to attempt to preface you
would require the assistance of
the entirety of the languages in the world.

there simply isn't a single way to preface how
your eyes will look when the light of a summer sunset slices across the park
the way your arms will feel on a chilly winter night in front of a coffee shop
the sound of your giggle and the expression of horror that dawns on you as you realize what you sounded like
my heart races and face flushes when you direct your considerable amount of focus onto me
or even how someone so lovely can suddenly slip into silence
when whatever thoughts that have been flowing
are suddenly too much
and you power down.

to attempt to preface you
would be a foolish endeavor;
however, I'll try anyways,
for what is an epic tale
without an introduction?

I am a pool of unfathomable depths;
dive in with caution or I may just
swallow you whole.

i feel a rumble in my chest
and a jitter in my leg;
my hackles are raised
and my bared teeth aren't just a jest.

you think i'm a *****?
you haven't seen anything yet;
your words bit too much so revel in that cold sweat
'cause this rising whine is just the right pitch
to make you crumble, to make you humble.

don't think about coming near my makeshift pack, coalesced.

i gravitate towards you
like a dusky desolate deposit of dirt
to its glimmering counterpart
of lapis lazuli, ridden with veins of gold

i reach and reach
to no avail
and i watch as you spin quickly away
stumbling and straightening before slipping into another stagnant spiral

how do i catch up to one
so quickly moving amongst the stars?
celestial bodies they may be
but i am a mere moon, reflecting light for your gaze

i can feel my muscles expanding and stretching
tendons taut with tension and
heart pounding and pounding away at the pavement
as i move forward and grasp outwards to you

but a mere millimeter of air becomes solid
and my knuckles crash against nothingness
instead of the warmth of your palm
which i'm not truly sure was even there to begin with

the darkness of this dying universe
is colder and more derelict than i have the capacity
to understand; and so i curl inwards
alone amongst pebbles and freely floating matter

because a moon without a planet
is simply an orb named vesta
or a goddess called hestia:
frequently forgotten and oft omitted
by those who claim to be scholars of myth, keepers of lore
and by extension, the very children she presided over
overseer of life and hearth nevermore.

no matter how far you stray
no matter how far you fall
no matter how lost you get
no matter how many times
                    you hit the wall

I will always love you
from the bottom of my heart
greek gods carved me into a bottle
that will never run empty or fall apart

your tongue can be sharp
but I know your true intent
your aim is focused at your head
what else could you have meant?

I know you only want to hurt yourself
and what's better than the sweet torture of
hurting the person who holds your heart?
my dear, no more tears. you are the one that I love.

I’m a bit lonely.
I want to trace your hipbones and the dips in your spine
and the shape of your lips and eyes and brows
and count the flecks of amber in your irises.
I want to tangle into an awkward mess of limbs
before settling into a perfectly positioned jumble
and simply breathe and be with you as you are.
I want to knit a hand in your hair while the other thumbs your collarbone
and press my cold toes into your calves until they warm up,
while hiding under the blankets like kids in a fort.
(they always say we grow up too fast;
maybe that’s why we always long for our childhoods in the end
and cling to each other in the dark
when no one else is around to quiet
the panic that a night terror brings.)
But you’re nowhere near and I’m right here,
flying solo in a bed that’s far too big,
and I’m a bit lonely.

let your I love yous spill forth
as if you could never hope to hold them back
(sliding through the fingers covering your mouth
and drenching your shirt in the sickly sweet mess
of metaphors and half-formed thoughts
and the sincerest of compliments).
do not use them as bandages
to wrap the temporary wounds life inflicts
(for life will always contain pain
and I'd rather you tell me you love me
because you cannot stand not to
than because you think hearing it may help).

i tremble before You as my knees hit the tile and my vision flickers out.
i cannot see and i cannot hear and my body is curling in on itself
and i pray that everything will be okay and that i won’t black out on this bathroom floor.
i grip the toilet seat and i am engulfed in nothingness, wrapped in black wool,
and a voice calls out from far away; i focus everything i have on hearing it.
(if you’re still able to hear, you can’t be dead yet.)
i can’t speak. but i listen to the voice and nod against the plastic and porcelain and try not to heave up stomach acid.
i cling to my consciousness and i count backwards and forwards in my head and
there You are and everything is tinted blue and i look at myself and i am pale and new
and it is the most terrifying thing i’ve ever seen.

