I love you so much, please don't hurt me.

missing you is a stupid thing for me to do, but I do it anyway

I wouldn’t mind dying while listening to The Dodos. It’d be a lovely way to die. It still rattles my mind a bit, the assurance of my image one day being but a photograph left behind. I want my words to make a stranger feel something inexplicable, decades from now, centuries after my death. Perhaps from reading a particular line from one of my collected books of poetry, perhaps from reading a folded note I left hidden between the pages of one of my favourite books at a public library. I hope libraries still exist far into the future. It worries me that record stores might someday cease to exist. I think I worry for all the wrong reasons, and find meaning in things that have none. I think about death too much. There’s just as much sadness as there is well-being. It’s all around us, on our evening walks home from school, in the stillness of gaps between shifts of dreams, in the gestures of communal passerby’s. It’s all so simple and complex and beautiful and overwhelming. I think losing yourself in thought is one of the most intimate ways in finding yourself.
I think, I think, I think.

it is difficult to sleep at night
knowing your heart is not in the same room as mine

so desperately I wish it would rain. I want to feel its many sensations past my clothes to my skin. I want to jump in a sidewalk puddle and mean it. It's autumn, and there aren't enough mustard yellow pumpkin orange olive green auburn leaves. I drank three cups of coffee earlier in the evening, the time is now fourteen past three and I cannot sleep. an indiscreet feverish anxiety fills my interior. there is so much to look forward to all the time. someday I will find my waldo. somenight I will find solace in the vitreous humor of my sleeping lover's eyes.

maybe I'm not sad
maybe I'm just bored
maybe I'm not bored
maybe I'm just tired

standing lovers
sitting down
less human
more being

I hate the way I allow myself to feel for you
I hate that I'd still feel this way even if I had a choice

Am I a ***** for not wanting to be alive right now?
Am I a ***** for running to the pills?
The alcohol no longer drowns out the sadness
The music no longer fades out the sounds
Or fills up the silence
I'm in the center of a crowd
Of a thousand sweating bodies
And I can feel their heartbeats pulsing as my own
But I still feel more than I've ever felt
Oh, I'm not quite sure I can carry out
So empty and alone

Wednesday night. Making a list of places to visit and languages to learn. Listening to rebroadcasted recordings of Pablo Neruda poetry readings. Wishing I were in New York, wishing it were 1966. Some things are better seen with closed eyes. Some things are felt most without touch. I hope the cause of my death the day it comes is due to some sweet tragedy such as that of drowning in the depths of my own heart.

I hope you are well. Truly. My name is gladys, I am twenty-two, this is not an autobiography. This one time I almost crashed my car into a metal sign post in order to not run over a pigeon. I often leave secret notes hidden between the pages of books from my favourite authors in public libraries and book stores. I never got my photograph/ senior quote published in my graduating class' yearbook in high school because I am eminently indecisive. I don't mind it, however, I sort of like the idea of it, a somewhat absent nostalgia. I really like it when people unthinkingly do kind things for other people. I like the color blue, a lot, although I rarely wear it. I use commas quite excessively in my writing. I like that they indicate a brief pause but are not as final as periods. I like many things, I like to do face exercises and arm stretches at night before I go to sleep. And that, that is all. For now.
You are wonderful, goodnight.

I fidget because the look in your eyes is smoldering. And quite frankly, I want to know what it is in your life that brings you fear the most. I like boys who use precise diction and say "I love you" to their mother at the end of a phone-call, especially when they repeat themselves four times to make sure she's heard. My guilty pleasures consist of reading books that I should not be reading. I am dissatisfied with my able to be reached yet so far away dreams. I dream more during the day than I do at night. It is too late, I am already in-love with you, Tom Waits. I am the most un-punctual person you'll ever meet. I am the worst at texting back, replying to e-mails and answering phone calls. Social communication is not my thing. I'll write you twenty-three poems if you ask me to. I treat myself to Starbucks more than I should. I worked hard for this four dollars and eighty-five cents cup of joe, I ****** well deserve it. I ****** well am a mess. I find comfort in oblivion. Do you ever cry just to feel the mystery of liquid on your skin? Do you ever bleed just to make sure that your body is alive? Do you know just how sad you truly are? Do you know that you're the loveliest mind I've encountered by far? I hope, I hope you do. Oh, but it's better if you don't.

i don't think I'll love you forever
forever could never be long enough

buy a cactus, learn to care again. drink a cup of coffee under the moon, with a friend or with a lover or by yourself. it's okay to do things by yourself, it's okay to be your own lover. take a train ride somewhere far, put away your cellphone, look around you, observe. strangers can be beautiful. the trees and blur of times passing from outside your window are beautiful. exist. let yourself think, let yourself feel. stop asking for permission. simply be.

don't forget the red stained kiss marks I left on your cheek everytime we used to say goodbye. don't forget the time we stood shoulder to shoulder on the edge of the sea, our toes soaked in mud, oceans tide at our knees. remember the breeze, how it lingered through our hair, how it left shivers on our skin. remember how we felt, even if we no longer feel.

baby, remember when you loved me.

