When I feel down
I like to think on all the phases in which I've loved you.
From the fragile flame of our brief beginnings,
To the tangled legs and songs of our second chance,
And I smile every time
I come back to the present,
And dwell in the me that belongs with you.

As the caterpillar sheds its skin
And digests itself

So too must I.

Was there ever a time
When fear and neurosis
Didn't slam dance their way out
Of the birdcage between my armpits?

When did my ears not ring with tinnitus
Lines on repeat like
"They don't care."
And
"You're worthless."

When did I stop treading water?
When did I start using loved ones as life rafts,
Shoving them beneath the surface
If only for one quick gasp of air?

When did the sadness get so immense,
It formed its own gravitational pull?
Like a black hole in space,
******* in all the surroundings.

When did I stop feeling like enough?

Like the moment a meteor earns its "-ite,"
Epiphany has struck and leaves a trail of realization.

All that remains
Is the decision to make things right.

I cannot tell anymore
If the silence he resonates
Is the defense he fronts
To keep the closing cage of commitment at bay
A gentle reprieve from the fears divebombing like magpies
Or if this new wave is the end.
If this darkness and muffled cries  
Are a direct correlation to my bad days
Overwhelming him
Forcing him in that car
Taking him hundreds of miles away
And telling me "I can't help you."

But he can't see
I never wanted him to ride in like a savior
I don't need to be rescued.
I just wanted to show him my soul
And for him to look, really look,

And tell me he loved me.

He told me he loved me once
I still do.

They told me what didn't **** me would make me stronger.
They lied.
What didn't **** me made me damaged,
Defective, unable to function at "acceptable" levels.
Traumatic experiences didn't build some great wall to fortify my resolutions in life
Instead, they shook my foundations with ferocity,
Slashing cracks down my walls, crumbling rooms to rubble

They planted bombs for later,
Little surprises once the aftershocks faded
With triggers tucked away safe, wrapped up like gifts.

No, what didn't **** me made me want to disappear
Over, and over, and over.
And even almost 7 years later,
There are still detonators being uncovered.

Sure, now I know the paths to avoid
The piles of broken memories, loneliness, and displacement
To keep out of sight.
And still,
There are some days, but mostly nights
When the bombs go off in succession
And I have to bring myself back from the dark
Over. And over. And over.

And there are some nights
Where I'm the one holding the switch
I'm the one willing my world to explode into shrapnel.
And someone else has to bring me back
Over. And over.

They lied.
What doesn't **** you doesn't make you stronger,
It makes you a survivor, even if you sometimes don't want to survive.
And it leaves you with the scars every survivor bears,
Seen and unseen.

There are secrets buried in the freckles on your elbow.
Stories, memories, dreams
All interwoven with epithelial cells and sunlight.

When I first realized I loved you
I found myself captivated by essence of star you carried in your skin
Like Sirius, embodied.
But now that my eyes have adjusted to your brilliance,
I instead ponder the depths of the tales each freckle could tell.
You are endless, intricate, effervescent man, you
Are your own night sky of constellations.

Tell me a story?

You were always better at love poems
Which is truly a tragedy
Because now who will write you the eloquence you deserve?
There is something terribly fitting, and yet sad,
That when I think of how to write for you,
"Your Song" immediately comes to mind.
However, unfortunate for you, it's also true.
If I had anything better to express these wavelengths vibrating in my chest,
I would do it, to show you the depth, volume, mass of my affection
For the way you hair only knows how to grow up,
For your hobbit-like, animated toes,
For hands so perfect, Michelangelo couldn't have done it better,
For the ever-shifting newness of your irises;
But as previously lamented,
I have nothing but words.

Even more unfortunate for you, love
I was always more of a math brain.
Ah! If only there was a formula,
One where x equals the buzzing in my knee caps when you're standing close enough to touch,
And y equals the deepest secret that cummings tried to explain,
Where there's a tree and a sky and bud.
Something I could quantify,
Like how your star sign and mine dance around the earth with one another.
How it all means nothing by itself, just some shots in the dark
But because of love, some of those shots meet their target.

