my body is a symphony of sounds
like the
             snap
               —crackle—
                                               pop!
                                of my bones as i stretch and climb the stairs,
                                                         ­                                        the
                     ­                                                                 ­ thud.
                                                           ­              thud.
                                                           thud.
                of my heart, frantic in its rest.
                a shrill ringing underpins it all
        when my ears ***** to a phantom sound,
the
    \gasping\
                               |huffing|
            ­                                      sighing
                                                   ­                   keeps the beat of uncooperative lungs.

               my body, like an old house where teenagers throw a party,
                                 finding a way to keep it alive for one more night.

there are people
so far removed from your life
who will tell you that your parents love you
regardless of how they behave.

“they still love you”
over and over until the bail is posted,
and the court case is won,
and you simply stop taking their calls.

gone are the days i ever thought
blood to be thicker than water,
when i bought the myth that parents
love their children unconditionally.

what they cannot bear to know?
children don’t love their parents unconditionally
either.

i dont want to sleep.
i want to keep chasing stardust on lips i'll never taste,
reaching for jupiter when she shines so brightly in the sky,
reminding me of all that could've been—
could still be.
never was.

god, these sleepless hours,
the way the stories chase themselves around my head,
louder than dreams too fleeting.

there's a silence here, in the night,
when everything is still.
a promise that everything could be okay.
could be.

and then the dawn puts stardust to bed,
and i'm left chasing something
i never even got a taste of.

i have a talent for erasing my feelings,
scrubbing the scene until there’s no trace left
except for the spots only i notice
that look unfamiliar in sterility.
it’s an easy thing to do, nipping it in the bud –
so easy that sometimes i wonder if i ever really felt those things.

nowadays i find myself cleaning more than usual.

like icarus flying too close to the sun,
i reached out and touched a spark that was never meant for me,
an open flame that burned me alive
and snuffed out all the life around.

to some, i am a person worthy of righteous protection,
the blind spot beneath the tree where
dandelions sometimes get trampled.
i am never enough yet always too much—the
drive-by friend you can wait to see.
on the inside lies a multiverse of
goods and bads, talents and failures.
sometimes i’m pretty, sometimes i’m not,
but i am always something to behold.

and to you?
the one who changes the focus like an optometrist,
“one…or two?”
until my multiverse unites.
a good writer, a good singer, a good friend;
the little things others don’t find funny that always make you laugh;
the validation i’ve been searching for,
an honesty that lets me trust myself a little more.

to you i hope to be an eternity,
a couple of shambling girls united against a world
that doesn’t always have space for people like us.

the discovery of love comes in fits and starts,
beginning with open arms and lullabies
and the things you hope you’ll always hold trust in.

next you discover sleepovers and nights spent talking
about the things you can’t tell anyone else,
the kind of love you hope will last a lifetime.

when you’re older and you meet someone you could talk to for hours,
your first kiss beneath the orange glow of streetlamps,
you think you’ve found it again.

when someone else takes you in their arms,
and you look at the forest when you should look at the trees,
you can confidently say that this is love
until time keeps passing and your future grows nearer,
and suddenly you see someone else in it.

rings that are pre-infinite, plans that seem pre-destined,
the person whose hands you’d rest your life in.

sometimes you hit a snag, but the detour
is all a part of the journey –
familiar sights seen through fresh eyes,
a broadening of your definitions, your boundaries,
a glimpse
at the whole You.

and now there’s another question-riddled entry
under “love,”
with scribbles in the margins saying it should always feel this good.

i love myself more because you show me the parts that are loveable.
maybe that’s the way it should be.
                                                             ­   maybe
                                                        ­                      that’s the final entry.