the sand is rich and dark-- lovely to look at, but disgustingly cold and sticky to the touch
the waves are frothy and harsh and you can tell by the slap of water upon water that they would sting if you waded in
one lone gull circles overhead, stark against the impenetrable grey that is the sky

you leave footprints along the damp ground, dancing just out of reach of the unforgiving sea
and the fog rolls in when you blink.
however,
there is no lighthouse
for sailors lost
on this shore.

one thing I’ve been unable to completely reconcile
is the ability for humans to turn cheek when one’s face simply crumples.
you know the moment
when the muscles around the lips tense and their throat tries to work as they begin to squint.
there’s a harsh inhalation and then the eyes well up with tears.
the cheeks flush and the nostrils flare and all you can see is suffering,
from the way their shoulders tense then droop
and to the raw defeat that washes off them in waves.
how does one merely avert their gaze when this happens?
how does one not immediately attempt to console the sufferer?
how does one manage to swivel around and walk away,
shoulders hunched, head down, hands balled in pockets,
one more slump of misery and the picture of one that has weathered just a few too many storms,
when there is no greater act of kindness than to extend an offering of faith
and perhaps some meager comfort to those that suffer?

how do we sleep at night when
our friend, our neighbor,
our child, our parent,
our coworker, our teacher,
our fellow human being
can crumple before us
and we do nothing to help?

I wish I could mend it for you
and I wish you’d look in the mirror and see
past the tear-stained cheeks and the flushed skin,
and the neat little slices through skin on your wrists,
and the dilation of your pupils, marking you as artificially uninhibited,
and the scrapes up your arms and the bruises on your shins.

I wish you’d see the life beneath these things;
the blood being forced through arteries and veins and capillaries,
and rhythmic thumping that presses your life source
through the tunnels inside you
over and over and over,
just like the tide meeting the shore
and the day cycling into night
and the thumping of feet on a city street.

I wish you’d look and you’d love what you see
whether it’s the curve of your thighs or
the cowlick in your hair or
the way your eyes crinkle when you smile or
the freckles sprinkled across your nose or
the way your fingernails grow or
even your belly button.

I wish you’d feel like you were alive
and that whatever it was that you were going through
would eventually slip away into the history books.
This too shall pass, they say,
and they’re right.

I wish you could see that
this moment will pass
and your happiness will come
and it will flit away
and come back differently
but that’s okay.

I wish you could see that we’re in flux
(our lives are in flux
our emotions are in flux
our ideas are in flux
our inspiration is in flux
and you are alive and kicking and in flux)
and you are big and brave and better than you can imagine
and please don’t leave here
because a world without you isn’t much of a world at all
and you’re worth so much more than
the sadness and hatred and anger and frustration and anxiety
that makes the tears leak from your eyes and
disturbs the peace that you deserve so much.

we are the girls with the short messy hair
we are the boys with the skin tight jeans
we are the children with eyes like stars and smiles like liquid mercury and laughs like cold sunlight on an overcast day
and we are your future.

teach me how to love myself.

show me all the freckles that dot my nose and
show my the way my shoulders look when i stretch.
describe how my fingers feel tracing your skin and
describe the way my voice sounds when i get sleepy.
touch your favorite bones and press your face into
your favorite nooks and crannies;
explain the way my heartbeat sounds and
what i look like when scared.

teach me how to make a home out of this body,
just as you did.

i wish there was something i could do
to keep you here
(safe
warm
willing
happy).

i wish i knew the secret to so many things
so i could make you
laugh
stare
come closer
smile.

i wish i could lie to you,
tell you it's all okay,
tell you it never happened,
it was just a dream, a dream, a dream--
a nightmare where the monsters were fake,
the things crawling inside you, threatening
to spill out and overtake your heart are fake.
(they're fake, darling, they're fakefakefake.)

i wish i could tell you you're
everything you think you're not
(silly
funny
awe-inspiring
beautiful).

but you're not here.
my arms are empty where they once held you.

you say you’re sorry
but, love, that just doesn’t cut it anymore.

i.
the city lights twinkled in every direction around us
as the wind blew and our hair flew and
I spread my arms to fly as you clung to the rooftop.
you apologized on the way downstairs
and I forgave you because not everyone is brave enough to let go.

ii.
you called me, crying and apologizing, late
the night before christmas eve.
I listened to your voice quiver
and your sighs and your shaky inhalations
and I forgave you because I knew you had lashed out while you were hurt.

