Give a man an
inch and he'll take
a mile, give me
an unwilling iota of
yourself and I
will push further until
the blind force of
my need will push
you away altogether and
my inadequate words of
apology that will never
be enough or ever
reach you are all
that will remain in
your absence.

Sometimes I miss
the way we would talk
before we knew each other

so completely and thoroughly. Back
then, though it seems eons
have passed, we would only skim
across the surface of the other, touching

lightly, the dragonflies of our questions
creating the smallest of ripples
on the top layer of the pools
that were us, never close

enough to even guess at
the hidden depths. Oh, but we
were playful, back then, glistening fliers
chasing one another, sometimes-

rarely- truly touching, throwing up wings
to dazzle with color, to hide
ourselves, the parts we were afraid
were disfigured and damaged, the parts

that were the only parts
truly us. Slowly, our eyes strengthened,
we learned to see though our flimsy
shields, we embraced, piece by painful

piece, each other’s hurt parts, misshapen
and deformed though they were. As we grasped how
to see, not only look, I think
we both realized we are not truly

dragonflies. Maybe we don’t even know what
we are, yet. But as the murky
expanses of you slowly become clearer
to me, and our waters mingle, I know I truly

belong here. I would not trade you
for the world, but sometimes I miss
the sun-filled, glittering glory
of dragonflies over shadowy pond, touching

only the lightest of touches, playful
and flirtatious and impersonal
and giddy.

As a small child, the straps
that held me in my carseat
were the worst torture
imaginable. I remember straining
against them with all the might
in my tiny body, knowing
it was hopeless. Your silences
have become the car-seat-straps
of my life now. From the outside
they waited, beckoning in sheer
inevitability, and from the inside
I can see no way out
without ripping you in two.

Accepting your words
           I needed
as only fear-
           I'm crumbling.

Time is trickling
and flowing through my fingers, the grains
of sand in the hourglasss
of my life are filling my veins, minutes
clotting the hours that construct
my ventricles pumping seconds making
my head swim. Time is holding me
up and time is somehow
my prisoner, as well, my element to play
in, as I wish. I conduct myself
upon my own time, though you
think your time is logical and ask
of me to yield to you. No, no, time
flows in streams through the air
around me, I breathe it freely
as I wish, blowing soap bubbles into crystalline
moments, that will catch the light
but pop, leaving your eyes stinging
when you try to reach for them, to catch
me. In another life
I was Dali, in my life now I
am Dali, painting and bending clocks
as to my will, making your logical early mornings
my glorious late nights, full of colors
those who do not truly know me
will never catch in the shadows of my laughter
and the turn of my eyes, I
will always be Dali, as years
are trivial and decades can pass
more quickly than the blink of an eyelid, I
will always be less than the great artist
and more, I am constructed, not only of time, but
of something just as fluid and so
my every cell will exult and change
as the symphony of the universe's timekeeping
glitters and twinkles  in its constant state
of effulgent musicality.

You were my sweetest downfall-
I loved you most
I loved you more
than I ever should have.
The taste of you;
honey-sweet in my mouth
heady on my tongue
left me giddy and floating.
And when my senses returned
to be only my own,
the absence of you
which I had known, intimately, and forgotten
was suddenly bitter, though tinged-
the saccharine aftertaste
of a sweetness lost.
And now you try, but you
cannot part my lips
the way I thirsted for
everything you were- for
you are different, love, your sweetness
is now contaminated, though
you are here, you taste bitter,
the taste of your absence and my tears.
I lay myself before you, before
everything you were, before
you arose and walked away, before
my walls rose to protect me.
I tried to bring them down, before
I realized I now have need of them.
You were my sweetest downfall-
I loved you most, and now
I have to go.
I have to go.

There is a smell here, insidious
enough to almost be insipid, but not
quite, from where I stand inside
this sterile room. The smell
is sticking to the hairs
in my nostrils, coating the membranes
of my lungs, until my air glides
unnaturally inandout in the manner
of a poison, seeping
in to all your systems, that you
won't notice until
You crash.

