This poem is like one large knot.
I'm failing to unravel my thoughts;
Struggling to get my point across.

This poem isn't right.
Mulling the feelings over all night.
Revising only to continue to revise.

This poem isn't what I want it to be.
Typing it out before pressing delete.
Leaving each line incompl-

if he asks who i was to you
glance sideways & lie a little
exaggerate my mistakes &
laugh with him about my shortcomings
then feign bewilderment at the question

if he asks why you skip that song every time
lie a little & say it doesn't play all the way
through anyway but don't
tell him it was our lullaby for the rainy nights

if he asks how big it was
don't hurt his self-esteem
lie just a little bit & tell him
i had chapped plump lips carved from **** roast
a long curved nose like the scroll of a violin
& a heart like a busted squirrel cage
but omit the weeks we spent sprawled naked
on peyote friction furniture digging
our toenails into the floor

when he asks you what you're thinking
don't hint at the nostalgia
buried in your eyes & throat

if he asks what you're writing
on the edge of the bed first thing in the morning
lie a little lean down & kiss him
but never show him the dream journal
you stole from me & are keeping
as your own now

if he wonders aloud how you got those scars
after months of seeing you naked
tell him a little lie & never whisper
the names i gave them that first night
when i kissed your whole body

don't ever show him the tearstained
underside of your pillow &
act like you've forgotten my name
when he claims you say it
in your sleep most nights

if he corners you after work one day
& demands to know who i was
distract him
tell him you love him
& **** him right there in the kitchen
so he forgets to ask about the extra toothbrush in the shower
or the old flannel work-shirt hanging on your side
of the closet that smells like nothing he's ever smelled on you before

when he forgets your favorite flower
on your ******* birthday just shrug &
blow him in the car on the way to his parents' house
so that he never wonders about
your finger on the trigger of the gun at his head

let him fill the spaces i left between your fingers with his fingers
let him plaster the hole in your chest with new promises
let his toned shirtless testosterone replace my warm soft flesh beside you in bed
let his brass belt buckle be more comfortable for your angelic head
than my bare waist
let him replace the lingering scent of my insecurity with the new stench of his over-confidence

eventually he will learn to ignore the way you
twitch when he says my favorite curse word

eventually you will forget how my
bare feet used to tie into yours on the sofa

come & find me
i've left my phone plugged
into the wall because i can't feel
you breathe through your fingertips
and i can't read your lips through emoji
your belly-button doesn't look right shrouded
in 8 mega-pixel dust and i want to touch you instead
of a keyboard on a screen and tell you about my day because
even though it's written doesn't mean it's real meet me offline because
i don't want a five second snapchat victory snapshot of your *****-line
i don't want my silly romantic poetry to be re-grammed on your insta
framed against a picturesque city skyline or a stoic mountain lion
with hashtags and sexting doesn't turn me on like the sound of
your voice i can write you letters until my fingers bleed but
they always arrive seven days late and you never cry
when you cut them open with a knife and i'm not
looking for a pen pal anyway or a friend
instead i seek a mirror with glowing
teeth or an outlet to plug
into and charge
me up

Dreams do indeed come true
But not often by chance,
Mostly it comes down to
Hard work, perseverance.
Who counts on destiny,
Who never really tries,
Alas may never see
Any dreams realised.

For life owes us nothing
No matter how we yearn.
If we want anything
Then it has to be earned.
Life is what we make it,
Our dreams are like that too,
Without working for it
Dreams will never come true.

So if you have a dream
You would like to come true
The outcome it would seem
Depends largely on you.

I'm a complainer who shows the world a mask, carved from the most skilled of hands.
I'm not truly me.
I'm a cover up.
A fake.
But that's ok, because I don't  even know me.

it's three in the morning
and i'm wanting
nothing
but
to feel
something
that's unfamiliar
like the heat of december.