iii.
I submerged my head for a moment beneath the chlorinated, sloshing mess
and felt the dull yank of the jets and my shorts billow out.
steam billowed off my shoulders and the surface of the water
as I inhaled and looked skyward.
the stars blurred and danced without my glasses
and I forgave you because I knew how terrifying it could be to have only yourself in such a big world.

iv.
my forgiveness scared you and you left yet again.
my heart aches and my head aches and it’s so very hard to sleep.
I wonder if you think about me and if you’re regretful anew
and if you’re biding your time so that I forget the promise you made
to not play this game again.
I will forgive you in time, love,
because I don’t believe in being unhappy over the past,
but you are not excused and you are not forgiven
and no matter how much I adore your freckles and
the way your face lights up when you laugh and
how you feel so deeply and care so ******* much,
despite the fact that I know you’re terrified
and that you don’t know how to operate properly,
you have to clean up the entirety of your messes
before you can slip back into my life.

I love(d) you. but you’ve been quite the daft boy this time.

enough.

your bones are traveling your heart is unraveling
and I don't know how to catch your fall

my lips are trembling my fingers are are assembling
and your tears drip down into my palms

I don't know how to fix this 'cause I don't know what went wrong

we're melting down and I think it's time to skip town
but you can't move and I've been subdued

so goodbye my darling
our paths are finally parting

be sure to bring your bones home with you
when you go

my stomach is churning
i am awake
it is dark
(i can see, though,
my skin is on fire).

there's an unprecedented displeasure
amounting inside me
clawing
thrashing
biting
and the discomfort it causes
is nearly unbearable
as i roll over in the dark
that i can actually see in
because my flesh is aglow with torrid light.

you are a devil and an angel and everything in between
you're a meteor hurtling across the sky and the person in a restaurant making a scene
you are a banker dropping some coins into a homeless man's hat and the **** with the skateboard who nearly knocks him over in the same breath
you have a sweet disposition and eyes that gleam
but you turn around and snap like a wild animal that's been freed.

you draw the attention of masses like moths to a flame
and honestly, it's a real shame
that you can't be more middle of the road
but I guess that's just how these sorts of things go.

The first time you kissed me, we were laying in your bed with you above me and you had been muttering sweet nothings into my ear and against my neck for an eternity. When you made the first move, I was beyond elated. I could still feel all the spots your lips had touched and I felt important and cherished beyond measure. The summer sun spilled through the cracks in the blinds as we tried to avoid the August heat, red-hot like your new hair.

The second first time we kissed, we were sitting in my car with the seats cranked back. The November fog was so thick that I had to drive extra slow, but even then, we had time to spare before I had to drop you off at your aunt’s. The girl you liked so much was being difficult and you two weren’t talking and I honestly didn’t mean to start anything; our lips accidentally brushed while we were in close quarters and neither of us tried to stop. You were so beautiful in the dim light and I remember trying to memorize your face again to no avail. Your eyes would catch the light and I stroked your cheekbones and forehead and chin and nose because there was no way it could really be you back in my arms.

The third first time we kissed, we were blowing raspberries on each others’ skin and you went to blow one on my cheek but missed. I wasn’t sure it had actually happened, but when you ducked back in for another one, I didn’t resist. Your hair slid between my fingers like satin and the heat of your body was comforting in ways that shouldn’t be humanly possible. The December chill kept sneaking under where the blanket would ride up and we would tangle ourselves up in each other after stealing said blanket for a few moments each. Your skin was soft and though you would no longer whisper sweet nothings like prayers into my own skin, I felt wanted and loved and cherished in a way reminiscent of the first time.

don't think about the farmer's market and sitting at cheap plastic tables that felt like they could blow away as easily as a hat in chicago
don’t think about the styrofoam bowls filled with rice and teriyaki chicken that you couldn’t eat and the napkins that always got scattered everywhere
don’t think about the singer under the tent who’d strum and hum and provide the perfect ambience as the sun was getting low in the winter
don’t think about how the burgundy sweatshirt was almost too big for his frame and how it would swamp yours completely, sleeves easily surpassing your fingertips
don’t think about how the buzz of shoppers and shopkeeps merely mirrored the buzz of excitement that radiated between you both
don’t think about the way he’d laugh with a napkin over his mouth and pull his shoulders up, clearly nervous
don’t think about the way his eyes lit up at the mention of certain subjects and how he’d rattle on about them
don’t think about how miserable he seemed at the thought of school but how quietly joyful he became when you said you’d be glad to pick him up after if he’d like
don’t think about how you saw the difference you were making and were so glad to have him so close

but really, just don’t think about how
the sun made you squint and you sat across the cheap plastic table from him in his hated burgundy school sweater with his chicken and rice
and the way you had to tilt your head slightly to hear his soft voice over the rolling energy of the crowd
and that you were allowed to touch again and how you gladly took advantage of that to calm your own nerves
and how you couldn’t even imagine half the things that have happened since that first day you got lunch.

