I smell like regret, intertwined with sweat.
The Lord's Prayer is resting on my tongue, under my breath.
There's heavy sighing, eyes closed, I's dotted with hearts, X's and O's.

... yet no one knows.

Sometimes I wonder if...
God, I just start to wonder
What is there to wonder when you've wandered to the point of no return?
Thoughts that do not seem bleak and horrid, but more so pointless and dull.
As if color faded away, and lights started to dim.
What do you do?
What are you to do when it feels like you can never win?

I let my emotions plague my soul.
I tend to use a tattered heart and tainted words,
watch it convert into poetry. 

Because poetry is not just words of the mind, but a message of being. 
A formation of subconscious memories from one human being to another. 

Poetry allows us to grow, to prosper. 
Sometimes, all you need to hear is a line that makes your heart stop. A reality check that stirs in motivation. 
However, a phrase could stop the heart, let walls break, the earth shake, and tear us into two. 

Poetry is a tool, to be used for better- or for worse- in order to ignite as all one. 

**Poetry is unity.

I don't think I've ever despised myself more than I ever have in this very moment.

I let myself crave you,
I let myself fall for you,
I broke for you.

I yearned for you like a small child staring into a candy store-
To look at not to touch-

But, oh, did I touch and did every touch feel like a sudden and overwhelming flame.
A desire so bright that it could light the darkest of hearts.

Too bad it burned your own heart in the process.

I had coffee on my breath when our lips first intertwined.
Short,
Detached,
But not urgent.

Our second was a surprise-
Something that quite literally caught me off guard.
A whirlwind of emotions soon followed.
Happiness.
Relief.
Confusion.
Everything, but a sense of contentment.

A mask and a face are virtually the same to me and whenever everything comes crashing around me, it's not the mask the leaves but the face that bleeds, leaving perforated scars as masqueraded lies, and I will swear to you that I am fine.

Because nothing really matters if the trees are still green, or if the sky is the most vibrant shade of blue, because we are not the kind of species to bleed out cries of "please-
bring some type of change!"

But I am not the typical human, I need change like I need the rain for life to bloom. I need change like I need you- the careful grasp on the wrist, guiding me like the watchful mother I will always love.

But I do not see things in the way that others breathe. I do not think purely for me. I desire another's happiness- to see the joy spread across that face like they're children who perceive the world like a giant candy store through huge lenses.

What does that mean? Perceiving oneself to be different. Am I truly unique like a rare gem in a desolate cave, or rather, does that make me a humanistic vessel wandering around in this huge world?

So, I don’t remember the last time I did something extravagant and cheesy for you. I just kinda want to do something nice, that will let you know how much I care about you. So uhm, bring on the sappy romance?

"There must be something in the way you look at me- some days I feel like our eyes collide like a billon galaxies- there is so much going on, but I don’t ever want to look away.
Each glance is always mesmerizing, like the type of glimpse between two awkward summer lovers on the steepest of braes.

When I look into those eyes, do you know what I see? I see a second chance at life- a life that would be anything but mediocre, something that is meant to be cherished, to be shared.

(As cheesy as this sounds) I want nothing more than the share the love that I have for you, with the entire world. If I could scream it to the heavens, I would, but I’ll just whisper it in your ear, because my heaven is planted on this earth, two feet in front of me within arm’s reach.

Somedays I wonder if you know how much you truly mean to me. Because I am happy. Happiness tends to be lies shrouded in bitter smiles, but with you it’s this tangible thing. A thing with wings that could make even the darkest of souls sing.

I know it’s stupid. I know it’s stupid to get so attached to someone, especially to someone who could walk away within a matter of moments. Anyone can. I could blink, and you could be gone. So I’ll tape my eyes open and try not to sleep, because what if you’re not there next to me?

So here’s a few words from you to me- endless thoughts like a vivid dream- everything that I see. Everything I would like us to.

A reality.

I have jumbled up and troubled thoughts that could pierce an ocean. 
Thoughts that swirl inside my cortex like a raging whirlpool, thoughts I cannot escape. 