Don't try to pin me down. Instead,
let me flutter gently around the twinkling lights
that look intriguing to me at the moment.
Don't try to catch me. Instead,
watch me keep my distance and try to understand
that I can still exist happily in the freedom of solitude.
Don't try to predict my changes. Instead,
know that even I cannot usually do so, and try,
if you so wish, to weather with me my changing seasons and summer storms.
Don't try to immitate me. Instead,
realize how beautiful you are as yourself and furthermore,
I am not something you should immitate, want to be.
Don't try to change me. Instead,
accept me as I am. Though your forced changes may indeed be better
for me, your acceptance will make me want to better myself.
Don't try to explain me. Instead,
internalize that some things are inexplicable
and that my reasons for being this are so much uglier than you see.
Don't try to justify me. Instead,
remember that even those who are hard to grasp
make mistakes, even horrible ones, and sometimes need someone not to forgive.
Don't try to destroy me. Instead,
listen to me when I warn that many have tried, purposefully
or otherwise, and I am not so fragile as I look. You will end up burnt.
Don't try to push me away forcefully. Instead,
ask me to go. I will understand, I promise
I only want distance to be a respectfully created space, not a hidden minefield.
Don't try to reel me in. Instead,
if I come to land near you, bear in mind that this is rare
but, too, bear in mind you have no obligation to want me here.
Please, don't try to pin me down.
If you ever do., I will be a dead thing of former splendor
pinned to your corkboard, and you will finally understand me
when all of my entrails come spilling out, displayed to you
and I lay, helpless.

Eventually, I think I'll become just
A pair of eyes. I won't judge and
I can't speak, all the words I might
Have used are being erased. This
Simple act of seeing and remaining
Mute, may dictate I be
Permanently so.

Though you asked me
to say those words, should
I feel the need, should they
ever become necessary,
that hurtful sentence will never
cross my lips. Though you,
in you innocence and well-meaning,
asked me to tell you, should I
ever feel the rift growing, my limbs
hardening, your eyes seeing
me as only something I am not, you
will never hear me say those words.
You are happy.
You are so happy, and I
will never be the one to decide
my comfort is worth more
than your happiness. That
is my promise. I will only ask
one thing- please hold on
to your happiness, please, I beg
so I never feel my silence
was in vain.

Tears under lamplight, so often called silver.
as if you think they're precious, or beautiful.
As if my pain makes me special, or radiant.
As if this is something rare, like it doesn't happen so often.
You think my tears make me unique, like no one else has ever been
Radiant in quicksilver, and no one else's shoulders have trembled
Under the burden of these sharp reflections of light
that adorn my face.
like the fluid sparkle of my eyes in this moment
is unprecedented and will not be repeated
thousands of millions of times over
so many people, so many faces.
So much glistening pain.

But this is not the first time
And it is far from the last
for me, or any of the others.
My tears are not silver, they are not precious.
They are not beautiful.
My blood has turned to water
and life has whipped me in the face
until I have overflowed and I bleed,
staining everything with the liquid pain
pouring out of the tracks cut through my trembling flesh.
You are so close to the truth
     (If I heated silver, if I stuck it to my cheeks
      if I watched the flesh burn and embraced the pain
      everyone who cared to look would see and the marks
      would not fade for a long time
      or ever.)
But so far from it
     (If I heated silver, if I melded it to my face
      if I adorned myself in refractions of glory
      I might be able to walk with pride.
      Everyone could see me, resplendent
      and I would embody strength
      and not hatred of my own weakness.)

Two inches
between us.
I am

dancing

through this
minefield.

at some point tonight
I started hating myself.
I'm not surprised anymore
just kind of resigned.
I'm glad you're not here.
you would have hated this me, too.

What they don't tell you is that
the first time you punch that hole
in your soft, unresisting ivory skin,
waiting like a ****** stretch of snow
(whether it's your blade
or nails
maybe teeth or keys)
you're not letting your pain out so much
as you're letting in
little demons, big appetites, twisted thoughts.
You used to be scared
of that first step but now
addiction has replaced your fear. All
you want is another little crack in your now
not-so-****** stretch of skin.
You need to let the pressure out, let your pain
out, let them slowly leak away let
every little demon in, a little more
and you feel them call for your blood.
The whispers become deafening and still
you watch them multiply until they
reach your mind
set up camp in every thought
and you realize you were not letting them in
for the first time, but rather
welcoming them home.

Like a sponge, latching on
to anything.
Squirreling everything away inside
Its heart, porous,
with all the holes. Maybe
They can be filled like this.
They can't.

Eventually, we put the sponge under
Pressure.
And then watch,
Sickened,
As everything hidden away in the
         porous heart of a sponge
Comes gushing out.

And as the bombshells of
my daily fears explode they
hurtle into me with the
exact force of
her fists and leave
bruises, invisible (this time) and
knock me down until I
am drowning under
the waves and I
can't breathe under
the weight of all
these memories because as
the bombshells of my daily
fears explode I know how to
trace them right back to
my youth and I am
scared of still
being young.

