Forever ago
I looked you in the eye
And made a promise --
A stupid, stupid vow --
That I'd be your Bonnie
If you'd be my Clyde.

You smiled at me --
Crooked, imperfect
Utterly charming --
And asked me to lend you a light.
A lighter passed between our hands
Before a tiny flame illuminated our faces in the dark
A silent 'I do.'

From that night on
I've had things that other girls
Only possess in their wildest dreams
And, even then
Wouldn't dare say they desired.

I ride shotgun by default
In a ******* car
Much too fancy to legally be yours.
Gifts come in the form
Of beat-up leather articles
That you once wore
Though the lingering shadow of smoke
Is hardly enough
To mask the hint of drugstore perfume.
Sometimes
If you're feeling especially charitable
These offerings are accompanied by the more traditional heart shaped box --
Filled with bullets, of course--
Or a single deep red rose.
For some reason
Every flower you pick
Seems to have many more thorns
Than most of the ones I've known before.

What you seem to consider the best gift of all, however
Is your presence.
I suppose you think it works both ways
When you parade around town
Arm slung around my shoulders or waist
Smiling like I'm some pricey badge
Your signature accessory.
Your performance draws attention, of course --
Awe-stricken once-overs
Envious double takes
Lingering looks that make overzealous Average Joes
Trip over their own feet.
As far as my own feelings go
The envious rush I used to get from the lust-filled eyes of other women
Has long since faded
But the crawling feeling of some depraved pervert's eyes flitting from you to me
And your proud smile, devoid of any visible love
Continue to make my stomach twist itself into painful knots.

What all those adventure-hungry good girls don't know
Is that I haven't felt as powerful as they do in their dreams
In a very long time.
What those green-eyed Plain Janes won't understand
Is that I am little more than arm candy
Your passenger-seat second-in-command
Posed like some special edition, leather-donning Barbie doll
Instructed to sit still
Hold the gun
Look pretty.
They don't realize
That the ache that comes with loving you
Feels absolutely nothing like the feeling described
In the lovelorn writings they post to their blogs.
There's nothing beautiful about it
No reward for staying up all night
Chest aching
Sobbing into a limp pillow in some random hotel room
Trying my best to keep you from hearing it.
As much as I hate to admit it
Nothing you do for me
Makes it worth it.

They all seem to forget
That it was Bonnie
Running from one man who didn't love her
Falling into the arms of another
Already broken
Hoping he might be able to mend a piece or two.
They don't realize
That it was Bonnie
Who **** near got her leg burned off
Because Clyde flipped the car.
The fault was completely his
And yet
She was the one who took the brunt of the damage
Being reduced to having Clyde carry her around
For the rest of their numbered days.
They don't stop to think that this is anything other than 'romantic'
How unfair it is that the world allowed him to ruin her
That maybe --
Just maybe --
She didn't want to be a weapon for him to carry
But a self-firing rifle.
Something intimidating
Unpredictable
Never dependent
On some hotshot
That everybody believes that she was in love with.
The idea never occurs to them
That maybe
When the two of them went down in that infamous hail of bullets
Maybe she wasn't enveloped in warm thoughts of going out in a blaze of glory
But anger
That she didn't get away with it this time
And never would again.


I understand now
That
For all intent and purposes
Bonnie and Clyde are a concept that should have been left behind
Way back in the 30s.
There is no passion
In dying --
On the inside or the outside --
Next to someone everyone thinks that you love.
There is no love
In your arm around me
Squeezing the humanity out of me
Like a man-shaped boa constrictor.
There is no glamour
In sitting loyally by your side
Gripping my seat until my knuckles are white
As you drive your own getaway car
Laughing to yourself
Without ever chancing a glance at me.
There is no beauty
In being wrapped in a jacket
That smells like another woman
No satisfaction
In mechanically handing you a brand new lighter
So you can light another cigarette
To prematurely age your beautiful, James Dean number one-million-and-one face.
I feel no affection now
Watching you smoke up like the nicotine glutton burnout that you are
And I will feel only contempt if --
Heaven forbid --
I ever die by your side.
You exhale
And turn to look at me with sleepy, empty eyes
Letting the remains of your cigarette flicker out
Just like the novelty of having you around did.

Why I resent those girls now --
The ones with those eyes, so hungry and green with envy --
Is that, when we first met
I was just another one of them.
So pampered
So inanely bored
Such a 'hopeless romantic'
That I promptly decided to follow you the ends of the Earth
To every grimy hotel
Even to our demise in the desert, if you wanted me to.
It took me forever to realize I deserved better
And, by then
It was all too late.