One day I'll write you a love poem,
A real one.

I have a horrible tendency to take things too personally
To the point of tears and anger and losing my temper to the Aries hiding in my chest.
I cling tight to past wrongs and embarrassments, much longer than I suppose I should.
I criticize to the point of cruelty, a dark narrative of flinging insults from one lobe to another,
But don't worry, I get my fair share.
I judge more often than a public servant, and my sentences are always strict.
I wage war on a social anxiety that is, was, and always will be myself,
And even if the anxiety recedes, the weariness of battle ensures a losing result.
I live to escape the life I'm living;
In the stories I read, I am the brave one, the right one, the fearless daredevil:
I exercise regularly, do back flips as a hobby, and have no fear of microphones.

I talk entirely way too much about myself.
Give me a crisis and I'll make it about me.
Tell me you're having a hard time right now,
And it'll somehow be my fault.
If it's not my fault,
It'll somehow become about how my relationship with my mother has deteriorated to me listening to her last voicemail to me two years ago
Or how I fell through the rotten floor of our trailer when I was nine.
Can't think of a subject? I'll just talk about myself.
Don't believe me? Just read this poem.

I don't have to fall asleep with the TV on anymore.
The sullen silence waiting in the click of a light switch
Doesn't intimidate my eyelids anymore.
I don't stare at the glow in the dark stars
Placed on my ceiling long before I was ever an occupant.
Their soft green glow isn't necessary to still my uncertainties.
When I close my eyes,
I smile when the still-frame of your face arrives
I can wiggle my toes and cling to my blankets a little tighter
Wishing, longing it was you in my arms.

No more holding back my love for you
With the dam of Bee Arthur's and Betty White's voices.
No more counting the number of breaths until I fall asleep.
No more,
Because somewhere outside my cheap mini-blinds,
Under the same moon and stars
There you are, living a life where you love me, too.

It's that time of year again
Where the heat turns up to 11
And suddenly I'm boiling like a cauldron over a hearth
Leaking out all my impurities.
Purging my illness like a lightweight two martinis too many.

Spring was a lie
Summer is my rebirth
And I sweat it out like the metaphorical labor I'm going through.
It's July and my ghosts of Christmas past
Have decided I'm getting too Scrooge-like, again.

Reborn, like I said,
But not without requiring a death to make room for this new life.
And in this death I am haunted,
Revisited by all those summer ghosts
Pain after pain, brought back to spark in my vision
The kind that induces goosebumps and clammy palms.

Some memories, the ones that leave you gasping for air,
Like the time you fell flat on your back from the playground ladder,
Lungs in shock, stunned
Those memories don't fade with time.
They'll disappear for a while,
Fly south for the winter months,
But that summer heat is too familiar.
They'll always come back,
Lurking in parking garages, apartment gates, and on park benches.

Winter cold may sting,
But it was winter who brought you,
And winter when you chose to stay.
It was summer who took you away,
And summer again when you left.

Now the solstice has come
And I've already begun to simmer.
Time to grow anew, again.

Like two overstuffed pillows long forgotten in the attic
Slammed together in a great concussion of sound
BLOOF
All those particles of god knows what flying into the air,
We call them bunnies
because it's safer than acknowledging all the creepy crawlies now flying into our nostrils
I am shaking the dust off of these lobes in my head
Clearing out proverbial cobwebs
And beating bad habits with broomsticks
Like you would an old rug.

*Shake the dust off
And start writing again.

Man, whoever said 'long distance is hard'
Has to be on the royal court of understatements.
It's not hard, it's sitting on the ledge of possible,
Looking out onto the abyss of impossibility.
It's being the one left behind,
Hoping their heart doesn't set up roots where their feet have.
It's being the one who left,
Learning to balance the old life with your new one.

Long distance is paranoia at war with trust.
It's hearing your partner's fingers tap tap tap
On the phone screen,
And wondering what messages this 'nobody' is receiving.
It's having unbalanced days stretched out over hundreds of miles
And hoping they miss you, too.

