When it has been five days since
anyone told you they loved you
and no one has held your
hand in four months
and you cannot remember the
last time you felt wanted,
remember this.

People aren't meant to say I love you.
Those three words mean
so many things but somehow
they mean nothing and eight
letters thrown together into
a combination of
lines and spaces is not an
accurate representation of feelings.

They say I love you
in the way they smile when
you laugh at their jokes and they
say it in the way they shake their head
when you make a bad pun and
they say it with every
text message in all-caps at
two twenty-four in the morning
because something incredible
just happened and they had to let you know
and they say it with every
hug and high-five and punch in the arm
and with the way your name
bounces off their tongue
like a child making poor judgement calls
on a trampoline and

they will not tell you happy birthday this year
and they will take four hours to
text you back because
they got distracted and they
will call you an *******
(because you are one, sometimes)
and eat all your lunch
without saying please or thank you
and they will
forget to tell you they love you
when they say good night,

because people are not meant to say *I love you.

My brother told me
that if I keep dressing the way I do
and cutting my hair short
I'm going to look like a man.

I hope so.

Maybe, if people think I'm a man,
no one will tell me I can't
listen to Van Halen because
"it's guy music".

Maybe, if people think I'm a man,
they won't think I'm the antichrist
when I kiss my girlfriend.

Maybe if people think I'm a man,
they won't expect me to shave my legs
and arms
and every other area with
"unsightly hair".

Maybe if people think I'm a man,
my teacher will not tell me
to make sure I marry someone
who can support my family
and will start telling me
how to ******* support my family.

Maybe if people think I'm a man
they won't get angry at me
when I refuse to send
pornographic photos of
my body.

Maybe if people think I'm a man
I will be able to walk home
at night without pepper spray
on my keychain in case
I look too "provocative".

Maybe if people think I'm a man
I will finally get treated
with some *******
**respect.

I remember when I was
thirteen and my aunt asked
if I had ever had my heart broken.

With the same tone of voice
I would have used if she had
told me to be safe on
my walk to school,

I said
my heart is indestructible.

Now I am afraid for my
life because they thought the
Titanic was unsinkable so
they drove it head on into
an iceberg and as the ship's
soundness was compromised
a number of the passengers were
so drunk that they decided
to stay on board.

I can only hope that when
I see an iceberg in my path I
will not let my hubris convince me
that I can handle it,

I can only hope that if
my heart begins to sink
I will not be so intoxicated with
my feeling of invincibility that
I do not try to save myself,

I can only hope that
when my ship goes down
I will not have made myself
so isolated that
there are no rescue missions
willing to find me.

ＯＮＥ:
i miss the
way your
body sinks
into my
mattress
marking your
beauty finitely

ＴＷＯ:
and I also
miss how
your tired
kisses came
with soft
promises of
forever

ＴＨＲＥＥ:
i wonder
about who
stains your
cheeks now
with red
praise and
scarlet i love yous

ＴＨＲＥＥ＆ａＨＡＬＦ:
she would
never love you
as much as
i do

ＦＯＵＲ:
and i miss
you so much
i fall asleep
to the monotone
of myself
counting the days
of how long it has
been since
your departure

ＦＩＶＥ:
and to pass
my time
i count the
times you
told me you
loved me
with absent
ghost eyes

ＳＩＸ:
i'm trying
to live with
the ribs you
broke and
the air
you left

ＳＩＸ＆ａＨＡＬＦ:
but how can
i go on
with the bones
you left me?

ＳＥＶＥＮ:
i'll keep trying
but it's hard
when my
memories
of you litter
my head like
the dust in
my attic

ＥＩＧＨＴ:
and how can i
go on when
you emptied me
and left me
wondering why?

ＮＩＮＥ:
i have
watched you
leave over
and over
and my zenith
sadness is
quite enough
to make
a collapsing
supernova feel
shame

ＴＥＮ:
and sometimes
I blame
love itself for
handing me
right into
your hands

ＥＬＥＶＥＮ:
but when
it's darkest
please know
that my
moon still
chases after you

ＥＬＥＶＥＮ＆ａＨＡＬＦ:
and that
i don't
hate love
for giving
you

ＭＩＤＮＩＧＨＴ:
i hate love
for residing
in my heart
infinitely when
it knew you
weren't staying
forever

I woke up
to the sound of hail
on a tin roof.

Looking out the window,
I was still in a dream
until I saw my journal on the floor
and remembered why it fell there.

The window shattered.
Water in every form
poured onto my desk:
hail, rain, the steam from my hot breath.
Wind whipped through the room,
tearing my paintings off the wall,
reminding me that
I never liked them much in the first place.

The louder I screamed
the stronger the storm became;
my vocal cords are no match for a hurricane.
Please stop,
I whispered into my folded arms.

Silence.

I opened my eyes.
The window was not open.

I've always found, "adult"
in its practical application
to be a limiting word.

Much in the same way
I find the word, "child" to be.
They both attempt to condense
the infinite and spiritual nature
of the human condition.

To balance a child's wonder
and retain the wisdom
of your years.

It's not about taking out a mortgage
or burying yourself under work.

We are in the world,
but we are not of it.

It's hard to throw out labels
and expectations
and just be,
"human."