“i missed you”
you only say this because i was there next to you.
i smelled like apples and you had forgotten my long hair.
you only say this because the music gridded into us, and the
fog intertwined through our pores.
you only say you miss me when i’m close enough to miss.
you only say this because you took something of mine
i can never take back.
in a month,
maybe
a
week,
you’ll miss me, but not so frequently.
that ache in your heart will subside for a while.
you’ll forget the crisp smell, the touch of silk.
until next time,
until next time.

you make me

so unbelievably happy.

you make me

so unbelievably sad.

and i wish i could understand

how one person

can lift me to the stars

and then

hurl me to the darkest part

of the ocean.

"how bout a goodnight kiss?"
maybe if i had another sip of the liquid jolly rancher
or maybe if it had
been a
dream.
your callused hands were never mine to hold.
please, don't stare at me,
i need a place for this bucket of salt,
and you need a doctor for your wounds.
(i can't lick them up anymore)
"just a peck on the cheek, okay?"
still too much.
(i saw your heart throbbing in the flesh)
the sticky red, under my fingernails
persistent,
like you.
i was never yours.
i was never
yours.

late at night, when only broken teenagers
and felines are awake. maybe it's 3
(or 4, or 5)
or right when sunshine slinks through.
somewhere between consciousness and slumber.
i turn, fingertips brushing your skin,
warmth dispersing under my pores.
not fully awake, not quite asleep, i wrap my arm
around your torso,
my lips placing lazy kisses upon your freckles.
your fingers, from alertness, or habit, grasp onto mine.
and somewhere between the state of consciousness and slumber,
i fall back asleep.

if you are going to ask what my favorite thing is, or
what on this earth makes me the happiest,
i would tell you to read the lines above

we were swathed in each other's ambience.
the bed, molded from our warm bodies.
outside, the snow fell
and fell
and fell,
ensnaring us further into our arms.
when hungry, we munched on chips, candy,
licking salty fingers and moving onto the main course
(my neck, your stomach)
we watched Blade Runner and sipped ***** drinks at noon,
we got drunk, off of the not so ****** orange juice,
and each other.
(we had the excuse, nowhere to go)
naked, and inebriated, we swayed
and boomed with the storm.
we giggled at nothing, discussed about everything.
we kissed until our lips chapped.
as the snow descended, and our minds drifted
to sleep, i wished to spend every snow day
enfolded
in
you.

i want to show you my scars. all of them.
and tell you the story.
i have many, i know. and probably 50 more will be added.
the ones blossoming on my shins & knees,
that's what happens when you're active in summer.
the one under my bottom lip,
i was young and my slumber met a sharp ended edge.
the ones on my hands,
let's just say the oven isn't my good friend.
and the other scars...
those are the scary stories.
those are the ones i lock away.
the ones on my stomach, my wrist, my arms.
those scars hold no stories, only nightmares.
those scars were no accidents, only battles.
i lie, most of the time, when questioned.
but you are not judgmental.
these scars, i know you could never fully understand.
but if i share my story,
if i tell you the secret beneath the scare tissue,
can you at least try?

the blank page holds nothing,
but water stains and empty words.
so why does everyone compare life to this?
(so why can i make no sense of it?)
fill it with dreams and aspirations, advice
and lessons learned, admirers and lovers,
enemies and relatives.
still, the page is ashy, and the ink stains, soaks.
i try to write on my blank page,
(but i draw a blank)
all i have is unreachable heights,
a demon encircling my throat,
men with too many teeth.
each day i throw away the blank pages away,
and each day i try to scribble something new.
the words are *****. vile and grotesque.
(i must throw it all away)
i'm trying again, tonight.
(maybe it's all about timing)
but so far, the words are useless.
tightening me, closing
until all
that's
left
is
ink.