Just
give me a minute, please
before I walk in
to my house, I need
just a minute outside our
door, to breathe in the last whiff of fresh
air I'm going to get
in a while,
Just
give me a minute, please, I
can't think, my thoughts are
screaming their way around
my skull and my
music is trying
to drown them out and I
just want some quiet but that's
not something found inside
Just
give me a minute, please,
before I turn my key in the lock to try
and rearrange my face, try and turn
my mouth in a smile dragging
my lips apart and baring my
teeth a fraction harder than
actually necessary to grin try
and take a minute I need
to make it look like
I'm not trying so hard
not to cry.

Kilometers away, I watch
you struggle with your panic and I
grapple with my ever-growing
sense of inadequacy, dearest
your control is slipping and I
want so much to be able even
to offer you a hand to hold or
better yet, a hand to grab and
pull you out but I know
that is not my role in this, are
we living a tragedy or divine
comedy? At these hours I
was never able to tell. Dearest, you
were never darling, because somehow
that name was too common
for you. Oh, love, watch, I
am the bull in the china shop that is
your fragility and I am breaking
things I never fathomed the existence of and
crunching underhoof the shards of things you
will never let me see. Kilometers
away, I wish
there was something, anything
I could do, but as the stars wink out
there is nothing twinkling left
for me to hang my foolish hopes on.

And then I was there-
but still, perpetually,
I am so helpless

I sit here and the sight
of your shiny wounds
makes me want to cry and
scream and rip all
of my skin off. These tracks
you create, as if waiting
for a train to arrive and take you
away through(from) your pain
are seared onto my eyes
and mind
and heart.

You are treading dangerous waters, and I
have been entrusted with your
care. More than anything, I wish
to throw you a life-preserver, but
I know you would rather fight
independently, and so to rescue you
would not be forgiven.

You are treading dangerous waters, and I
have been entrusted with your
care. Though I wish to be only
impassive bystander, I must guide you
through this new enviroment, ******
upon you so quickly and without
any warning. Though I wish to harbor
only sympathy towards you, a single look
in your direction renders me completely
empathetic, until I can feel the waves closing
over my own head, remembering vividly
my own drowning, so far away and so long ago.

The only thing worse
Than hearing a child gasp
If only to breathe-

Parents' hushed whispers
Tucked away in dim corners
'Whose turn is it now.'

I can't stop thinking about him. I'm on a plane, 9,682 meters above the world, literally thousands of kilometers away from him, and I can't stop thinking about him. the funny noises he makes, and the way he hugs me tighter like he isn't going to let go, and the way when he sleeps, he pulls his hood over his eyes so the whole world is kept at bay. "*******," he said, waking up in the middle of the night. the melatonin stopped working because "my brain was like ******* and I woke up." "mm. why did it do that?" "cause you're here."
I miss the way he sticks his tongue out and his laugh and the way he says he's doing fantastic like it's his favorite word. I miss his hair and his tiny kisses and his nose and mouth against the back of my ear and his chest, so soft it should be a sin and that curve above his left shoulder, where I fit perfectly, he puts his arms around me and I feel like that's it, I'm home.
the others, see, the others were fire. they were exciting and a little dangerous and always a risk. a small flirtation with tiny deaths, a dance to draw in and push out, keeping me always on my guard and dancing, dancing. I came out of those bruised and exhilarated, high on something drugs can't buy, exhausted and hungering. they kept me red.
and he
he is my blue self. he's earth, a blanket, a warm bed. safe whimsy, when I've danced over the line to danger so often, a place to rest on the sidelines. instead of a burning fascination, he's a sudden, knowing wish.
I never saw those working out. when your fascination is fulfilled, where do you go? they were nice possibilities that got me through tough realities, but fire dies down and every dancer must tire. I can imagine it, though, this future, and I'm so much more cliché than I ever thought because oh man
I'm terrified
see, I'd only ever thought about him in passing, before two days ago. what if, my mind whispered. when I told him I'm not good enough for these things, I was softening my thoughts, the ones that always came after. I'm not- I can't stop thinking this, can't stop it from saddening me because I know- good enough for you. but I don't tell him this because he would tell me I'm wrong. no, he would say, this proves that you are. I almost said it, I whispered the softer version into his neck that night, half happier than I'd been in so long and half so heavy I was surprised I didn't sink through the beanbag into the floor, anchored in his arms. he wants me, and I? I want him and know he deserves more, deserves better and I'm having such a hard time convincing myself not to be selfish and go for it, grab his hand and run so far away there is no one else. or better yet, wrap myself in a fortress made of his arms and let him hold me to sleep.
how did I get into this? how did I let this happen? how did I not know, not notice I love (****. ****. what have I done?) love him until only two days ago?
those three hours between when I realized and when he told me he wants it, too, were the hardest thing I've done in so long. exquisite pain, lying there next to him, terrified out of my mind of loving yet another friend to ruin. I'm still scared.
but god, I would give so much, up here on this airplane, I would give up hours and days, I would give up minutes and memories, I would give up wokenness and sleep, again, just to be back in his arms.