While I despise those girls who stare at us now
Swooning, like they're so jealous of the position I'm in
My heart also aches for them --
A bit like the way you make it ache.
Though there's passion in this ache
That being the fact
That my heart is screaming
Telling them to run
Run while they still can
Run before someone like you
Finds them.

For all intent and purposes
There absolutely should not be
A 21st century Bonnie and Clyde.
These should be the days
Of girls spitting their own fire
And boys fighting their own battles.
This should be a generation
Of people learning to find solace in themselves
And reliance taking an unceremonious dive
Off a very steep cliff.
There should be no more green-eyed girls
And James Dean boys
Making each other miserable
And calling it beautiful.
This is the point where we should let Bonnie and Clyde rest in peace
Along with Romeo and Juliet
Annabel Lee
Homer Barron
And every other tragic antihero
Who died at the hands of love.

Forever ago
I made a promise --
A stupid, stupid vow --
That I'd be your Bonnie
If you'd be my Clyde.
Now
What seems like centuries later
I close my eyes
And try to fly somewhere else
In my dreams.
My last thought
Before I drift off
Is that --
Maybe someday --
They'll write poems about us.

Funny how you call it 'dread'

Like it's a feeling

A fleeting little thing

Not synonymous with a condition.

Like it's what you feel

Before a big presentation --

You know, the fawn-like trembling in your legs

Before you step right up there

And own the whole thing

Without breaking a sweat.

Like it's just waiting on a text

About weekend plans

Biting your nails just a little bit

Taking a quick roller coaster ride

Up
            P!
U

D

o

w

n


Done.

Obviously, you don't understand.

Really, it's

Hiding out in the bathroom for hours

And sobbing in front of strangers

And shaking when you think someone might be looking at you

And fearing things you used to love

And constantly chewing at whatever skin's available

And feeling so **** sick

You just want to press a button

That sends your soul

Into a person

With a regular heartbeat and naivety you could drown in

Like you.

Clearly, it's not just a feeling.

It's life in shackles.

Ban me!

Burn me!

I, literature, can speak to you.


Love me!

Hate me!

I, art, can scream it, too.


Buy me!

Don't play me!

I, music, hide my meaning in shadows.


I'm not a martyr!

Don't hurt me!


...He, the artist, is sent to the gallows.

He has a siren's scream

And angel hair

And the devil himself

Sometimes takes up residence in his eyes.


He makes your heart skip a beat

When he waxes poetic about death

And the smoke from his lips

Makes you feel alive.


You love the way

That his voice breaks

And, in his desert of broken things

You'll see the mirage of your strength.


The art that he makes

Is your perfect opportunity

A chance to make his viscera

All soft around the edges.


Let him sing like Cobain.

You'll take that song

Turn it into something

That sounds like Plath.


And you'll beg for those songs

But he won't ever ask for the poems.

The most that he notices

Is that you pity him

When he cries.


He'll bring worry to your pen

And love to your heart

Leave you thanking the heavens

For bringing you a muse

That feels just as much as a girl

Even if it makes you cry

When he leaves you alone.


The curse of the muse:

To you, "can't save him"

Will never sound quite right.

I'm feeling quite neurotic, to put it plain.

My conscience is muddied, mind soaked through with rain.

Nothing feels right, no comfort will do.

Might dig myself a hole and stay there a day or two

Won't walk on the land, just admire the view.

There seems to be nothing that can make me feel sane

And yet, you dig deep, try to keep me sane.

I grow sicker

Day by day

As I realize:

Where I once saw a monster

I now see a man.    

("See?

I'm just like you.")

It grows more apparent

Each day I'm by your side

Close enough to see into the soul

I didn't think you had.

("I'm not so bad

After all.")

Don't get me wrong

There's not much there.

While my insides wither

I can see that yours

Are already cold and dead.

Empty.

("Come on, my dear.

Make me feel alive.")

Even when you hurt me

I find myself searching

Seeing right through you.

You break me down

While you're in shambles

Reducing both of us to ruins.

("No!

Don't you dare cry!")

But it's all too clear

In those rare moments

Of misplaced tenderness

That, maybe once

You might have known how to love.

("Hey, angel

Where's your halo?")

Sometimes

In the dead of night

When you're still and serene

I try holding you

Lightly tracing all the lines of your face

Wondering who made you this way.

("Shhh...")

Sometimes

I even wonder

If, because of the way things are going now

I might turn out like you one day.

