Some girls know all of each others poetry off by heart.
They find assonance in their laughter.
Their linked hands echo in sybilance.
I sometimes sing as if I am one of them
but what if I can't hum on key?
What if my elegies are the ones nobody reads?
Words, words, words. They rush over me and out of me
to a dead audience.
There is no innocent brush of fingers
or sweet laughter, only the perverse desire
to write something more than myself
and wait for an empty orchestra of applause to greet me.
Perhaps if I write as I am
then I will become who I am not.
Perhaps I will become one of the poets,
harmonising in time with the rest of you.

there was a day I  was a boy I played
I  had dreams and fantasies
under the beautiful days of the cherry
tree soft grass once I laid

meadows and trees to discover
and more so much more
I had the future before
me a soft calm meadow

to go to dream about the yellow haired girl
across the street
not knowing why I dreamt
of her so

much, I spent seasons in that
innocent meadow lying in the grass
watching leaves evolve grow
mature fall off

never realized
I was so much like them

i am not, you aren't of course
the face in the mirror
or the composite of your pose
in that profile pic your best
side or a stand-in I suppose
that makes you look like aphrodite
with no attitude
and me I talk haha
I am Geronimo
with a hangover
perpetually
posed
because
innocently
I break the lenses
of every camera
that tries to
take my soul

the last time a boy told me he didnt love me anymore
it had been barreling towards me for miles.
falling in and out of holes of communication,
we dont talk anymore but i still love you,
you wont say goodnight but i still love you,
im not even sure you remember im alive but i still love you,
because i didn't know any better.
because i was never taught whats enough and whats too much
the line between compliance and forgiveness is a lack of strength
and im not sure which direction it points to.
the last time a boy told me he didnt love me anymore
it was seven in the morning, it was dreary bright like
all early summer mornings are. i kept repeating,
i know you dont want to hear this but i still love you,
i know its late but i still love you,
i dont know what im doing but i still love you,
because i never learned how to stop. i never
knew what i could give and what i could take back,
which parts of me were okay to lose and which parts
i would stay awake until seven in the morning wishing i still had
all to myself.
the last time i told a boy i didnt love him anymore it
was to shut myself up. to tell myself enough. to teach myself to stop.
a simple compliance without forgiveness, separating the pieces
of my body i wanted to stack in suitcases and send across the country
with the pieces of my body i wanted to hold in my hands and
apologize to.
the last time i told a boy i didnt love him anymore it rolled off of my lips like honey and it fell onto the floor in scraps, all shaky and rehearsed.
the last time a boy told me he didnt love me anymore he didnt even
have to say it. he leaned in close and he picked up all the pieces that
belonged to him and told me:
*you beautiful, terrible, stupid thing. you couldnt stop; even if you tried.

im calling to tell you that this is the last time i will call
you until i call you again and repeat it like an automated voice message.
im calling to tell you that i hope i get your answering machine because
i know its that stupid preset recording and
i want to touch you but i dont think
i could stomach the sound of your voice.
im calling to tell you that i dont know what to do with my hands
and i keep picking up the phone to tell you i hate you but
it dissolves and drips down my throat as i wait for the beep instead and
im calling to tell you *sorry, in advance, about the poems.
i just wanted to stop calling.