we are the children and we are not okay.

first is the child who dreams of flying away and seeing the world.
their hair is short and often wild and they alternate between fidgeting and serenity in the blink of an eye.
last wednesday, they wanted to hurl themselves off the vincent st thomas bridge so they could watch the port lights whizz by and boats cut across the dark, glassy water on the way down.

second is the child who dreams of a full kitchen and a house filled with books.
their cheeks are round and their eyes are big and they can spend hours sitting still and focused.
tonight, they wanted to be hit by a car so they wouldn’t have to finish the job themselves.

third is the child who dreams of people that love them and refuse to leave.
their eyes are the most brilliant blue you’ve ever seen and they carry themselves with a careful, learned grace.
last tuesday, they wanted to slice their arms open and bleed out on their bed, tainting the peter pan sheets with irony and hemoglobin.

fourth is the child who dreams of lazy days and warm beds and loving cats.
their body is bruised in a careless way and their shoulders are narrow and they only stop moving when they sleep.
last thursday, they wanted to purge their body of every ounce of food they had ingested and lock their bedroom door and cut off all contact with the outside world.

last is the child who ceased to dream.
their body is scarred and their bones weak and they haven’t moved in quite a while.
last friday, they tucked a gun under their chin, murmured a prayer with eyes turned heavenward, and yanked the trigger with a certain kind of finality that is only found at the end of books and at funerals.

you’re walking down the sidewalk with bare feet and the sky is red and overcast and it’s cold
you clutch your keys and phone closer to your chest and tuck into yourself, picking up the pace to get to your car faster
you feel inadequate and alone and as the heat seeps out through the soles of your feet into the concrete, you begin to feel numb
you can hardly breathe and the knots in your chest begin to tighten again
you were never good enough you were never deserving you will never be any of these things
you ache and you ache and you wish things were different but they’re not and all you can stand to do is get into your car and drive away
and you hope that wherever you end up, the skies aren’t red at night and boys have brown eyes, not blue, and you never wake up in a cold bed with a feverish desire to run away

it's another cliche but i think i found god in your face.
i found god in your hands and your arms and every inch of your skin.

selfless to a fault and gentle despite each ounce of pain inflicted upon you,
you remained sweet to those that mattered and cordial to those who didn't.

from your blunt nails to closely cropped hair to the curve of your back and all the way to your soft, soft beard,
i found god and i found love and i found parts of me i didn't realize had faded to embers.
you cupped your palms and breathed gently.

i began to remember.

the drag of careful fingertips and the gentle firmness of each kiss,
from the first touch to the last,
each carefully calculated risk and reward i was glad to participate in,
i found humanity.

i found the deepest and darkest aches a soul can bear
and i found crevices i didn't know could exist
without undermining the very foundation of one's being.

i found your love and i found your sorrow
just as you found mine,
from the first time i was unable to verbalize my emotions to the last,
from the first time you sheltered darkness from my eyes to the last droplet that spilled out.

i found more than i could have first imagined
and i do not regret a moment of my search.

my fingers will continue to find yours in the dark
and i can only hope my hands will be enough to guide you home.

before:
            my mind was a sanctuary,
                  decked out in ugly green carpet
                        with beautiful stained glass windows that
                              allowed the myriad of multicolored light in
                                   to dance among the wooden pews
                                          and to highlight the swaying dust
                                                that descended as the ***** thrummed
                                                      and voices were raised to sing out our hearts
                                                            in unison.
            I took your hand and drew you in with a smile
                  and a promise and we felt the warmth of the sunshine
                        and the peace of mind that accompanied
                              being with someone you trust.

