So basically the secret fear that I've been harboring and is preventing me from being completely positive is the idea that I'll never love someone as much as I love/loved you. While you're living in happiness and love, I'll still be looking comparing each one to you. I'll question myself should I give in and confess all my built up nerves, thoughts, and frustrations hoping you'll give me something that will guide me in the right direction. But I answer my questions with "it'll never happen. let it go. how much rejection will you take?" I don't know. I'm teetering between oblivion and rejection scared of what you'll think of me. And I cushion my potential fails with excuses such as "I just want to be friends" or "I just miss your conversation" to hide my love. I just wanna know what really happened and if I even matter. I know I don't not nearly as much as I used to. I wonder if you even think of me. Speak now or forever hold your peace they said. I'm afraid to speak because I fear a response that won't lead me to peace..

If you are a lover of words,
you’d understand the
beautiful curse      that befell us,
those who strive and endeavor
with a passion planted inside us
that flourishes and thrives.
Like Athena and her web,
our webs are made of
hundreds of words, woven with
our pencils like needles,
and so we get better at
sewing our works.

A girl
once loved words
wholeheartedly,
but occasionally tried
to let love go
before sewing poems
became her favorite thing
and nothing more.

Aerial creatures—
Making love in a shower,
Palms and lips soaring.

I was that boy bobbed in blonde hair
smiling for the world.
Catholic tie and attire draped on my corpse.
I once felt the beat of the sun
as I trotted to church in navy dress socks.
The twilit sun roused my tiny frame,
smile dressed prim when day meant infinity.
I was a new born.
Isolation befriended me.
I used to crave for the corners of a stable room.
When I made friends
I forgot them at the school parking lot.
I played by myself when the other children turned to ghosts.
My blonde hair gleamed in the reflected glistening of the sun,
dripping to the floor like washable paint.
I forgot friends and I adapted to a new school.
I don’t make friends,
I fool ghosts to keep me from playing by myself.
The moon was bigger when I was four foot tall
and everyday was forever.
There used to be memories in those middle school class rooms,
there used to be living children.
I laughed because my hair had long since dulled in luster
and the universe finally noticed me in that corner.
The furniture migrated to newer houses,
but I haunted each one like it was my own.
My bones reached for the skies.
I painted masks under my skin.
And the universe bowed over me in that corner
where the shadows are too shy to answer
and gave me a special game to play.
I developed a sense of self under that cloud lit canopy.
Everyday swallowed into eternal.
I left friends at the door so I could walk to them.
The night licked the eve, and the universe gave me sickly.
High school wasn’t a fantasy,
I figured it out in my sleep.
The house looks best on new soil,
and the room’s never felt so expansive.
I trot along the tile,
universe at my every step,
it’s eyes already know mine.
I built a machine
or a demon to feign myself.
I had a smile that carried a soul in its arms.
I’ve never disowned that corner
where the world came to me.
I meet ghosts everyday,
the very few I invite home.
I’ve made love to philosophy and science before I counted the stars.
The universe ponders my shoulder
and gives me a glory to behold,
and a pencil to carry.
I used to be a boy of blonde hair and innocent grin
and day used to mean infinity.
I used to be the fragments of me.
Now I’m the boy that was me.

Thatcher vacuum seals nicotine
Slurps cigarette like mosquito
Ravenous lungs gnaw and grind for the slow pander,
Thatcher’s just another name for the labeling
We plaster and pine for an out,
Stitch that finite lie beneath squeamish child skin,
Thatcher’s the black lung paradise,
******* infancy coddling cigarette stifle,
The caloric crack of his canines fletching out lust and sickly groove
As he’s scopes out fiend and vexed vandals,
Clutches the sick theistic *******
Cuddle those bruise licked hips
Give God the gross percent,
Cause heaven’s in those greenbacks
and God’s in the ******* kick,
Suckling bout the American tip
The Christian capitol,
Seething on shadow puppet ****** and American dream,
Gods got nothing to do with the slickened crinkle of gain and glamour,
Thatcher’s just the candy man give and cult,
Cough the crutch of contagion greed
And clutch the cuff of your porcelain sleeve,
Thatcher gleans your blackest suite tight,
Struts raven blade shoulders perched on American made spine,
Thatcher does as Thatcher please,
Thatcher thinks as Thatcher bleeds,
And Thatcher bleeds venereal blend,
Gout with the American veneer of broken girl and scabbed moral traumatic,
Trauma tastes as the hollow pixies give out the get out,
Bandaged baby girls,
The teenage horror show,
Just another blazoned hit of one two take the hand me down generic give away,
Desensitize the humanize,
Girls got to get the days glossy puff and sniff,
Thatcher’s content to satisfy,
Callous coroner a spectator suckling Marlboro lick,
Lodging thick smoke and toxin between spittle slick lips,
Albino plumes clotting and unfolding,
Thatcher clicks back the cartridge
Filter and cigarette,
Thatcher gulps back the need because brain’s got a favoring kink for the buzz,
Thatcher sings with the screaming in his straggling lungs,
Hums the western creed
Laughs fickle with God at his need,
Thatcher’s the true American dream