When I am
tired or
sad or
hurt or
drunk my
thoughts start
to appear in
my head with
line-breaks.
Strange for
someone who
never thought
she could
write.

They tell me it's ok and that
I've been through so much. You, they say,
are a fighter.
You are a survivor.
I break down. And I crack
up and there are days that I don't
get out of bed or leave
my house at all. And you
let me off the hook because I
am fighting. Surviving. Fighters, you say,
need to let their guard down
after all. I **** up again or I
don't follow through or I
hurt someone and you
will always forgive me because I
am a survivor and they
are allowed to. Listen to me I
do not want these second
(and third and tenth) chances. You
use them for yourself. Stop saying
that I do not need to be strong just
because I survived. I know
that I survived. I know
that I am capable of strength so stop
forgiving me.

The Tartars thought that a neat
clean hole in your head
would let in the gods
and you could hear their whispers.
A neat
clean hole
in your skull.
An honor for those worthy.
But what if
a hole
is to let things out?
To let out the pressure
to let out the whispers
to let out the shouting
and the voices of your inadequacy
ever-present.
When your thoughts are too expensive
to ever want to keep
could a neat
clean hole
let them go?
A hole in my head
and a hole in my heart
to let out the pain
to let out the love
to let out the heaviness
and the lack of hope.
But I cannot drill holes in my chest
or my head
So I punch holes in my skin
Until pain bleeds out like water
through the tiniest crack in the ****.

Big headphones to block out the world
And music
Turned up loud
Dark sunglasses to hide my face
And all the lights
Turned out
And if I don't let them all see me
Can I keep
This brokenness
From breaking out?

It is in the small hours like these
that I feel like destroying myself. You
all think you want to die, one of you calling out
to me in your pain, the third one of you in
few weeks. I beg and I plead and I shout and
when you cannot see me, after (or maybe
in the middle of) guiding you through this crisis, I
will break down and sob in terror and anger
at my helplessness. The glue I use to hold
you together is harvested directly from my own
disgustingly weak being. As I am trying to solidify
your world, I myself am dissolving. Please
don't die, none of you, your loss and my failure
would create a monster to devour and utterly
destroy what is left of me.

When I let you in I saw you
as a source of strength, not
a drain. And I was right, but only
for a while. You have walked
over me, firmly, even as I lay down,
willingly. You have walked over me
so forcefully that the imprint
of you will forever be embedded
in my heart. You were not
the first, and, knowing myself, you
will not be the last. But this
is the last straw, and soon
though your impression will never
fade from my flesh, it will stop
becoming deeper and more painful
with every passing day. I am strong
enough for a last stand, cowardly
though it may be. Inaction is
a form of action, and I
am giving up.

And after
the last time you touched me, I
used up a whole bar of soap, looking
for some trace of what used to
be clean. And after
the last time you touched
me, I would sit, huddled
against the cold plaster of our tub
after all the water had run
down the drain, shivering, for hours
and my family yelled
that I was in the bathroom for
too long. And after
the last time you touched me, my skin
was not my own, and it fit
in a way that I couldn't ever
name, in a way that made me sick
to my stomach until nausea painted
the walls of my mind and faded
into the background of my story.
And after the last time you
touched me, I wondered if I would ever
be good enough for someone or
anyone, ever again. And after the
last time you touched me I
would stare at the mirror and wonder how
such a healthy exterior
could ever be so hollow.
After the last time you touched me
and scooped out everything inside
I never thought to blame you-
after all, after everything,
I invited you in.

i. I've never really believed
those people
that say we are made
of stardust. but the
constellation
of bite marks
you left across my chest
might just change my
mind.

ii. I'm glad a shower
is on my plan, because
instead of me
I smell like you. and don't get
me wrong, I love
the way you smell
but it might drive me
insane
with longing.

iii. being the one to leave
in a way
is easier. but please
don't think walking away from you
doesn't break me
a bit
every time.

I'm leaving my heater on
tonight and it's all your
fault, see, cause
I haven't adjusted to how cold it is
without you here and I
keep shivering. You're
a better heater than
this machine. I need
the noise, too, the whirr
and hum, because it's
raining and I can't stand
the rain outside my window without
thinking about you. "*******
listen" you would whisper
and fling open the window
and pause the movie
and kiss me and I want
that again I want
you again I want
you to be back I don't
want this empty bed or
whirring heater, neither
give off as much warmth or
make as nice noises
as when you kiss me.

(this poem might be
pointless but I guess
what I'm trying to say is
thank you)