      after:
           it's cold and damp and undisturbed
                 and you can hear water dripping in the distance.
     the carpet's faded and it smells of mold
           and the pews have long since weakened,
                 cracked, split, and crumpled to the ground.
     the dust no longer sways in rhythm with our breath
           and the windows shattered into billions of
                 glittering, dark, ugly jewels, long faded to dark reminders
                       of days that once were.
     the ***** was partially stolen and
           now you only see a few rusted pipes
                 hovering above the platform from the wall.
     your feet leave prints on the swampy mess
           that was once the floor the one time you take a peek in.
     I trace them with ***** hands after you leave,
           unable to believe someone even bothered to enter.

now I'm pulling back
      to the tattered place that used to glow
            to tuck my quiet misery into its bed.
and I hope (oh, how I hope)
      you can find me among the
            musty old wood and
                  once-bronze pipes
                        and shards of technicolor glass.
I'm hoping you'll come around again
      and relieve me of my misery for good.




                                                               (or maybe
                                                               you'll just help me move on
                                                               from the quiet misery that plagues my sleep,
                                                               my steps, my speech, my soul,
                                                               and find something else--
                                                               untouched, shimmering--
                                                               leaving some footprints of my own as I move towards
                                                               another place just as beautiful as the first
                                                               to house my thoughts and dreams anew.)

I have never been to war. I have never seen another human being keel over in pain, bleeding and sobbing and crying out for the pain to stop as the result of my own hand. I have never held a real gun, a bomb, a knife, or any other weapon meant to maim or ****. I have never held contempt great enough for another human being that would cause me to end their life. I have never seen someone die.

     However, I have been in pain. My hair has been pulled, my face punched, my legs kicked, my arms bitten. I have been scratched and bruised and sore. I have been hurt. I have been stepped on, hit by passing masses, fallen down hills, scraped and ****** and broken and shaken to the core. I have shed many tears.

     I have seen people in true pain. I have heard the wails of a girl who cannot move, her spine so encased by scar tissue that her legs give her grief beyond measure. I have watched people grow weak and frail and thin and sickly. I have seen bruises bloom beneath their skin and tears fall from their eyes and their fists clench and turn white with strain. I have seen them curl up on the floor, life and light draining from their eyes. I have heard their cries for their lives to end.

     I may not have seen much, but I have seen a lot.

venom slithers in and it’s all i can do to reach out before i’m swallowed up
the hole is bottomless and black as star-speckled satin and equally as empty
fingertips graze mine and words reach my ears but they aren’t what i need to hear
i want to make my own venom drain, not just be responsible for someone else’s anymore
the feeling is hollow. it doesn’t provide sustenance; it doesn’t keep me warm
there’s nothing there for me now and i need something to keep my heart beating and my lungs breathing and my synapses firing
i need the whole ******* universe and all the elements to crawl under my skin and make me whole again, *******
i can’t stay empty anymore
i want this void gone before i collapse on myself and **** everything around me in
because i know i’m made of stardust, sweetie, but even stars explode and burn out and die
these bad thoughts are draining the heat from my core and soon i will cool and crumble
fill me up, make me feel towering mountains and raging storms and the eternal beating of waves on sand in every cell, every atom
i won’t stand for this emptiness anymore
i won’t let this venom be the last thing i taste before everything fades to black and the curtains finally fall

please just let me sit here in my quiet misery,
soaking the sheets with salt and dreams
(on pieces of crumpled up paper,
drawn in crayon and refined with
a high-quality ball point pen)
because I can't make my childhood
connect with who I am now
and what is happening right this instant.

i’m drowing and i can’t tell which way is up
i can’t tell if i want to know which way is up

i am quaking like sand and soon my mouth will froth like the shore
it’s cold and it stings and there is so much saltwater filling my lungs, filling my stomach, filling every nook and cranny

maybe the people of the sea didn’t lure people to their deaths
perhaps they merely helped them attain it

we were spoonfed cliches about parties and wild nights and kisses under flashing lights but no one ever told us about the other possibilities

that maybe people wouldn't like us enough to invite us
or life would throw us chemical hurdles to surpass
or maybe we followed those lights just a little too closely and found ourselves standing in front of headlights and broken glass,
having tried too hard to find our storybook lives and instead wrote the beginning to a somber tale of loss