Long distance is making your dog sleep in their spot
Because that's your version of a warm body.
Long distance is sending them off with love
And hoping it's enough to bring them home safe.
Or bring them home at all.

It's as old as war, adventure, itchy feet,
And I will cling to its age like a prayer
Whispering to it at night in my dog-warmed bed
Asking for the power to not starve off of
10 minute phone calls and 'thank you's.

Because he will always be worth it

It's fading, I can feel it
Like those moments when the day passes
from twilight into the dark
It is undeniable that night is settling in.

And I'm uncertain what my responsibilities are
Am I to stand watch,
Hold your vigil until the sun rises once more?
Or is this more like an omen,
A warning of the darkness to come?

All I know is the hourglass
And nothing can stop her sands.
Should I be clogging her drains with my bare hands?
Or is it time I simply lay back
And dream of the weight to come?

No answers can be found here,
There are only darkness and sand.

You are that feeling of weightlessness
Right before I fall asleep
A cloudy, comforting sensation
Like when Mom used to tuck the covers around me
That high, yet drunk, and let me see how long I can hold on to this
Kind of feeling

Heavy eyelids and haze
Surrounded by a halo of bliss
Glowing. Luminescent.
Every exhale floating higher
Melatonin overload

No fear of what dreams may come.
Weightless.
Promise to grab my string before I blow away?

It's been storming since I got back
Raining enough to turn streets to rivers
And the air
Like trying to breathe in cotton *****
All sound muffled by water coating every surface
It's like sitting under one of those weighted blankets
And I'm grateful, I think
Because while I'm not one for physical affection,
I feel wrapped in a prolonged embrace

It is when the night comes
And the temperature dips
And the air does not feel so heavy anymore
That I realize just how empty this bed is.
Your half, cold and so shriekingly strikingly void
Threatens to swallow me up like a black hole
Throwing me into nothingness

And sometimes I let it
Let the buzzing numbness wash over my chest
Relief from lungs squeezing out every bit of air
Like my sorrow is a cloth to be wrung out
Yes. Absence is preferable.
But not yours.

But maybe I'll get lucky,
And the clouds will hold vigil
And the rain will still sing
And the sky will continue to fall
Until you come home again.

Five minutes of your time
Five minutes of mine
But I'd give every minute leading up to these moments
To make them last just a little longer.
Just one more sentence.
One breathless "I love you. "
Something to reassure this heartsick brain that's been burned before
Still showing scars from the last arrangement like this.
Just one more minute to tell my racing heart
There's no need to be afraid
And the lurking darkness she's trying to outrun
Is merely an illusion.

Just, just
Five minutes, then -
Do
      Do
            Do.
Call ended.

Everything is muffled,
Like an invisible cotton ball
Stuffing city streets with silence
Car horns don't jar our attentions,
Sirens whistle, not shriek
Passing couples yell to be heard
But there is nothing drowning them out.

This is the calm before the storm,
The void that opens up in the atmosphere
In the moments before the fury drop.
In this quiet,
The whispering gong of silence is deafening.

Then the lightning strikes
And thunder reminds us what it is to hear

I don't know how you hold this flame
How you can cradle it without singeing
Your fingertips tickle my skin
Calluses rising and falling,
Rough and smooth
Like your passion
Makes my knees weak
And sparks fears of the unknown
Of trails blazed on my very flesh
Of innocence stolen and mangled
Of mines set like switches, triggers

But still you hold my flame.
And though you mistake this fear,
Think it is one of your creation,
Still you cradle.
You don't deserve this.
I don't deserve you.

Lying on this twin mattress reminds
Me of the times we'd squeeze two in one
Like some kind of intimate sale.
50% off my full sized bed
Landing me here,
Listening for your snores
But finding none.

"You disgust me," she says.
Yeah, I know. Me, too.

I'm not sure why
But everyone keeps talking about their mothers, lately.
Maybe it's because springtime reminds us of birth
Or perhaps it's because Mother's Day is next month.

