When I write about love
I draw ink
from my own blood.
You see,
Flowers need their
own seeds to bloom.

"She was an
unusual dresser.
Every night,
she wore bruises
on her heart,
love on her lips,
pain in her eyes,
and ink on her fingers.
They called her poetry."

I stare at the closet doors.
Ugly brown bifold  doors that slide open.
They are in the house we moved into
1800 miles away from home.
That east coast house holds memories, tears,
     pain and tragedy.
A new start, a new home, a new place.
Behind the closet doors are his guitars.
Those strings played countless chords;
Chords that eased his soul and occupied his mind.
Notes rang out. If you listened, you could hear his story.
I miss his music. I miss his beautiful eyes...
I miss my child.
The doors are open and I take out the acoustic guitar.
Strum to check out the tuning, hoping to play,
But the strings are old and out of tune.
They are worn like my soul.
Tears fall as a place the guitar back.
The last thing he did before he died was play one last song.
He tucked his pick neatly in the strings,
Then he was gone.
I close those ugly brown doors knowing that soon I will try again.
Maybe one day I will restring that guitar,
But for now, I will just remember.

you will never be forgotten.
ever.
your name twisted into metaphors and colors and distractions will forever
be painted across pages and pages of her favorite brand of notebook,
no matter how many she burns
there will always be one she forgot,
and she will only find it once she had almost forgotten you.
she will find the one Papyrus notebook
and all of your metaphors and colors and disractions will come flooding back,
just like how the ocean in your eyes
flooded her heart all those years ago.

I am somewhere
Just left of breath
With winding trees
And knobby knees
And knuckle breaking
Soul punching
Regret
I am somewhere
East of guilt
North of normal
South of sensible
You were just west of everything I ever wanted

But alas I was never good with directions
And my maps are always upside down
Or I'm always in the wrong town
The map reads:


Lonely
Population: Me


I am never exactly where I want to be
Second star to the right and straight on till morning you traced the sky on me

My world was almost broken
When I found out i was nothing but a token rifle in a gun cabinet loaded with your lust for human decency

You never did find any in me

I guess we're even now

Because I've been doing a lot of that lately

Getting even
I just never thought you were competition
But you played these games
And you ran the race and I followed you
Blindly
I believed you were the one person
Who didn't wish me to be less of me

But there you go
Pining after me
After I've already told you
I will not kiss your ****** fists
And I ask you,

I ask you how your girlfriend is.

And the conversation ends.

Because you know what you're doing and I know what you're doing

And when the GPS said road work ahead

Because you are so broken,
And you refuse to stop choking
untrustworthy out of unknowing girls

I took the detour
Because I knew it
And you knew it too


I don't think I can be his friend

Conversation can't be innocent with you

I.

I am surprised at how simple it is.

When I first met the girl we were staring at each other across five metres of party space, ***** and blue light. It felt good.

Her number; I somehow managed it.

A week later I clear the trash and toss the unshelved books into my wardrobe and stumble off far away to buy some new bedsheets, they smell clear and clean. My desk is empty and few and neat and is everything my own head never feels like-- she arrives from her elsewhere about five minutes after this thought and we’re here, she puts her bag down, we go to the art museum, we go to the other art museum too but it’s closed, we look at each other the whole time and I don’t really register the paintings, we come back to my room and then stumble across each other’s bodies on my bed and she gives little butterfly moans and kisses in short puckery bursts. It is nice. It is simple.

II.

With the other girl we drink. There’s a secret society that I’m a member of somehow-- would you like to go with me to some party? Yes.-- and we drink. The floor is wood and aged with the fact and feet of so many dead men who didn’t look like me and wouldn’t have me here--and her too, her hair took a great deal of fuss even if it didn’t look that way-- but we drink. She wants to dance, she says, but I can’t dance so I drink. There’s something calling so she drinks. I am scared of being boring so I drink. She is scared of something else, probably work, she drinks and I’m scared for her work too, I drink, but what about me, I drink, she drinks, we drink, we kiss. I waited before it. I looked at her before sometimes but nothing, it couldn’t be simple, it isn’t allowed. We’re both so busy. You have nice eyes. Sometimes we work together. Yes, I’m funny. I’m glad you think I’m funny, too. Stop that. No. I can’t. Okay. I can. Can this be simple? We drink and kiss in the secret society and the wood creaks under us and our bodies and the other guys think I’m cool now, I guess. When it comes to snow I’ll walk her back to her work and we’ll mildly do this again. And again. Another time, too, we drink. And then we won’t, because it’s not simple. I want to have fun.

III.

When the morning comes someday I’ll wake up then make-up my bed after leaving it like I’m supposed to and it won’t matter if a girl shows up again. Okay. I don’t feel like going to class, again. Okay. I go to class this time and it’s such a bore compared to the other things that seem to me to be worth doing. Everyone in front of me and around me doesn’t seem to care, too; but they type up their notes and the lecture hall is filled with clicks and clicking and their faces are brighter because of their screens and their expressions are cold and mute. Something feels wrong. Something feels quiet even though the professor keeps talking. It’s really only been, like, ten minutes and my legs start doing the thing, my mind starts doing the thing. I think of how clean and clear my desk is.