You’re feeling depressed so you head home early.
Your mom asks if you’re okay the moment she sees you walk in the door. “Just tired,” you mutter half-heartedly.
Sooner or later, you start to believe it.
The “just tired”s build up slowly and quietly until you are legitimately fatigued.
You can’t sleep at night but you can’t bring yourself to get out of bed and do something productive in the morning. Your grades drop. A teacher eventually calls home. You start going in again, but you are reluctant enough to leave the sanctity of your bed each morning; school is another obstacle entirely. You scrape by with average grades. Your parents are just happy to see you “functioning” again.
You get a job. It *****, but the hours are decent and allow you plenty of time to sit alone at home. Eventually your minimally active drive begins to taper off. You stop trying hard; your manager notices. You eventually get demoted after being late one too many times.
You drag through the hours, watching other people move by in a blur, and you come to point where you stop in the middle of the freezer aisle with your shopping cart. (You can only bring yourself to make microwavable food these days.) The children in the seats of the other carts stare like they can tell something is amiss, something is different, perhaps your aura or your face or the way your clothes are hopelessly wrinkled. You can’t bring yourself to finish your shopping after that, so you leave your half-empty cart there in the middle of the aisle and walk back out to your car empty-handed.
This is your life, you think. This is your mediocre life. And you are tired of it.

I woke up this morning to the heat of your body and the pounding of the rain.

The blanket was heavy and I found that I had been rolled partially under the Christmas tree and into the piano bench. Your hair was a mess and you smelled amazing and I tucked myself into the back of your neck and listened to you breathe until I dozed off again. I kept myself from touching you more than absolutely necessary and let the blanket fall between us.

The second time I woke up, it was because you rolled over and stretched out on top of my head.

I laughed and sat halfway up and watched you for a while. This time, I noticed your always-long eyelashes and the sprinkles of freckles that had been dotted up your cheekbones and to your temples. Your were my breath of summer as the December rain came down harder and harder and I spent some time selfishly soaking in your sunlight. The moment passed as my shoulder began to ache and I manhandled you into a better position for sleeping on the floor before settling into you and reflecting the warmth back to you like the down comforter that swamped us.

The third time I woke up, it was because my cat was rattling around like a bird in a box in the window blinds.

I tried to shush her, but you were already half-awake and instead lifted the blanket and invited her under. (She’s a shy cat, you know. And really likes you. Makes me confident that even though we didn’t last, I still picked a good one.) I stopped wussing out and finally touched you without restraint. You dozed off once more and I brushed my lips against the freckles just below your temple and traced my fingers up and down your stomach and held you close to me in the early, grey, winter light.

It was the best morning I’d had in a very, very long time.

there’s something uplifting about looking up at my window.
no matter the time of day, as long as the slats are open,
if you look up and out, you will see the tops of trees and open sky.

in the early evening, it reminds me of you.
the blue is fading to a duskier shade, like that of your eyes,
and the leaves of the trees shine a yellow-brown as the sun hits them;
they sway in the breeze, just as your hair does.
the light is warm and gentle and brushes against the white of the open panels
and glances off the wall to the right, painting my room in aureate hues.
I remember having all the time in the world to watch you during these hours,
having all the time in the world as you slept or fiddled around in my bed.
sometimes we would lay entwined and my fingers would brush over your stubble
as your hands grazed through my hair and up and down my side.
your lips would brush against my skin as the leaves brushed against each other outside.
no noise, no chaos. just our breathing and the dimming light the sun provided.

the early evening is the calm before the night and the madness it brings.
gold and glory and grandness and grace,
a warm haze of gradual darkness descends as the haven melts away like the hours we spent.
the sun lights up the sky in vivid pinks and oranges,
leaving bruised purples and navys in its wake.
you left as it set. your mood reflected the bruises the sun left in its abrupt departure
and I longed to paint you in pinks and oranges and the blazing, brilliant red it became
before it disappeared beneath the horizon, just as you did when the car door shut behind you.

sometimes I wonder if winter was your favorite season, too,
or if you would have preferred summer, or maybe autumn.
you never seemed like a spring person, though.

sometimes I wonder if maybe I had waited a little longer,
she would have changed her mind and we could've made it work.
it never seemed like she'd budge, though.

sometimes I wonder if you would have been understanding if I hadn't just left,
or if you would have shut down and broken my heart just like I was doing to yours.
you never seemed to be the type to do so, though.

sometimes I wonder if you even regret letting me go,
if you miss being entwined in bed or watching me scramble eggs on skype.
you never seemed like one to let memories go, though.