I don't know.

But it's got me thinking of you, Mom.
It reminds me of when I barely reached your belly button
When you'd take me in the garden
And show me your green thumb miracles.
I think back on nights when the stars would sing for us
And you would point out which constellations were ours.
So many secrets and stories to be told.

I wonder which state you're burning through
Which highway you're on
And what flowers have captured your attention today.
It's springtime, after all.

Do the redbud trees remind you of me?
Of the long drives to town
When I would drone on like a honeybee
About those delicately beautiful petals.
Me, I smile despite myself when I see the forsythia unpack their trumpets,
And when the irises grow their beards.
You always had a way with flowers.


Even when your words would slur,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when you would pass out and burn dinner,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when you stopped coming home at night,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when you packed your things and left,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when you didn't get better,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when I stopped answering your calls,
You always had a way with flowers.

You always did.
I guess you always will.

There are no words
None that I could find
And I've been searching for a while
To describe the relief
Of being loved,  maybe even adored,
Despite how sticky with tar my soul is.

My grasp on the English language
Is far too insufficient
To explain what is happening inside my head.
It is even more futile,
When I attempt to explain what transpires
In my body.
There are no words
For what causes the disconnect between the two.

These are the only words I could find:
I'm sorry.

"I should be used to this by now."
Yes
I should.
I should be used to being a prisoner in my very skin.
I should be used to my body telling lies
That he'll take for truth.
I should be used to my ****** past ruling my life.

When I tell him I want him,
But I'm not "in the mood."
When I tell him I'm turned on
But he says he can't tell.
When we have to stop having *** because I've become painful for him
Or I disassociated
Or I just needed to stop
Yeah, guess I should be used to that by now.

I should be used to letting my partner down.
Be used to seeing the disappointment in his eyebrows.
Used to his palpable frustration with trying to understand.
I should be used to apologizing, over and over,
Knowing it is all my fault
Though he keeps telling me I shouldn't be sorry.

I want to ****** the man who did this to me.
I want to take something back from the world that stole *** from me.
If I can't have that,
I want to ***** up my sickness,
Like it's the virus it feels like.
I want to be literally ******* normal.

Is this what it means when they say,
"The courage to heal?"

I cannot escape you.
Though I run until my thighs quiver,
Fatigue sinking in like a sickness,
I cannot outrun the breeze of your breath
Nor the snapping of your teeth at my heels.
Slick with sweat that smells of iron
Like blood
But still I run.

And I will keep running until you pounce
Baring my throat to the night
Singing to the moon of your triumph
And claim my heart with your teeth.

I cannot escape you.

In college, going home was always a reprieve
Well, until it wasn't.
Those awkward moments when you'd walk in on an argument,
Or when you had chores again
Like slipping back into your childhood skin
But it was a little tight, constricting.

But home made my chest hum,
No matter how tight the skins I wore became.
Home was a historic ranch with a view of the skyline
It was washing dishes with a view
And spending more time on the porch than in the living room
Home was the first place that actually felt like more than just a house.

Home had a yard, and friendly *** who mowed it
Home was walking outside to the smell of fried dough
Mouth watering for a fresh doughnut down the street.
Home was a garage turned art studio,
Bugs and all
Home was fighting over a single, small bathroom.
And it was just a couple minutes walk into the city.

Cityscapes, always changing.
Now, home is a green field, awaiting development
Home was ripped from beneath us like the run down houses two summers before.
Home is gentrification,
Only a few steps from the balcony of wealthy young professionals
Cozied up in their overpriced studio apartments.
Home still smells of doughnuts
And the driveway in the sidewalk is still there
Home still brings back our perennials,
White, purple, and pink.
Home cannot be taken from us,
She is woven into our very fibers,
But she can never be touched again.

Home was sold, beaten, bulldozed, and cleared away.
Home is just a memory.
But I will still drive by,
Smell that sickly sweet air,
And pick some of her flowers.

