweeter than the coffee he brewed,
and curls that fell effortlessly about his face, as she did for him.
She couldn't remind herself to stay away
from the boys who's tongues tasted of tequila,
as she mistook the empty bottle of Patron in her sweaty palms
for love, and care, and nothing less,
and he mistook "No. Please, don't,"
for "Yes."

"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.

It is odd for one to wish
to have skin made of crystals in order to captivate your interest,
an aroma that fills the air and lingers, so that an opened door tilts the head back,
a hazy effect on the mind and thought processes that leaves the thinker in awe of his own self,
to know one's worth, how much per gram of soul
and to appreciate their craving and need for you to be in the palm of their hand, or rolled up and inhaled euphorically.
It is odd for a flower to wish she were a ****, however, some gardens aren't meant to be watered, rather, they are destined to become forest fires.

Have you ever heard the story about the girl who started counting seconds between the lighting and the thunder, to see how far away the rain was?

We sat there, two weathered minds, on the wooden swing chained to your porch,
the delicate wind chimes were at war with the tumultuous thunder.
The little metal pipes singing, begging us not to speak.
The explosions in the sky shouting, demanding us to yell even if in comparison our voices were weak.

Maybe it was the tension between us, sitting so close yet so far, not a single space of skin touching, that cracked the sky with white lines.
Maybe it was the shaky thoughts in our heads that rattled the house the way it did.


I don't remember the name of the story, or how it went really.
All I know is that I was singing quietly to the rain and I realized that I stopped counting the seconds between me and you.

God, it must be a magic trick, how you can make lights from pollution seem like the city beyond golden gates, the windows down, scarlet curls of frizz illuminated.
I was jealous of the shotgun, and you asked me if I had a good view, and the only answer I could think of was that I didn't, at least, not of you.
Four seasons later and I'm back in the backseat of your car, it's summer again, only this time everything is different.
You still somehow manage to summon the small hidden youth I've got left in this old soul, even though the roads are blocked and sirens are on patrol.

I can't shake these dreams that wake me with salt in my mouth and puddles on his chest
I wouldn't stray far enough into the dark to call them nightmares
I won't dare call them out by name
I'll go deep enough to whisper that they make embers glow again but I'll close my eyes before I scream at the moon or the corpses I'm lying next to
I'll wander hesitantly through the dates again but I won't admit that my mind might as well be buried with them
Am I in my head or in the coffin
Maybe the one I used to sleep on remains unmarked only because it's waiting for me to finally get some rest
Or maybe I just need to hold my peace I guess

I find I have so much to say and never the composure to say it.
You should know what you do hurts.
But I'll let you use me because it creates the illusion that I'm wanted.

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.

I'm trapped in a relationship with a man who doesn't love me

I can't remember the last time I was called beautiful or intelligent or felt as if he found me endearing

Im watching the moon and the waves are crashing into the sand and I want to swim as far as I can

I want to show him how far out I'd swim to show him I'd drown for the love I gave to him

But he's not here
He's upstairs in the hotel room
But he's probably not even there.

If you place a welcome mat outside your heart and invite me in for tea,
I'll take too long to gather my belongings
and my hands will linger on the door **** as I leave.
You'll have to wake me from the depths of my dreams because I already know I'll fall asleep,
and the infrared exit signs are the only ones I never see.
And all the while you'll be thinking of excuses, like the ones my dad used to make when the pantry was empty and so was his wallet or like the ones your dad made, the time he disappeared for months after seeing little blue balloons.
But I'll have a solution for every potential problematic goodbye
And I'll probably talk until the morning light and ignore the apathy in your eyes or the sympathy in your smile and you'll grow silent after a while and I'll question what the problem is,
but I won't see that my departure should've been the answer to this, until it was too late,
just like the time your dad disappeared for years after seeing the little blue balloons.
I'll try to lose track of time by staring at the moon.
I'll always overstay my welcome, but maybe you'll want me to stay because he didn't.

I know your soul is drenched and the water keeps rising inside of you.
I know you're worried about your lungs filling up and your veins exploding from the pressure and your brain floating around in your skull.
But I know the worst pain is still in your heart, the only part that's dry, cracking and swelling and pumping too hard.
But you're not the flood, you're not the cause of it, and you're definitely not the destruction caused by it.
You're a great swimmer, with long flowing red hair, eyes like the ocean and a smile like the sun, rising beautifully and brightly at the end of a long storm.
You're the help, the relief, the last bit of hope.
Let the water wash away the heartbreak, the anxiety, the sorrow.
Let it revitalize you.
Let it be the end of an exhausting era, and the start of a serene one.

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