("Don't look so scared.

You know you're okay.")

So I listen to you breathe

And I watch you dream

And sometimes I swear I hear a sob

And my insides cave in when I realize it's not mine.

("Oh, angel...")

I just wish someone loved you

Before you met me

So that maybe --

Just maybe --

We could both be alright

Maybe even meet

Under much better circumstances.

("Shhh...

Angel...")

And, even when you destroy me

I wish that

Somehow

I could love you.

("Please

Don't cry.")

It makes me sicker

Day by day

That I fall back into the arms

Time and time again

Of a monster

Who was once

A man.

("You know you're safe with me

Right?")

See the depressed deed

Delve deep

Cry, the elegy's creed.

Elsewhere:

Breeds new

Bzz-bees, elm trees, electric eels

Ever-steel freeze

Sweet revenge's creep, then screech

Wed, cheer, speech

Fresh breeze, meets seeds

Frees weeds.

Here:

Wet cheeks, we weep

Regret seeps

Need jeers.

Yes, we bleed

Yet

Every eye never sees

Every remedy. never felt

By the helpless.

I am so sorry

That they've burned down your home

Left you standing upon barren ground

Cast stones through sacred things

They shouldn't have even touched.


I am so sorry

That this ugly world

Uses fear as ammunition

Never paying mind

To how you must feel

When used as the target.


I am so sorry

That people have 'opinions'

About these tragedies

Even turning well-deserved eulogies

Into slippery slopes.


I am so sorry

There were people screaming

Just when you were trying

To rest.


And I am so hopeful

That you will reach such magnificent heights

That they will never understand.

Please stand for our ode

To the elite corrupt.

Sing loud for your majesty

And let him interrupt.

Bask in his diluted glory

Grotesque and proud.

Hear his sob story

About what won't be allowed.

Look at his knights' creations

Pushing opinions

All his own.

Posters read 'know your enemy'

With unsuspecting faces overblown.

See him mellow

Leering

As he satisfies his gluttony with wine.

Hear him bellow

'Those who aren't cheering

Are no friends of mine.'

Feel the rage burn my veins

As the crowd follows him blind.

See me lost in my brain

Wondering if they care

About the things in my mind.

Watch the show end

As he calls on his court

Inviting them to sup.

Hear their satisfaction

As they leave for dinner

On the way

Swallowing me up.

I don't know you, --
That's the cold, sad fact, --
And most days
I suspect there isn't much to know.

I know this
Because I know how it feels to love you.

Because loving you
Is like looking out the window
Into the street
When it's far too late
And even the hoodlums are asleep.
Loving you
Is like looking into the street
At midnight
When everyone's asleep
And it isn't raining.
The wind just blows uselessly
Rustling leaves
Reminding you that you can still breathe.

Loving you
Is like looking out the window at midnight
And walking away
Only feeling that you need to go to sleep
Because all the world around you seems dead.

Because loving you
Is like watching a show
Where all the actors have perfected their craft
And love to wear masks.
Loving you
Is like going to watch a show
That you know you've seen a million times.
The actors could convince you that they were working themselves to the very bone
And all you'd want
Is to doze off in the theater's cushioned velvet seats.

Loving you
Is like seeing a play
That's so ****** familiar
It makes you sick to think of watching it again
And yet
You'll never know how it feels
To watch it from backstage --
Not that you'd ever want to.

Because loving you
Is like loving the void, --
A black hole, that sits and swallows up everything
At your dinner table.
You'll say that you hate it
Curse its name as it ***** up
Your beef roast
Your silverware
Your fine china
Begging for dessert
Just before it latches on to your arm.
But deep down, you know
You'll just keep feeding it
Mindlessly tossing useless solutions in its direction
To satiate its beastly appetite.

You'll hurl things at it
With ferocious anger
Sneer
At its revolting belch.
"Don't ask me for anything else," you'll mumble as you skulk away
Only to press the reset button
And start setting the table
For the next day.

But I'll never think any of these things
Because loving you
Is looking as deep as you can
And finding...
Nothing.
Nothing!
Nothing...

Truly
Loving you
Is like loving a black hole.

There's something about the poets

That leaves them wakeful

At midnight... and thereafter.


Perhaps it's because the blackness

Speaks like artful despair

Pitch dark

With just enough silvery input

From the stars

To perhaps stir up some inspiration.


Perhaps it's the romantics' glimmer of hope

As they hold their drooping eyes open

Wishing for the constellations

To write their stories for them.