Here's to you, my love.

Amongst the forest of your ribcage
Pounding feet muffled by moss beds
Racing and weaving betwixt a wig of vines
Elusive artist, gymnastic god

Can I catch him?
Do I dare try?

If I ever did, or could,
Reach out and ****** his wrist
Would I not ensnare him?
Like severing the flower from her stem,
Wishing to keep hold of her forever,
But just like her petals, he would wither.

No.

I will not tear through these woods that are not my own,
To entwine him around my finger.
He was not made for capture, but to captivate.
This is not a hunt,
It is a game of tag
And I will burn after him
If only for one touch
Before he sprites away again.

A wood elf and his girl
Making love in the forest of your ribcage.

Baby, I'm a pessimist.
There's no situation I can't find disaster in
I'm smooth and quick on the downfall
Ready to give up hope at every stoplight.

Vending food to hungry dollar signs,
I sell my faith in humanity with every transaction
Each meal comes with a slice of my dignity.

I beg for even one person to surprise me,
Shake my prediction from their shoulders,
All to no avail.
Predictable, granted, solidified in their selfishness

At 3 in the morning,
They're all looking for someone to go home with,
Someone to tell them they have worth,
And they'll willingly bare their teeth should you get in the way.

It's not beautiful anymore,
Watching this dance called humanity.
It's ugly and self-gratifying
And only rarely is Care shown to anyone but children.

We lie, manipulate, and steal from one another
Killing the very earth beneath our feet
And somehow I am still supposed to hope for something better?
I lost that hope when I was still a child,
And the stump left in its place shows no signs of growth.

Baby, I'm a pessimist.
Which is to say,
I'm an *******.

Weightless,
Like a feather blown in the wind.
Path uncertain
Future undetermined,
I am at the whim of the breeze.
Take me away.

Jingling in your pocket,
You hold the key to laughter.

I have abused you, my muse.
Strapped you to the table
And splayed open your flesh for all to see.
It was there,
On your rib bones
That I painted my narrative.

I pricked organs to spill secrets,
Sliced skin and watched it fester
And in the bloodbath,
Called it art.

I dared to challenge your choices
While I was the one who'd strapped you down.
I have abused you, my muse.
And it stops here.

The problem with writer's block
Is that it isn't some mystical thing,
Some boogeyman hiding in our inkwells
And under our notepads.
It is simply one term
Encompassing a number of ailments.

Writer's block is being incapable of settling on a topic.
It is incessant song stuck in our head,
Preventing us from thinking up our own verse.
It is the checklist of errands and responsibilities
We may have forgotten that day.

Writer's block is remembering we forgot to turn off the oven,
Or the TV
Or the lights in the kitchen,
Just as we sat down with a pen.
It is the ominous cloud of self-doubt
That chases away an semblance of a first line
Or a second
Or a conclusion.
It is the sticky, complacent boredom,
Or the absence of motivation.
And sometimes it is the lack of desire,
Like a fire dying down
No flames here, but the embers still hot with potential
We wait for new wood to burn.

It is the fear of criticism,
The self-loathing that we discredit ourselves with,
And it manifests is all forms
Or just one.

It is a gift,
The mark of a writer,
Like the calluses from our pens
And it is also our curse.
Literature's hazing technique,
Weeding out those that would give up on her
At first signs of resistance.
Persist,
And call yourself a true writer at heart.

I'm supposed to be writing. . .

where did the words go?

You say that you are the rock
And you dare not ask me
To be your eternal bearer up the mountain,
That you are a burden
Meant to be left behind.
You tell me you are the moss,
That you cannot be the cactus I once claimed,
And I should let you roll on
Alone.

But don't you know who you are?
Who we are?
You are more than rock,
You are stardust, realized.
We are the exploding, near-eternal fires that light the night
And paint the sky
We are constellations chasing head over tail
Around this globe
Always a horizon line out of reach.
You are the flames of summer,
Offspring to Prometheus,
The King of Wands,
Sacrificing your lungs in an ancient ritual
Of flames that bear your name.
We are born from fire
Our very strength forged in the pyre.

