finally wrote a poem about me that is nice.
was nice...
will be nice -  
when you stop pitying me.

one nice poem out of
many, many hateful
poems.

you write more flowery than me
maybe even better
i feel that i should struggle with that
be angry with you
my little
sister
taking one more thing that is mine and making it yours

it is ok.
if it makes you happy, makes you feel better, makes you smile, makes you feel accomplished, makes you feel smart, and
ok,
then
it is
ok.
it is even
good. maybe you even need it more than i do.

maybe i don't even need it anymore.
i don't know what i need.
i don't know where my reason went.
i just know that if you are happy,
no matter how disillusioned you are in your happiness,
it is
o
k.

i keep thinking how interesting the inside of my head would look agains my dorm room wall
the taste of cold metal in my mouth
i imagine it would be
quite a sight

in my refusal
i am blantantly womanlike  
i want what i say i do not
i don't want you to convince me
i want you to spontaneously take me
somewhere you think i would like

i am ashamed of my scheme
especially that you are oblivous of it

he gives up on me
too easily
and to my own device i sink.

it's like my life froze in the month of march.

she came in like a lion and centered my entire universe around one person
instead of centering myself
in this universe
that constantly bucks back and forth
trying to tip me off balance...

it finally succeeded.

my compass abandoned ship on the way down
and when i woke up
i realized i didn't know where i was
and had no means of setting a course

now all i have is a boy.
and i don't know where i'm going with him
i don't know how i got to a place where another human is the center for my gravity

i wonder if the sun ever thinks
"how did i end up here?
revolving around some toxic earth...
tricked into giving it warmth?"

my calender has cemented to the wall
march 2014
dusty
abandoned
i stopped noticing the passing of months
or caring

i don't know where my life is going
i'm no longer the one that navigates.

i used to sleep in class

rest my head on my hands
try to stretch my tired back -
exhausted soldier of education
too many 50 minute battles
and borrowed pencils

calves sore from trudging up stairs
pale from the white-lit classrooms
chronic dry mouth from the limp sleep
that we all knew too well

do i want to go back?
do i have the endurance
to stay this time
will i know unless i try?

clutching for knives
in the dark of the kitchen
"what are you doing?"
"nothing."

never used
a serrated edge
it works
too well