Perhaps it's that those who feel alone

Fall in love with the moon

And her solitary beauty

So they search for ways to sing her praises

Before going off to cast their own light.


Perhaps these are some of the reasons why

Poets retire late

And rise later

Drawing funny looks

From the disciplined.


Perhaps it's not quite crazy --

In fact, it's quite normal

When you zoom in on a world full of wordsmiths

Churning out art beneath a blanket of dark.

Because sleep is not our muse --

Night herself is.

If she is hungry

Then we'll let her starve

For longing

Is a beautiful expression

On the face of a pretty, young girl.


If she is cold

We'll wrap her in white

Over her paper-doll arms

Dancing-girl legs

Porcelain-baby face.


We'll spare her from mummification

By peeling away those first layers

Just to reveal more white, adorned underneath

Pure as ****** snow.


We'll never speak

Of those dark shadows

Over smooth, breakable skin, so fair

For we shall make a gentleman wonder

If she wears proudly her shadows

If she has on her pantyhose.


If she becomes yours

We'll show everyone

If only for a moment

Just what a prize you have won.

Such a lovely, hungry, pure, feminine face

Beneath that age-old veil.


But don't you worry, son!

As soon as you taste those wanting, red lips

You can lower that veil as you wish

Decide the form she shall take

As one who is yours

To feed, clothe, flaunt, hide

However you please.


But until then...


If she is hungry

We'll let her starve

Just to make her wait.

You shine, just a crescent

And it pulls at my tide.

You wax and you wane

Every move leaves me hypnotized.

Smile and eyes glow quicksilver

Yank at the strings

Set my heart to overflow.

Gods in stars shine down

Smirking at the thought

Of things they already know.

You descend into shadow

Oh, love, don't be so shy!

I adore you so deeply

I swear

My heart breaks

When dusk says goodbye.

Please

Make me a machine

Because I am sick of it hurting

When people use me like one.

Please

Make me a robotic heart

Because I am sick of mine

Loving and forgiving.

Please

Rebuild me with metals

Because I would rather dent

Than break completely.

Please

Make me a machine

Because I am sick of thinking

That I deserve better.

Oh, Morning Glory Girl, I  love you so.

Little sunrise flower, more innocent

Than she knows, trying to soak up  the light

Of those gone gray, my sweet Morning Glory

Girl, her bright petals start shrinking away.


Oh, Morning Glory Girl, I hate you so.

Vegan vultures feed on your innocence

You bask in the attention of corrupt

Beaks. They do not love you, Morning Glory

Girl, they just want a meal, but you're starving

For that kind of love, so you're happily

Used, every little bloom, chewed up, spat back out.


Oh, Morning Glory Girl, I miss you so.

As midnight settles in, you're all but gone

Every petal, wasted away, all for

Naught. The vultures crow over your frail frame

And hot rage boils within my grieving veins.

By the light of the moon, I mourn and mourn.

How could you do this, Morning Glory Girl?

Such lovely petals, all given away

Only to be torn! You're nothing but stem

Vegan vulture food, nothing left to see.

Who would guess that such a lovely flower

Would become a beast like me? I must go

May both of us carry on, grow something

Brand new. But remember, Morning Glory

I will never forget who I once was

Such an innocent flower, just like you.

I'll smile for you with bitter insides, love.

Sincerely, this jaded, grieving nightbloom.

He stands next to me in the grocery aisle

A migrant from who-knows-where.

He's just like me, I suppose

An unknown guest

A visitor, with a scarcely-filled cart.

Perhaps I'd pay him no mind at all

If he didn't stand close enough to me

To at least be an acquaintance.

He lingers at my side

Too comfortable to be considered a newcomer.

I shuffle away, bag of flour in hand

Ensure that he is but a sojourner.

Later, though

He finds me in the checkout line

Eyes mysterious

Lips telling.

"Need any help with those bags?"

Brain frozen in discomfort, I shrug.

"Sure."

So we walk to the car

His hands on my bags

Mine on my keys

As we venture across the parking lot.

I pop the trunk

Wondering how I'd feel

If I had been helped by a female instead.

Still, I help this man

Try not to misjudge

As we silently put away my finds.

In my mind, however

I continue to evaluate and second guess

Not for the first time, I wonder:

"Is this kindly stranger friend or foe?"

Sometimes, it looks like lenience.

Small passes for big faux pas.


Many believe that it's absolution

Locking themselves in boxes periodically

To cry out, bleeding painful catharsis.


