he pressed himself into me and whispered, "just the tip."
at the time, i wasn't sure what to think. i wasn't sure if i was able to think at all.
i felt something hard press into my back, but not what i was expecting.
no, this, this was cold even in the summer's air.
my mouth was sewn shut by the press of your hand, but maybe it was the drinks i'd consumed.
and it hurt, what came after. what led to this.
when you called out to me, this was the last thing i expected.
but i was naive, and i was innocent, but you took care of that.
the threat of violence hung heavy in the air, the tip of your weapon cradling my spine.
and i could smell the metal, faint over the smell of the dirt and leaves you'd shoved my face into.
and when the violence was over, and the questions began running through my mind
[white text on a blank slate,
wiped clean with new memories and a loss
of something i never knew i had],
it was over with a flippant wave of your hand and a flick of your sweat-matted hair.
a figurative, "see you later."
an au revoir to your ***** laundry, like it's not worth dumping in the wash.
but we both know i'll scrub myself clean later.
clean, but not fresh.
and you're not afraid, not yet.
no, you're not the one that will cower
in fear in corners of beds
in corners of rooms and closets,
all mirrors turned around.
you'll be able to look people in the eye.
but you're not the one that will recover. and you're not the one that will change.
no, you'll always be a monster, a beast of brutality and, eventually, regret.
but skin cells die and the body regenerates, and wounds,
well, they heal.
and i'm not there yet, but one day i will be.
first, i have to remember how to stand up.

there are times in your life where it does not matter what horrible things lined the edge of your clouds. despite what it seemed like so often, sometimes you just can't take the silver out of the gray.
it's often things like this that remind me of my summers with you. awful and tainted by extremities and currents threatening to rip us in alternate directions, almost succeeding.
and yet i look back on them and i smile.
because, no matter what the stories are behind it or the after taste those days had, there was a lingering taste of sweetness.
whether it was sweet tea, freshly cut grass, chlorine, slurpees, smoothies, or coffee ice cream,
we always managed to wash down the sadness for a while.
even when silence rings louder than the words we didn't speak, the emotions speak louder than words, or pictures, will ever say.
that first summer, even on days where i felt my whole world was crumbled underneath my bare toes, drowning in the pool i drenched them in, i kept them in for another few moments with you. and those are the memories i look back on and smile. no matter what happened after or with other people.
and the second, i was gaining my footing but you somehow slipped.  funny how unsteady ground can be, one foot from the other. and despite your falling, for other reasons or for someone else, i still see the time as peaceful. i'd never had what we had before with anyone else. not how we felt.
we've got another summer together approaching and this time i feel like i owe it to you. i think it's up to me to pull my **** together, despite my complaints, and grow up a bit. to bring you slurpees and suffer through heat just to sit for a while. to drain gas tanks and sit in parking lots at 4am to be able to talk. to hold hands through car washes or sing to each other or whatever else we did. i want it again and we'll have it. we'll figure it out.

When I was young, I was given a ring.
My mother gave it to me before she said goodbye, with a kiss and a wave.
Honestly, though, purity rings, even then, seemed like a fluke
with me. I was a rose
then, too. Blossom to the eye and thorns underneath, eyes stained an icy blue
and childish hands that were calloused, from playing, and rough.

I kept that trait with me. Being rough.
like a boxer in a ring.
I learned to fight, body covered in bruises in shades of black and blue.
My emotions were as dependable as waves –
tender and tranquil. And sometimes, unexpectedly, they rose.
Sensitivity was always a fluke.

So, naturally, falling in love was a fluke.
I wasn’t so pure at sixteen, because it was rough
to keep my mouth shut and my hands to myself around a girl named Sydney Rose.
They say sharks circle you before they attack, making endless rings
before making decisions and going for what they want, rising to the waves.
I just wanted to take her with me, into those murky depths of blue.

My fingers laced with hers, even years later, when we saw her veins of blue
beginning to become more apparent. Her sickness, a fluke.
It must have been, because it hurt her hand to wave
goodbye from behind hospital curtains. Grabbing at something you’re barely missing is rough
when all you’ve wanted is to garnish the finger with a ring
since you were sixteen years old, loving this Sydney Rose.

But as I’ve learned, despite its beauty, a rose
will one day wilt, and fingers tipped in blue
may never wear their rings.
Love, even in its most pure, must have been a fluke
with me, when someone can no longer kiss you roughly
against your mouth, passion no longer coming in insatiable waves.

I gave a little wave
to a stone marked with a name, date, and roses
piled high, petals tenderly grazing against a marker so rough.
And salt-water rivers threatened to drain, so blue,
from my eyes and past a mouth pursed in confusion against such a fluke.
And to say goodbye, I buried with her the symbol of purity that could match our love – my ring.

Now I wear another ring, one with a gold tinted with rose.
I sit in our house overlooking waves, overlooking an ocean blue.
And solitude seems such a fluke, when a life taken means making life remaining rough.

you make me cold in the pit of my stomach,
a glacier sliding past my lungs.
your bangs brush my eyelashes when foreheads press together,
only silence and movement and sweat between our skins.
and i feel condemned, of all things.
yet, irrevocably, i'm yours.
sold on the street corner, at the intersection of your passion and your distaste.

when the earth makes a complete orbit around the sun,
it is called a revolution.
when people stand up for what they believe in, enough to make a change,
it is called a revolution.
when you save something, preserve it for yourself,
it is called conservation.
when you told me you were leaving and i couldn't come with you,
we held what is called a conversation.
when i followed you across the country, train ticket in one hand and your hand in the other,
it was called love.
when you left me with nothing but a note on a hotel pillow,
it was called hate.
they say a picture is worth a thousand words, but words and pictures, slip-ups and homographs, grammar and literature and math and science,
none of it matters anymore.
none of it matters when nothing is changing and time stands still.
none of it matters when preserves run dry and talking turns to silence.
none of it matters with notes on a pillow that doesn't belong to you, thousands of miles from home.

he smiles like he has a secret tucked into the corner of his lips. "something to chew on when dinner isn't enough," he said.
but it's never enough, and she reminds him of that.

she pulls out a cigarette, slender as the fingers she grips it with. "the smoke in my lungs make me less empty," she said.
but she's always empty, and he reminds her of that.

and now they sit together in silence, pulling feathers from pillows and strings from seams. he says, "take your coat off and stay a while."
but neither wants to stay, and they both understand that.

"i'm sorry," she whispers, and lights another cigarette.
"it's okay," he returns with a smile.

i feel weary.
weary in a way that has me dragging my feet.
thick circles hang heavy under my eyes
like sucker punches.
sleeping too much or not enough.
words never meaning anything.
just missing, missing, missing.
wanting.
with such a peak comes such a fall.
flying means eventually landing.
and the question comes in,
are the wings just heavy?
or am i already crawling?
dragging my feet,
dirt under nails from clawing my way.
my tongue is thick and,
well,
there's no real hope here.
i just need quiet.
peace and quiet.