I wonder if things were ever as they seemed
or if I deluded myself into thinking they were so.

there’s something incredibly intimate about writing something on your skin.
a note, a number, a date, a word
that slowly blurs and is absorbed
until it’s no longer legible
and is instead a grey-blue blur of
vaguely recalled intentions.

so the next time you blow on the inside of your wrist
and wait for the ink to dry
remember that you’re committing whatever it is you’ve written
to your physical body’s memory
and that ink will swirl through you,
remnants of whatever idea you grasped so tightly to.

stained glass with sunlight streaming,
a single rivulet, a single tear,
slips silently down the bridge of a nose
to fall silently to the tip of another.
eyes meet while hands continue to cradle
the face of the accused, the prosecuted, the expatriate of vagrants:
three words, blooming like delicate flowers from deep emerald vines that grow freely and climb the trunks of trees with more nimbleness than the lost boys themselves,
three words, gliding like the lone droplet from the lips of the holder,
descending to the ears of the held,
and they rang out as much as a whisper could, among dancing dust and gentle breath,
"you
are
forgiven."

do not ask someone
to love you if you cannot
love your own shadow.

all of me aches
and I cannot tell
if it is aching for you
or because you are gone.

my eyes sting, my throat burns,
my hands stretch out for a body that is longer there.

I crave you even more now
for I know I cannot have you.
I briefly wonder if you were ever mine,
but the memory of your tears and shuddering breath tell me otherwise.

you wanted this no more than I did
and I do not blame you
nor do I blame myself.

I wish there was a way to feel the warmth of your palms on my cheeks again
and I wish that those who wronged you had never done so
and I wish to hold you in my arms and remember that you are real and that you weren't just a dream.

every inch of me is aching and raw
but the only salves are you
and time.

i am the one your mother warned you about.

i am the one with the too-short hair and nails like claws.
i am the one with clean hands, but when i smile you can see it on my teeth.
i am the one who can break you with a mere sentence.
i am the one who destroys.
i am the one that will indefinitely remain in your heart, no matter how many times you scrub, polish, bleach, or burn the memories.
i am the one that survives.

i am the one with eyes that dart and a smirk sharp enough to slice steel.
i am the one who laughs at love and keeps raven feathers in my hair.
i am the one that cries tears of acid onto your shirt and burns hole in your skin.

i am the one your mother warned you about.

can you hear those whispers?
silk over sand, breathless and beautiful;
a cold comfort, laden with loveliness.
they sound rather lonely.

i am clasping my fingers so tightly over my mouth
that my skin has turned white and my nails are digging into my cheeks
in an attempt to hold the flood of words back
                                                                                        (I’m sorry I love you I’m sorry I love you
                                                                                           I’m sorry I love you I’m sorry so sorry
                                                                                           Please forgive me for I do only wrong)
because this is the time that
even though the words spilled like an unsteady display in the toy aisle last night
i know i have done no wrong
when all i ever did
was care.

summer is nearing its end and I find myself mourning its loss
never have I considered myself one suited for the heat--
the sharp flames of raging arguments are enough to burn me to a crisp

but I smell the heady scent of smoke, thick with ash and cooking food
and I hear the birds sing to each other as if it were their last time
and the sky is blue and clear and it stretches onwards to the sun, which is setting in shades of coral and ocean brine

I feel the loss keenly in my chest, a bittersweet longing for the summers in which I lit up the sky with how brightly I shone
scorched and forged, my heart of hearts was unyielding and flooded my body with luminosity that rivaled the stars themselves
invulnerable and filled with a relentless energy that could not be stopped
until it burned out alone

I miss those days where I felt as if I were controlling the sea itself,
pulling and pushing like a brand new moon
the days where I flew so high on swings and sand dunes I thought I may never come down
where everything fit in the center of my palm and I held on tightly because no one could shatter my world

but these days, I sit and watch as the real star settles down to sleep beneath the ocean waves
and feel my skin become painted by the swathes of color in the sky
the sounds of motors and sirens remind me that I am no longer floating above it all
my brief flash long since faded, just as any other firework lit at dusk

you’re not
hot summer evenings,
brisk fall mornings,
rainy winter afternoons,
or warm spring nights.
you’re not
the mystery boy in coffeeshops,
the faux prince in a fairytale,
the storm, the calm before it, or the disaster after it.
you’re not some metaphor for loneliness
or some simile for fulfillment.

you are, however,
the messages on my voicemail,
the last voice I hear before I sleep,
and the whispered confessions over the phone that I cling to in my moments of need.
you’re working hands and a strong back,
a soft soprano and bright eyes,
a glowing smile and a watchful gaze.
you’re easily moved to tears and
you like staying up late as much as you like sleep and
you’re allergic to cats and got stuck as the middle child.

