What sweet youth this is
to slowly wilt at eighteen.
Where in twenty years I will be
thirty-eight.
I wonder what my hands
will feel like then.

Rougher?
Softer?
Kinder, or maybe the exact
opposite?

How many paintings will they
have created by then?
How many countries would my
eyes have seen?
How many men would I have
chosen to lay with?
How many decisions would I
have taken?

How many things bought and broken.
How many of those will I save.
How many memories will I forget in
twenty years that now seem so
unforgettable.
Legendary.

How much of my life will I regret?
How much will be left by then?

To mend what I have broken.
To throw away what should not have been kept.
To take a pottery class and learn
how to finally mold myself.

To Remember.

Today while I was at work I saw a little girl grab some candy from the shelf and shake it in front of her mom to make sure she didn't forget to buy it. As she inched closer to the counter where I was scanning all of the items all I could see were the little girls eyes and the hands that hung on to the edge of the counter. She was so tiny and was still holding the candy in her hand, so excited. Liberated.

I don’t know why that made me so nauseous but all I knew was that this little girl was given a handful of years on this earth just like me. In that instant all I really wanted to do was stop time for this little girl that I knew absolutely nothing about and give her that opportunity to enjoy her candy bar to the very last crumb and let her lick clean the left-over smudged chocolate on her small fingers and small corners of her mouth.

I hope it pleases you to know that she did enjoy it, I didn't need to stop time for her to manage that. As kids, we don’t really have that extreme perception of time and maybe that’s what so beautiful about childhood and also what’s so tragic about what comes after.

I thought this girls whole life in a matter of seconds and I grew to appreciate that little girl. But she will never know this,  she will never know who I am, nor will she ever think of me again. But by the time she left the store I found myself hoping her life is everything she wants it to be.

The human life is a curious thing.
And what makes us,
is as fleeting as it’s brought.

And those moments?
we're all of them.
And we carry each one,
everywhere we go.

Every day,
is filled with them.
And every night,
is a funeral.

For the memories
and the moments
that will never repeat.

Sit in bed
and realize
the continuity of time.

And that insomnia,
is simply the inability to
*let go.

These are the kind of thoughts that I feel like I need to swallow
because they're on a level of pathetic that I can't even admit to myself.
It's that level of pathetic that really makes a person naked.

The deep dark corners of a person.
It's the trigger of the first tear.
And it all boils down to you.

Your simple acknowledgment of self scares me.
Your self-awareness kills me because
it brings you closer to realizing
that you can do better than me.

*And then what do I do
with this epic love I feel for you?

Talk to me about research I'm ignorant of,
tell me what you think of it
and then ask me about it to
make sure I'm listening.
Keep me on my toes with intelligence,
I'll be sure to repay you with the equivalent.

Entice me.
Flirtation can be the best weapon if you
know how to make the conversation
sufficiently intoxicating.
Try it.
Do it with me.

It's only when you can **** me
without laying a hand on me,
that I will ever fantasize about
really surrendering myself
to you

having me.

Here darling,
rest your neck on my knife
and I'll cut us both a slice of peace.