And the anxiety will bury me, bury me further inside than my vessel ever will. 
So much, in fact, that I can feel my soul attempting to escape from this body... This... Meat sack that never was or ever will become "me."

So tonight, I will hide. I will hide my mind in the sky- full of all the stars and galaxies and will fill my head with thoughts of shinning stars, and things that'll allow me to break free. 

Because you see-

*I just need a little space to breathe.

What is between your thighs? Empty stares hidden behind masks of confused faces, those who are brave enough to speak out.

Wavering hesitation in the questioning of names, locations, attractional appeal.

Do I even seem real?

Does my body "pass" the notion binaries with lingering questions of male? Female?

Of course, but who am I to decide the way I should live my life, or how I've "become" when I've shedded the skin of someone I once was.

I am nothing, if not a charade.

You could call me a poet, yet interpret it as someone who sways with the wind.
You could call me a musician, and say I will "not amount to much in life."
You could call me an artist, and take your words and twist them into some lifeless art, and shove them into a splattered canvas.

I am not my occupation.
I am not a name.

I am a roaring fire of determination, a surging wind in a desert storm.
I am will power, from the strongest of humans, manifested into one single human being.

I will not be defined by minuscule things built by anguish and concern.
I will not be tormented by sleepless nights and pity.
I will not break, nor will I crumble from the pressure of a thousand rocks slipping from under me.

I will fight for the words I write and the souls I attempt to heal, because god knows, writing and healing are the only things I've ever been good at.

So here I am, patiently. Escaping in the mulitude of thoughts you brought upon me.
I must thank you- you're making all the difference.

Cross the line into my heart, and mark it with an X.
For I am yours, and nothing in this world can make me believe in anything less.
Less than perfection, less than the air I breathe, and the words I speak.
I am totaled in this underlying affliction, between pain and glory, surrounded in little words that no one seems to speak.
So here I am, and there you stand.
Standing in the rain that douses you like falling pins and needles, I see you, and you see me.

For that, I am sorry.

Because I am the X that holds you together, the glue that fashions paper bones and weathered hearts. I breathe, and you breathe.

You see, you and I are rattled together in an endless cycle.
A singularity, if you will.
And as dangerous as things may seem, or may come to be...
I wouldn't have it any other way.

Because you are the X that stole my heart.

If you were to ask me what my name is, I would hesitate.
I would hesitate for I know not how to respond.
My name is not of my own, but a faded thing, like a memory or a dream.
A memory of who I used to be, or rather, who I never was, who everyone else dreamed me to be.
I am not my name.
I am not something to rely on when things go wrong.
I am not the things forced within a heart.
I am not the thing that keeps most breathing.
I am not Hope.

I am not partial the cold in my bones, the muscles that quake, or the shiver that trails down the spine.

*But these are the things that let me know I'm alive.

She has,
Copper skin and blood that runs red like little rivers.

She is,
Terrified of what is inside and who she is, only because she is rejected by what she is, and whom she has become.

She faces the lie of "I am fine", and thoughts that plague the fill-in-the-answer, dotted lines, crossed I's and dotted t's that scream: "I'm only tired."

She is tired.
She is tired of lies forced upon her body like scars that engrave in her brain. She is tired of the lack of determination, the learned helplessness of failing and failing and failing again.

She is tired of the elongated sighs and eyes trickled with crocodile tears.

She is tired of the future that leaps out before her, yet is so far out of her grasp.
Yet, she is tired of the haunting past, so she sits on the corner of "Where and when?" as if waiting for an old friend.

She waits for a friend that will never arrive. Time and time will pass by, until the moment her heart leaps out of her chest and into the bottom of the sea, where she longs to be free.

So in words shrouded in darkness and fear she writes the words and listens to poems that read, "My Dear," in hope that the aching of her chest will cease the blood orange rivers from tainting her copper skin.

She vows that one day she will win.

But one day is not today. So she continues to sit on the corner of "Where and when?"

Where will you life begin, you dandelion rose? When will your life begin?