I am not afraid to die.
Maybe it is because
The effort of existing is
Expanding my lungs exponentially
And when they explode,
I will deflate
But I have come to terms
With the fact that
What goes up, must come down.

You wrote to me,
"Do you like being human?"
And I said,
"What else is there?"

I do not believe in God.
God does not believe in me.

I want to carry my mortality
Close to me
To hear it collide with the loose change in my pocket
To check to see if it is still there
When the sun trades places with the moon
And my father smells like coffee.

I like the feeling of
Smoke igniting my throat
Because then I can convince myself
It is only the tobacco
That is eating me from the inside out.

I do not want to be immortal,
The thrill of being alive is that
It is a privilege.

Why do you want to be God?
You will know evil,
My god, you will know evil.
There is no cure,
Not even you
Not even you
But that is okay because
Nothing is good, if everything is good
Nothing is good
Nothing is good.

Let me feel your humanity,
I want to feel
You.
Tell me, do you like being human?
Tell me, what else is there?

i want to dissolve into the sky
without a sound
without anyone noticing my empty space
in the most gentle and subtle way possible
i want to go away from here
i want to walk backwards and save myself
from what inevitability is ahead
i want to leave
i want you
to wish i’d stay

you are endless wordplay recorded over a blank coffeeshop soundtrack. your lips throw out pun after pun, but your throat hums to the ghost of a song you swore you didn't listen to.

you are smiles across the breakfast table, blinking too-little sleep from your too-bright eyes, talking too loudly about how you don't need rest when you can get drunk on life. i laugh quietly. the dark circles give you away, my dear.

you are long nights and warm blankets and repeating "we should go to bed" until it sounds like a joke. it is hard to fall asleep when the blood is singing in my veins and my dreams are coming true right in front of me.

you are soft corners and sharp edges, too strong to stand firm and too fragile to break. your footsteps falter and even your confidence has cracks, but i'll admit it's comforting to know that you're just as scared as i am sometimes.

you are fast-talking and over-explaining, and you never do anything halfheartedly so you are also lying-too-easily. but it's okay i never wanted the truth anyway, i hated how it dimmed the memories and haunted the empty space on my mattress. i like how that space is taken up by the curve of your body instead.

you are called a paradox, white wolf or black sheep, predator and prey at odds and at peace. and you are called downward-flowing, like the way i am falling faster and harder for you. then again, maybe i like metaphors too much. maybe your name is just a name. maybe it's the most beautiful sound i've ever heard.
but i call you love because you are the only reason i have any inkling of what it means.

Poetry is subjective

Relief and escape are relative.
My relief is another's hell.
Some pour their soul into words
Like their body was made to write
Some must force themselves
Into the confines of a word,
Their brain oozing out the top.

Beauty is a man-made concept.
The worth of art
is one soul's opinion.
She digests the poem
As if it is hand made pasta
It slips and slides through her
And she appreciates the chef.

In my body,
It is garbage.
The gritty texture triggers
A gag reflex.
I mash the letters with my teeth.
I cannot force them down.

Poetry is personal

These realizations cannot penetrate
A being who has not been pried open
In preparation.
I am not you,
Nor are you me.
My art is not yours.