Some sneak it in with charity

Use compassion as a puppet in their mercy show

Throw underhanded in the name of grace.


Some offer it when they're bruised and broken

Spit out blood, then turn the other cheek.

Others give it away with full bellies and warm hands

Either out of purity

Or some nefarious need, pushed down deep.


And I wonder and wander all the while

For I am the fool

Who begs to receive

But can not give.

"Oh!

Tell me!

What is wrong with you?"

Well

I think that lightning

Struck somewhere

Caught my blood on fire

Bent my body

Like tree limbs.


"Oh!

Tell me!

What can I do?"

Well

I'm trying to put this fire out

With gallons of black tea.

Maybe you should just

Try to pick those fallen branches

Up off the ground

If you want to be a part

Of the disaster relief.


"Oh!

Tell me!

Why are you made of thunderstorms?"

Well

I'm thinking it's genetic

Or maybe the price I have to pay

For the tilting angle

Of my brain.

But don't you worry

About this sporadic bit of lightning.

After my hurricanes

Sunshine always comes.

Yes, it does.

With this brush in my hand

I paint new visions

New possibilities

New forms of escape.

It can not be denied

That I am an artist.


It's a tool

Not a weapon

A medium in which I have control

Complete autonomy

If only for the day.


It's not an advertisement.

No part of me is for sale

Now or ever.


I'm not being dishonest

By choosing how I present myself

Nor is it about you.

This reflection is artwork

Any interpretation is all your own.


It's all a product of my own liberty

And it runs much deeper

Than you might want to admit.


Within these simple brushstrokes, I run free

An untamed beast

With brightly-painted claws.



I am not caged

By the stripes that I create.

October 20, 2018


I've spent this year

Learning how to deal.

This isn't melodrama

Just the truth

Condensed into just a few words

To express a vastness

Guaranteed to fill a few pages.


Like all years, it's been bittersweet.

I've fallen down

Tripped up

Left a bruise

Quite a few times.

But, of course

You have to fall --

Maybe even bleed a little --

In order to teach yourself

The triumph

Of bringing yourself

Back to your feet.


I've stood in front of a lot of mirrors

Most of them metaphysical

Truly getting to know the girl

On the other side.

The more we talk

The more I like her.

She's a hot mess sometimes, sure

But she's kind of a cool person to have coffee with.

She doesn't look like she used to, not at all

Especially when she's obviously trying to do better.

She still chews her tongue a bit

When she admits that she's wrong

And she's so very shy

When I ask her what to do

And she responds:

"I don't know."

I should tell her that I love her

A lot more often this year.


I've found that the heart is a wonderfully strange instrument

And that the soul is not an *****

But is something very, very real.

I've found that the former

Is as good at persevering

As it is at making messes

And that the latter

Is something all-too-useful

In the modern world.


I've found that most friends are fairweather

And, often, so am I.

I still hold out hope

That, maybe one day

I'll discover loyalty

That can be truly permanent.


Lastly, I've found that poetry

Is a beautiful vessel

Worth so much more

Than worrying about boys

Through a series of rhymes.

It's quickfire, artful catharsis

Freeing a caged dove

With words that make me feel

As if I can make my writing soar.

It's filled to the brim with love

And laughter

And tears

And imagination

And anger

And fear

And reflection

Just like these passing years.


And with every one I finish

I long for many more.

Every day

Is Judgement Day

Here in Purgatory

Where we weave

The End Times

Into our bedtime stories.


We stake claim

On what is ours

Sign our name

Cross our T's.


We seek approval

From higher-ups

Yet care not

About earthly kids

Or the lives of trees.


You see, though we're large

We care about the little things.

That's what makes us pure.


Should you tell us otherwise

We'll let you burn below

For sure.

In times of silence
Look around
And ask the generation before you
If they remember...

When 'tragedy' wasn't a part
Of our daily vocabularies
Tossed around as freely as 'love' or 'die.'

The first time they heard the royal court cackle
And tell the pawn just what he was
Unaware that they, too
Were just disposable pieces
Of a horribly trivial game.

The time when words meant something
Could often be trusted
Weren't just poker-faced masks
Placed ill-fittingly
Over a lifeblood of insincerity.

The very day when everything changed
Innocence and security withering away
Before falling down like autumn leaves
Left on the simmering ground
To turn black and rot.

The exact moment they learned
Nothing would ever be the same.

The quiet of the aftermath
When they wiped away tears
And pushed themselves into the warmth
Of a loved one's embrace.