You are no succulent,
Though your heart may masquerade as one sometimes.
You are stealing after the sun,
The first sign of life in a rocky wasteland,
You come with the lichen,
And you cling to existence like a cliff edge.
Allowed to thrive,
You are soft and yielding,
Laying yourself down for the comfort of others.
Seemingly simple, but within,
You turn the very stone into life.

A curse and burden, you are not.
You are the rightful heir of fire
To stars that sing your name.
You may seem to drown in the wasteland,
Surrounded by endless void
But, love, don't you know what those lungs can do?
Breathing life into stone,
Come alive.

Someday, maybe at 35 (or 25),
You may no longer need Sisyphus.
What then?

My love for you
Cannot be contained
By ten words

He was more frail than even I,
Thought I might break him
If I held him too tightly
And there was a gentleness to his touch,
Not marking my skin like newfound territory
Only invisible ink of sweat and saliva
To mark the path we chose
Tucked away now like a treasure map

He is the swatch of new paint on the wall
If I look at it hard enough,
The old color falls to give way
And my imagination can rest here
A reprieve from grief
A newly claimed corner of my mind
Safe from memories of love and pain

It doesn't fix anything
But it makes this easier
And that
Is enough for me

I keep tripping on brambles
Scratching my exposed shins,
Ripping at my shoelaces,
Yet somehow I keep upright.
Leaving my well-beaten path behind,
I had forgotten how difficult
Striking out anew always is.

I know I cannot return to the
Comfortable, clear, circular, cyclical path
I'd been wearing down for years.
Looking behind me,
I'm not sure I could even find the way back.
A path that lead only to itself,
But ****, how I miss those views.

My ribs clench at the memories
The smells, the warmth, the ease
But it grew crowded,
No longer a private reverie
No.
I mourn the loss of sacred space.

I keep stumbling, tripping, fumbling forward
Brought back again to this moment.
It's time to cover new ground,
Whether I want to or not.

I know it in my toes,
Can feel the certainty like the gravity in my feet,
She is my replacement
The times we spoke of her character
All lip service to calm me

I know you're lonely,
And looking for a friend.
Watch your back with this one though,
I can feel the wrongness from my carefully kept distance,
Feel it in my toes!
And the toes know.
Be careful with who you trust
Be even more cautious with who you let in.

He told me
When we stumbled to the end of our path
And parted ways
That he would have written for me
Had I asked
And while I reject the concept
Of having to ask for forced dedications,
I still wonder
What he would have written.

I never should have let it go
That far
Even now, I can still feel
The aftershocks of your choices.

Drunken admissions,
Confessions, decisions, and statements
Can they be trusted?
Because some would argue that
Drunk words hold true meaning,
But drunk actions lack thought.
So which is it?
Is it either?
Because your pattern of opening up when drunk
Has me doubting your promises.
You don't think she's a bad person,
And it doesn't make it easier.
You like her
And she's like you
And that's what makes it easier.

I know I chose this
I put myself here,
Chose to walk this path
Instead of all the others.
I could still be your best friend
You could still be mine
I could pretend to have casual *** with you
If only to have those still moments in the dark after.
Instead I chose the alternative.

No more smothering you in hopes,
Expectations we'll never live up to,
And affection you don't want.
No more fighting over who gets the outside of the bed,
Or whose fault it is that I take too long in the shower,
Which position to fall asleep in.
Little spoon.

They keep telling me this is right,
This is what's best for the both of us
Since we two are in different life chapters.
(I claim chapter 46,
when Woodpecker tells Leigh-Cherie
that Love is the ultimate outlaw)

The rift I conceived when I pushed you away
Holds nothing but echos
Memories.
They tell me it's time,
But I don't need to make room in my life
When I already found my person.