these words lie
heaviest on my
tongue, they weigh
every other word down, color
everything I say to
you, threaten to leap
off, inserting themselves where
unwanted, unbidden, unasked and
ungiven, and I won't
free them because
I

Maybe I should go
slip away like a thief in the night, or rather
in the early morning.
Those always have been
my hours.

Stealing away, stealing
myself away from you stealing
my toxic lies and
self-hatred and little glints
of occasional brilliance which
(if we are to be honest) are only
the only reason
you keep me around.

Maybe I should go
not ask you first
or give you the chance to say no.
You do not know how much
better off you would be
without me.

I think that if I should go
I cannot ask you first.
Because if you ask me
to stay, I could never
even try
to let you go again.

My poems, my thoughts
my pain on paper
they're all me.
Me me me me me.
I write these things for you
to find
And offer up my pain as
a selfish gift
an offering
a sacrifice.
Look at me.
Understand me.
Me me me
me me.
I give these things as barter.
I know you, your desire to feel
to see pain that isn't your own.
To think that
maybe
someone else has it harder than you
and secretly, happily
embrace the pity.
I understand and still I ask
Accept my offering.
And in return, give
Me me
Me me me
a feeling of understanding
like somebody cares.
More.
Give me
selfish me, twisted me
tired me hurting me addicted me
my drug.

Kerosene eyes
everywhere you
look, sparkling-
deceptive, I think
I would like to dive
until I sip
and burn my tongue on you.

Stong shoulders
everything you
support, worlds-
dependable, I think
I would like to rest
until I lean
and you dissapate like summer mist.

Feverish fingers
everyone you
brush, warming-
blooming, I think
I would like to thaw
until I touch
and suddenly find myself blazing.

I miss you the way
          that the sea, who tries
          so hard to stay, misses
          the shore, even though she knows
          it's impossible and even though
          she knows they will meet again
          soon, she tries to rage against
          the tyranny of the moon.
And some days I
          miss you the way the moon
          inevitably pines for the sun. Although
          they will never meet, she waits until
          the sun's warm rays will touch
          her face and she can pretend
          she gives off her own light
          while she glows. And even
          so, half of her life
          she cannot see the sun
          for the earth.
But most days I just miss you
          the way the earth longs
          for the stars. They are so
          far off and they glitter seemingly
          so impossibly. Like the earth I
          cannot come to you and
          like the stars, you
          are so far away and
          so beautiful, but
          you are
          so cold.

at some point we're going to have
to be honest with ourselves and say
"this isn't just this it's
more" and
at some point we're going to have
to look at each other and say
"you're not just this you're
more" and
at some point we're going to have
to link our hands
and take the plunge
and know we're scared
and say "this
isn't just fear it's also
more"

my love fits in
to the crook of my neck
and the palm of my hand
and the curve of my back

my love fits in
to all of my thoughts
and most of my words
and some of my days

and my love knows when
to hold me tight
and grasp me hard
and kiss me soft.

*(there is no point.
there is no punch.
there is just this.
there is just love)

I could know any of them
in a dark room, eyes
blindfolded, hands
tied. How, you ask?

One of them smells
like fresh laundry, warm, like hugs, a tinge
of unshed tears, a safe place
to sleep. She smells like home more
than anywhere I've been, when I can catch
her smell. I have breathed this
in for so long, sometimes
it eludes me, the way I
cannot scent myself, for
an abundance of familiarity.

It feel traitorous to try
and describe how
a second smells, that
when she will never
understand, but she
smells like spontaneous gifts
of friendship, and
long sunlit days, she smells
so much of herself
I could never imagine
her differently.

Yet another scents the air
in such a way I
feel my lungs are
bloomings, and yet are somehow
contricting, like I cannot draw
enough of this air,
to breathe so deeply as
I need. He smells
of an accomplishment
hard-won, but worth
every step of the way, though
there is a hidden
bite, a concealed
sharpness, an almost imperceptible tang.