you are too good to exist,
but too real to not.

my skin is prickling harshly around my neck
i can't touch or the prickling will turn to flames,
red streaks that highlight my skin like burn marks.

my chest is tight like my heart is the puppeteer of my ribs,
yanking the strings closer and closer until my lungs are being crushed
and suddenly i cannot breathe.

i'm being swallowed by a phantom pain and oh,
how it aches--
how it aches.

my muscles tense, ready to run
but i'm frozen as that disgusting churning swirling grabbing sensation
takes hold of my equilibrium and twists--

suddenly i cannot hear.
all that exists is a still portrait of the room i sit in,
cluttered but otherwise peaceful.

my arms tingle like something invisible is crawling up them
and the air feels like trying to breathe rocks.
my heart pulls harder on the strings,
tying a knot on the right side of my chest to keep everything pulled tight.

it aches.

i cannot give you much more than i already have.
words and smiles,
conversations and pictures,
an invisible hand to guide you out of the dark.
i hope it's okay with you
that all i can give
are the simple things in life --
little things that often mean nothing
but can mean much more when coming from someone who has nothing else.
i hope that's all right,
that i cannot give you any more than i already have.

his breath burned as it hit glass skin
(thin and delicate and so easy to break)
and I fogged like a windowpane in winter.
his fingertips left winding patterns, intricate and beautiful,
but the condensation never evaporated
and I was left looking like an untouchable work of art,
his signature scrawled all over my body
like proof of ownership and a warning sign.
"do not touch."

i.
***** blond hair and braces,
beanie and a sweatshirt,
you were the secondary third wheel
along with myself.
you put on all four hats and
nearly choked on your soda
at someone’s ***** joke.

ii.
hair parted sideways,
black-ringed blue eyes,
we vaguely remembered each other
and talked a bit before going back
to the ones who had originally brought us.
the blue was pretty and you had a bubbly laugh
and were dressed nicer than before.
we finally memorized each other’s names
and when it was time to go,
we hugged and I told you to
drop by again soon.

iii.
braces off and longer hair,
your board had a new paintjob.
we enthusiastically greeted each other
with a hug and an exchange of names
and we ended up sitting at the computer
for most of the afternoon and evening.
we talked without restraint and
had definitely become easy friends.

iv.
hair shaved off on the sides,
the rest slicked back like a new-age greaser,
you smelled slightly of stale cigarettes
when I tucked my face against your neck
for our routine hug.
I squeezed you tight and brushed my thumbs
across the leather of your jacket.
you were angry and stressed but didn’t really show it
and I wasn’t sure what to do with my still-new
feelings for you.
I held your hands outside that night
and asked you to quit again,
because people come and go and life’s too short
to make it even shorter
by ******* on a stick of chemicals and tobacco.
you said you’d quit soon and thanked me for being there.

v.
you stayed over
and we spent most of our time
swapping songs and playing video games
and snacking on poptarts and arizona.
I woke up the next morning to find that
you hadn’t slept
and wondered what you must have been thinking about
that could keep you up all those hours.

vi.
we saw a bad movie together tonight.
our heads bumped multiple times
and we both had to pull up our legs
since our heels barely touch the floor comfortably.
your forehead would wrinkle when you were looking up
and it gave you an air of maturity
that I didn’t know you could pull off.
I wanted to kiss you
but didn’t know what you thought of me
so I didn’t.

i. you said I was yours and I agreed
you asked me to say it and I did
I said you were mine and you agreed
I asked you to say it and you did

and now you’re not mine
but I’m still yours
and I can’t ask you to be mine
and you won’t ask me to be yours.

ii. where do you go when suddenly
the house, your metaphorical safety net, disappears into the air
the paper white walls disintegrate
and the honey hardwood floors melt away?

where do you go when that give and take
is suddenly all give and there is no
confirmation of payment, no package in the mail,
but I see you down the street with someone else,
exchanging P.O. box addresses and making plans to build your house
with something stronger than paper white walls and honey hardwood floors?

iii. move on, they say.
but how do you move on
when you don’t have yourself anymore?
you lost it in a sea of blue-grey eyes
and gently calloused hands
and a voice so melodic you’d melt.
you lost your name and your home
and you gave it away without a second thought.