Growing up we were allied with tired
people wearing empty eyes
reserved for those whose breaths
were outnumbered by sighs
And in cased in a body who
knows all too well that beauty
is corresponded with size
Constantly battled by a heart
who would take no part in
giving up when you had yet to even try

I asked you to write poetry
along the curve of my spine
so that when the words finally broke me
I would know how it felt to be paralyzed

I tried

We grew up with these standards set
that seemed near impossible to be met
and when you cried
I said don't
           don't tell me that this world isn't fair
and that this life got the best of you
because the truth of the matter is that
that isn't true
at all
I know
because I got the best of you, too

When we were seven years old
you looked at me grinning and stated
Kissing is weird
And I just laughed because
even back then I hated
the way I sounded after hearing your voice

And in fourth grade
when you were given the choice
to sit next to me,
or that cute new girl named Emily
You chose me
Because, somehow,
the girl who had placed fourth in the spelling bee
and concluded her favorite book was the dictionary
had racked up more brownie
points than the beauty queen

In middle school
we learned that popularity
was based solely on cafeteria seating
and all that seemed to matter was
who you were eating with
at lunch that day

But no one ever bothered to say
hey, I'll save a seat for you

So in grew the miss fits and nobodies
and here we first knew that our value
wasn't worth a saved seat
So we did our best to blend in alone
along the walls and tried our hardest
not to fall when the world slowly came
crumbling in on us
Because in the end all we had
was ourselves among the dust
of the place that we used to be a part of

Used to be

It all used to be so routine
Coffee and cigarettes and
somewhere between
glasses of wine we would find
ourselves curled up on the couch
with our hands intertwined
like two lovers who didn't care
to converse with the presence of time
Because we didn't

Thunderstorms were our thing
And every spring when the rains
would come it never just rained,
                       it poured
I'd pretend  that I was scared so I could explore
the veins on your arms as you held me
and I did my best to absorb
you like the ground soaking in all the rain,
saving it for later days
when the sun was too bright
and the flowers thought there
was no way they could ever survive
But they did

Because even on the hottest of days
the rains would arrive
and revive their stems
restoring the strength they needed
to grow again
I only hoped that someday
I would trace your veins back to my heart

Because loving you was an art
that had no ending towers
and the only place to start
was with a paintbrush in your hand
Ready to paint the flowers
that bloomed when the thunderstorms
shook that vacant tomb
I used to call my heart

But somewhere between
a head start and a late beginning
with life, I found loving you
was  by far the best part

We tend to not appreciate it,
To ignore the calls of our winged friends,
To scorn the helpful and forgiving earth that holds the seeds of time,
To frown at the kind and sometimes harsh tears of the land,
To taint the once pristine surface with deception and broken promises.

As I sit, I feel the mournful wind as it carries the dry dead leaves to forbidden places.
I see the clouds frown and growl, their pallors darkening with bottled up anger , fuming , waiting, for an unforgiving outburst.
I feel a slight chill in the air , foreseeing a cold and ruthless near future.
Finally ,our winged companions flee, leaving us stranded in our selfishness.

Now I sit , and wait
Waiting for the sky to open with a smile of vengeance , to release upon us our well deserved undoing.

I raise my arms prepared for the blow , my last stand, but it doesn't come.
All that anger , all that sadness went as swiftly as it came, gone with the wind.
And out comes the sun , with its redeeming and forgiving light, Illuminating each surface , filling each recipient with a sense of regret ,  guilt
But that too becomes unimportant as we gather our tools of pain, prepared for another sunny day of betraying the forgiving nature as we swing , chop , throw away, deceive and manipulate like the cruel beings we've now become