When that dear loved one
Soothed them
With sickly sweet naivety
Assured them
That they wouldn't live through another war
That this world was too beautiful
To **** before knowing who was at fault
And the guilty world
Went silent again.

Then, to break the silence that comes after
Ask if they remember
The day you were born.

A hurricane blows in

Where is she?


The rain soaks through

Where is she?


The ground goes dry

Where is she?


The grass is gonna die

Where is she?


It's too humid to wear black

Where is she?


My allergies are back

Where is she?


The falling leaves are lazy

Where is she?


Mother Nature must be crazy

Where is she?


My birthday starts to near

Where is she?


Halloween's almost here

So where is she?


The hummingbirds decide to stay

Where is she?


My patience goes away

Where is she?


I think she's running late

Where is she?


Autumn, I really don't like to wait

Where are you?

He is carved from marble

And I

The selfish sculptor

Want to dig into him

Like clay.


Everyone around me

Who sees my face

Hears my voice

Brushes my skin

Promptly speaks of ice

And yet, I swear

If he would just cast a ray in my direction

I'd be warmed all the way through.


I talk like obsidian

When really

Every bone

Every feeling that I have

Threatens to send me crumbling

Like porcelain.

The sickness in me

Leaves me aching for him to break me

And yet

He already has.


I want to pick his diamond brain

Pull it all apart

Plant a piece of myself

Where he won't notice it.


I want to cover him like paint

Piece all his parts together like a puzzle

Make him remix me like a song

Rearranging every inauthentic part

Until I'm just another one of his masterpieces.


...And I could write a million odes to him

In the ink of this cowardly weapon

And it would never change the fact

That his destiny's spoken for already.

You say I'm golden

I say, "that's a lie."

I'm sun-dappled at most

Yet you still smile

In the shadows of my light.

My bad moods loom, solstice

Too often, I ache for heat.

Still, you speak of my radiance

When I feel like a garish Vegas effigy.

In the end, though

I'll let your illusions be.

But, love

Even if you think I'm light's zenith

Being your star

Is enough for me.

I'm going to go ahead and get this out of the way.

I'm telling you now

A warning, before you drive over the tracks

Into racing-pulse-risktaking land

That you will never be the heart

Thud-thud-thudding in my chest

Pumping my blood and keeping me chugging along

That vessel of a cliche.

I'm not so easy

Predictable

Malleable

Boring

Dumb

Naive

To entrust you with keeping it going

Leaving something so vital

In hands that could stop tick-tick-ticking

At any moment

Like a dead clock.

I'm sorry, my dear

But that particular piece of tissue

Is one that is mine and only mine

Never to be cradled by another.

But before you turn away from the crossing

I'd like to offer another disclaimer.

There are other parts of me

That can be shared

Budding blooms growing every-which-way

Perhaps requiring two sets of hands

In order to be adequately nurtured.

If you truly find it crucial

You might push your way into my being

Become a mark branded onto my existence

Fading at a snail's pace

If I'm ever so lucky

To have it fade at all.

If you wish to cross these tracks without looking both ways

You could find yourself

Close to my heart, if not within it

Swimming in my lonely blue veins

A constant reminder that we're both here

Warm

Safe

Guarded.

You could be my sweet tooth

That impassioned affinity for something that may or may not be around

At any given time.

You could be a fold of my painfully enigmatic brain

Find yourself at home amongst all the love and anger and secrets

Push past the useless facts and fly-away ideas

Hold me tight 'til you squeeze me into a headache.

You could even be part of my oh-so-problematic blood

Nourish me

To love and to cherish

In motion and in rest

Know for sure that

Should one of us rip off the dreaded universal Band-Aid

And bid the other adieu

You'll be sure to leave a dark anemic bruise

A reminder for who-knows-how-many days to come

Of who you are

And what we were.

All precautions aside

I'll let you go on your way

With this one condensed admonition:

You, and every other person to whom I'll ever send a silvery come-hither glance

Will never stake claim

On my heart

Filling and releasing

Constantly reminding me of an identity all my own

Never shaped like a Valentine.

It doesn't mean that you aren't important

When you can, in fact

Find your own empty space in anything else

But remember:

At the end of the day

Blue veins go pale

Bruises fade

And I'm in charge of what's in my own lifeblood.

Even the most grueling marks on my skin and soul

Made by malevolence and cruel intent

Will surely heal

With the help of sweet time

And this trusty heart of mine.

If you're fine with this

By all means

Cross these rickety rails.

I'll see what I can do.