I want to tell you all of it
Every syllable I could summon up
To explain
But all I can muster up are fighting words


**And *******,
I miss you.

Here I am
Still hanging on every word


Even after the floor dropped out from underneath

Desperately searching for that gold,
The treasure beneath the surface
Chiseling away with nothing but bare hands
Ripped and torn from the climb to get here
Making patterns like paintings in the rock face
But my blood means nothing
Blood cannot claim a mountain
But being the first to find his treasure can
So I dig, pry, and chisel
Slicing away at fingertips
Leaving paintings like sacrifices behind

Desperate, I slam my hands into the surface
If the mountain will not be mine
I will be his
Strength, anger, sadness, frustration,
and love
Smash into his surface.

My hands may be gone,
But the mountain,
The mountain bleeds back.

Coward.**
You can't even cut the cord
On promises you don't intend to keep.
Drunken wishing words once spoken
Asking for time
Time to grow
But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?
Why grow up man up speak up be up own up break up
When you can just sit back and enjoy the ride?
The calendar will end it for you soon enough,
What's the point in saying it before time runs out?
And she's a smart girl right?
She'll figure it out on her own,
She might not even need you to say it.
Score.

Or how about your friend that you didn't stand up for?
No, you'd rather keep quiet
While your current and ongoing **** buddy besmirches a friend's reputation.
Why step in, none of your business,
Right?
Why risk losing good ***?

Whatever happened to vigilante justice?
Whatever happened to standing up for what was right?
So focused on physical altercation,
You can't see right in front of you the damage being done.
Don't you see that sometimes justice doesn't resemble
Dressing up in skate pads and a leather jacket?
Sometimes it just takes a sentence,
"Hey, I heard what you said about my friend,
That's not okay."

Too scared to let someone you love down,
Even when it's the whole hearted truth.
A truth you **** well owe them if you know.
Too scared to stand up for your friends in the face of ******* and ****** gratification.
A quite literal ******* coward.

What did I ever see in you?

It could have been just like any other day.
Sad, at times, numb at others.
Instead, any hope of making sense
Just walked out that door behind you.

Today is two years ago,
Sitting on the end of my dorm bed
Today is you standing in front of me,
Just got back from a party.
The lamp is on behind you,
And you're smiling down at me,
Glowing.
Today is you looking me in the eyes,
Then looking away to ask,
"Hey Evie, are you my girlfriend?"
Today is my reply,
"I don't know. Do you want me to be?"

Today it makes sense
Because your answer isn't "yes" anymore
And my reply isn't "okay, then yes, I'm your girlfriend."
Somewhere that changed forever.
Somewhere I lost, and fate laughed, and you left
And it's all over.

Two years ago today,
"Do you want me to be?"

It feels like a calm before the storm.
Avoiding the red flag triggers
Like trap doors leading to the underworld
Or a rabbit hole that only leads to
Me in the fetal position
Begging the universe to bring you back.
Instead of wandering this *****-trapped  wasteland,
Searching for the road out,
I'm clinging to the dirt,
Refusing to get up.
It is quiet like this,
Nothing scary to stumble on,
And no gaping holes to tumble down,
Just me, and the dirt
Solid, grounding, still.

I can breathe here,
But I know I cannot stay
Staying means starving
Staying means giving up a future
Staying means stagnance.
I cannot stay.

So it really is the calm before the storm
Because I feel fine now,
In the quiet aftermath,
But soon I'll have to get up
Navigate this minefield of memories,
Sadness, longing, and grief
If I want to see the sun rise.
And I will.

I once said it about you,
Now I say it for me
Here comes the sun.

Your efforts are a comfort,
But I must take care not to
Wind myself up in them, not again.
No more making nooses from the tangled web of promises.
No more lassos of hope,
For they cannot catch the wind.
And even if they could,
Wouldn't that destroy the very purpose of the breeze?
To halt movement,
To ensnare freedom itself
To trap you in love
I couldn't.

Now is the time for observing from a distance
For putting in my twenty-five cents
To the coin operated viewer
And walking away when the time runs out.
No more waiting,
No more wishing on stars,
Time to walk down the boardwalk,
And see what's really in front of me.