Unlovable?
At first I thought it was a label assigned to me
showing in the way I sit alone in crowds of people
laughing at jokes I don't find funny
and allowing myself to remain static.

Unlovable.
And then it was a challenge
a
'how can I make you like me today?'
'what do I need to do?'
Because of course it was all my fault.
That all others could find was fault in me.
No longer rigid static,
but yielding conformity
my personalities clashing
but crafted with artisan flair.

Unlovable!
A prideful statement.
Untouchable.
Bitterly, bitterly free
from all expectations
placed on me.
Singular.
Alone.
Strong in solidarity.
Perhaps not lovable to you;
but lovable to me.

Fragile fingernails.
Aching fingers.
Black rimmed cuticles.
Red in the valleys.
White in the peaks.

I can't tell if you,
or the music screams louder-
it seems that as I turn the volume up
you are only determined to wail louder,
and higher.
You are destroying us.
We're going to let you.

I'm putting my feelings, body, soul, and words in a box labled "free" on the side of the road, where it dosen't matter if they are taken or run over.

We struck the match, and lit the sun on fire
and now we scream and run
as the clouds crash to Earth around our heads.

Heavy drinking for you,
no sleep for us-
to live in a house of,
empty hallways and crowded rooms
chronic pain and empty gains,
nothing made and nothing changed.
So much lost, so determined
to stay the
same.

Who will you let yourself become when
the world has no end and it stretches into a never ending spiral
draging you down into the snap ending of forever

When three of us come upon the narrow part of the sidewalk
I'll always drop behind you two. Three, four, or seven.
Always stay at the back of the group, count your group members and protect them, and yourself.
I love someone who dosen't question and just walks ahead of me-
but I'm still waiting for someone to let the other person go alone
and walk beside me.

We all are the last dregs of tea,
either bitter and strong,
sweet and grainy,
or filtered to a smooth cream,
there, but faded.

The volume is at full percent, and then some.
If you listen close enough, you can hear a piano in the far, left back row of sounds, shoved clumsily to the side.
The bass shakes my eardrums, so deep the earphones only make a dull hum as an imitation of the mind-shattering sound.
It's a heavy and fast-paced requiem service.
A shame the volume dosen't go louder.

I never, ever, want you to slow down, wait, or stop for me.
I want it to be the other way around-
I want to wait for you, hold the door for you,
run,
walk, and
stop for you.
One day, I'll gesture for you to walk above me,
on the sidewalk, or the concrete step, and I'll hold your hand- helping you balence as I wait in the street.
Not today. Probably not tomorrow.
But someday, I hope you'll let me put you
above me.

It doesn't matter where I am, or who I am with.
If there is no one in the bathroom, or any room really,
I will always knock- to alert the ghosts that someone is there,
in the case that if I were to join them unexpectedly, they would hopefully be kind.

Only empty bags fly
So the message here is to leave
everything, to sacrifice everything,
and sour.

We are all made of papers torn out of our notebooks, drifting.
Drawn emotions and writing nobody will ever see.
And all we want is to be seen and called 'good'.

There is a point
where the stars fall to the Earth
and our voices raise the heavens.
Then there is nothing but our voices-
our prayers pulled down the stars
and now there is nothing left.

I have never prayed as much or as hard,
then when I realized I might not believe in God.

I found a report that I wrote for you,
in 2018.
I don't know the grade it recieved.
Probably a good one- that's why you asked me.
But I know that if our friendship was like the paper,
somehow. Against all the odds,
The paper failed.
I hope you're doing well.
I'm going to let you go now.

Time to change who I am, again.
There has to be someone else with the crippling fear
or being known.

I don't know who faces me in the mirror.
She is very beautiful, face a painted perfection.
My eyes burn and I see hers water in return.
I don't know who we are.
Or who we will be.
But we are beautiful now.

My eyelids are gold.
My lips rosy, and lashes black.
A contrast against light hair.

It's raining, now.
The temptation to go and walk until I cannot stand without shuddering from cold is unbearable.
But my mascara will run, and she will disappear.
And there will be no thick foundation to hide my blush, or eyeliner to mask hysteria.

I have places to be today- so do you.
None of us, none at all, can afford to not be beautiful.
Not today. Not tomorrow.

Only yesterday.