I cannot begin to think
how to explain the intriguing way
another smells, as I cannot quite
place my finger
on it. Much like
its owner, her aroma
is a woven tapestry, and so
we see the complete
product, but never
the individual
threads, a perfect
work of art.

And lastly, the one
who often seems
to have no smell
at all. Spend
some time around him, however,
teach your lungs how
to sense his
presence, and you will notice
he does not smell flashy
or bright, his smell
is constructed
of strong undertones, complimenting
and supporting
everyone else, comforting like
some people's idea
of god.

Sometimes I think
if I could have my own
particular brand of perfume
all the time, I
would be invincible.

Your shoulders look so heavy
as you carry them back upstairs
and even your feet are tired
as you trudge one. step. at a time.
You say to call you only
if three or four minutes pass
and there is no respite.
I understand, you know. Everyone
needs to rest sometime
and now is your turn.
I will always admire the stoic way
you face rigid limbs
and bleeding mouths, the way you
can remain calm
as bedsprings and bodies shake as one
the acceptance of life as you
have come to know it. Yes,
I admire, eternally unable to emulate. You
know what to do. I, on
the other clenched hand,
am constantly terrified. Please
don't leave me on guard-
I will never be ready to face the monster
eating my little sister from within.

I am not going home.
You can try to pull me back
Tell me all the reasons you love me
Remind me of all my duties and obligations
Call to the moral compass that never points north inside of me-

The one you planted in place of the heart you stole.
But I will not come back, not to the house
That is called "home" through sheer force of habit.

Name a wolf "sheep"- he will turn on his "brothers"
Name a devil angelic- he will cause the downfall of heaven
Name a leopard a lapdog- his spots will not change.

I named you loving, tender, gentle.
I called you moral, caring, I dared to try and call you mine.
I have spoken falsely, the sheer force of my want
Making me liar, a false prophet.

I am not going home-
My home is in my own heart
And you are not in it.

Sometimes I want to ask
if we'll ever get back
to normal. If the hospital bed
will disappear from the main
level, if the endless stream of
doctors and nurses and physical therapists and reflexologists and acupuncturists
will ever pass us by, if maybe
a night without the squeaking
of bedsprings and the helpless shaking
and gasping of another seizure being
broadcast throughout the house
will finally come, if just maybe
when I say goodnight, you
will have time to look up
and see me standing there.
But then I remember that
the word "normal"
has never been heard in our house
without the harsh sting of comparison, and
this is our life, now, as
we have changed so many
other times. Who knows
what "normal" is, anyways.
If I ever did, I have forgotten.

A shining portal, shimmering
in tiny glints that enchant us. We
plunge in, emerge exilerated, dripping, free
having removed and placed aside
all the trappings of our daily lives, all
the tiny disguises we wear
daily, unthinking, all the walls we construct
to keep the world at bay. At this bay
we surrender, immerse, maybe secretly hoping
that the salt water will sting the eyes
watching you, so that you are not seen
fully, after you have removed your surreptitious armor.
Later, we will wear it again, dressing
in the clothes and glasses and jewelry
we have built our visible selves from, more comfortable
now that we are covered, protected.
But the vision of you uncovered, plainly yourself
will not leave me for a while-
it has seeped through my cracks
and is staying like those tiny grains of sand
I can never completely wash off.

Jagged little pill
smooth little pill
soft little pill-
           fill my head with cotton
                 but make everything clearer.

Square little pill
round little pill
oval little pill-
           paint the world in shades of binary
                 a collection of dualities
                       a simplification of choices.

White little pill
brown little pill
orange little pill-
           fuel the fire inside my belly
                 but exhaust me
                       take away my hunger for life
                             outside of the lines you have drawn.

Nexium
Jarro-Dophilus
Aderall-
           of all the little pills every morning
                 the ones the doctors prescribe and question
                       the ones I am never sure if I can feel
                             the ones whose effects are dubious and enigmatic
                                   you are the most quantifiable, and the only one
                                         with whom my relationship is Daedalean.

Don't ask me to be ok. Don't
your ******* dare ask me
to be ok after everything I
have done and am still doing to hold
the world together. Don't tell
me it's fine it is not fine I
am whirling around my room throwing
myself at the walls I am
hunched over, rocking in
my place and moaning at the world to
shut up shut up shut up I am
stepping into the scalding shower and watching
the marks parading
down my legsarmsbackchestneck turn
the color of blood I am
huddled and screaming at those
I love dearest to go away goaway GOAWAY a rising
crescendo of static I am
gripping myself in my talons I am
scrambling for any kind of hold I am
crying with the water on so they
can't hear me I am
having nightmares where she
is devouring me I am
plastering a fake smile on. I am
asking you, how are things? I am
politely apologizing for the state of the bathroom after
my ****** showers. I am
inquiring cheerfully as to the music. I am
having nightmares where she
is devouring me and I can't escape I can't
run downstairs she
lives there I am
perfectlyfinewhydoyouask.
don't
you
*******
dare.

Sitting here again, I feel the ghosts
of our memories layed around me
now, intertwined. So long ago, this
would have been enough- warmth

from friendship and from our bodies, that
was enough- quiet breathing, maybe
contented smiles, maybe not, only
peace all around us.

And then we got up. We decided
peace and warmth were not
enough, we forsook these
for teasing conversation, later

for barbed words, later
even these would be replaced
by stiff silence. Once
you comforted me as I shook here

and wiped my tears away
as they fell. Now,
I sit here still, and wish
to live in memories.

My perch up here is so
precarious. Though you led
me to this now, so surefooted upon
the steep trails we have
not dared broach for
these long months, I am scared
the warm sound of your voice
will soon fade, and here
on top of the world without
a hand to hold, though now
I am giddy, it will grow cold. You see,
on top of the world makes
it so much easier
to fall.

We do not fit together as effortlessly as we used to.
But with all the clever implications,
maybe this is more honest.

You have pulled me through the breaking
point so many times. When I thought
I could not continue on, you would
**** or carry or pull or push me until
I would stand again. And now
we keep walking onwards. But I think we
have forgotten- until you
are utterly shattered, you cannot start
fitting pieces back together. We
are walking on uneven ground, and you
have made your life on ice floes, shifting
as they do. But I cannot be you. I
am gingerly stepping across the cracked ice
you leave in your wake, looking
for the balance you have stolen. I am inching
out along the branch you have broken, grasping
at every small leaf. I am trying
to stay with you until our components fit
once more, like a puzzle just waiting
for the one who can see whole picture.
I don't remember when I stopped believing
such a one exists. I have swallowed
our shards for so long and covered up
the broken parts and I
can wait for the solution no longer. You
have pushed me to the breaking point this time, and I
will soon stop trying to fit
everything back together.

Softly, softly
we step into your mind
quiet and reverent
in our solemn intent.
- words I wrote for you
- books I have read
- places I have been, both
with and without you
- a drawing of my happiness
- your words, to encompass
my pain
I find all of these
where you reside, and as always,
as you are, so much
more than I will ever understand.
when I step out, pieces of
you, cotton-soft, cling to
everything I touched you with. Though
I would love nothing
more than to have stepped lightly in
and out, to not leave a mark
to not sully the purity
of what was before me, I know
this is not possible. The shreds
will cling to me, and I
will cling to the shreds, because
even though I would rather take
nothing, change nothing, be
as inconsequential as nothing, circumstances
have led me to the great
and terrible beauty
of the honor to carry with me
pieces of you.

There was a time when words
would gallop through my head like
herds of horses, leaving me gasping
and trampled in the muck

of my emotions. Their hoof prints, scars,
on my mind, on my heart,
marking me as “writer,” though I felt
I did not deserve such a title.
How could I, when horses break free

of their own volition? As weeks
passed, I
began to
learn the ways
of the herds
of my mind,

the strangely
rhythmical
cadence of
their hooves on
the insides

of my skull.
Though I could
never run
with them, I
learned to ride

fast; I learned
to decide
which would run
today; I
learned to guide

their forceful
direction,
while clinging
tightly to
the first horse

I wanted
to work to
a lather.
Sometimes, when
I am weakened, we fight

for control of my pen, my horses
and I, but they
are always
just that- my
horses. Now,

though I am
only starting,
I feel I
can somehow
finally

lay claim to
the title
of “poet.”

With. Every. Single. Pound
of his fist on the door your
Liv.ing.room. Compressed and I
started glancing around just
Looking. For. A. Way. Out these
walls will not contain me now they
Are.n't. Big. E.nough to try
and hold in my fears they
Ri.pple. And. Shake. Like
my shoulders try to do but
I. Am. Stron.ger. Than. This. Fear.
(I wish)

I squeezed
myself smaller-
around you I
am not legitimate.

lull myself to sleep
by memories of your skin
soft under my lips

slipping deeper down
into warmth- this summer that
will never return