I think I was born to be alone
Nobody to call me theirs
Nobody to call my own
My name is Solitude
Lovely to meet you
Now I must go

go to the cinema by yourself
let yourself succumb to the glories of solitude
drive out to Los Angeles with your best friend
go from bar to bar until you find the one that feels right
the one with your preference of tunes
get ******* ****-faced
have a one night stand with a handsome stranger
but instead of giving him into your body
give him into your soul and mind
have the conversation you’ve anxiously desired
fall in love for a few hours
every second starts with a first
may tomorrow be responsible for sobriety

3 05 AM
uninspired
vacant
regret
are you
what your future self
had always hoped to be?
is there any beauty left for you to see
at the sight of me?
nothing has ever been as easy
as wanting you.
I've never known how to get along with my thoughts.
how have I become so wasted?
where has all the passion gone?
and why I can't I come up with
a better word than passion?
words can no longer explain
this subtle torment
******* this lifeless room
******* this settling comfort
******* my senseless tongue
jaded youth
fickle heart
holding back
from who know's what
not me.
not me, again.
contemporary ****-up
sitting still on the amber picket bench
in the center portrait of your ruffled mind
the sound of our heavy breathing
creeps past my skin
every whispering sigh a memory left for me to dwell on
you said you wanted me, an enigma
I was a mystery
it was a mystery
it was the mystery you wanted
not me
not me
it was the need
to be wanted
to be needed
to be mended
my limbs, paper figurines
your eyes, story-telling gypsies
desire
slowly unfolds
like lotus flowers
both so naive
desperately
trying to be free
from sentiment

I know you felt it
I know you feel it, too
When the night comes sooner
and your inbox is empty

The sea is mimicking my loneliness.
I offer myself to the sea.

and we rake the leaves
and we cage the birds
why are we so cruel?

the culture club mix-tape section from nylon magazine completes me. sometimes I don’t feel like capitalizing the first letter to the first word of a new sentence. feelings can be so useless sometimes. I use the word sometimes too much. I think I am in love with Keaton Henson. I think I have a crush on one of my co-workers. I’d rather have a crush than be in love with you, it’ll last a while longer that way. I like coffee mugs, they are so comfortable to drink out of, they make me feel safe. I like it better when you’re warm, I want to give you warm feelings. I remember this one time I wrote the saddest poem I've ever written during one of the saddest points in my life, I sat there with legs crossed on the cold ground of a dim hallway on the third floor of the humanities building at school. It was on a yellow blue-lined sheet of paper, I folded it in three, I left it there anonymously and fled. I’ll never know who found that piece of me, perhaps no one ever did. every day is another year. I’m sorry, I always end up writing too much. I’m sorry, for being quite a crap person sometimes, truly I am. There are many things I’ll live to be sorry about, but I've no fault for the words inside of my head. All tomorrow’s parties are dead. Listen to The Babies all night with me instead.

Oh darling, save a place for me in your heart.

I cannot tell if I am alive or just breathing
You are a lie I choose to believe in
I am worried love may just be something my soul needs
I shouldn't have drank that last cup of coffee
I should have kissed you longer while I had the chance
But if choice could choose not to choose
But if sound could mute without losing its sound
But if it weren't a ******* shame that you're not here with me
Perhaps then I'd be able to tell
You are a truth I refuse to except
Maybe I'm living for the small things
I'll never know how to love you enough
Perhaps I should appreciate the cold side of my pillow
Maybe I'm just desperate
Maybe I'm just tired
Maybe I've been alone
                                  with the entire universe inside of me
                   for far too long
Maybe I just miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
               I can't

I cannot tell if this is a poem or a feeling
I don't want to know if you ever hope to see me
I still love you are the cruelest words in the world
Darling, I never meant to lie

it is cold
my ******* are hard
I'm not fond enough of you
to care whether you think of me as appropriate or otherwise
I drink because I like it when my vision matches the blur of my mind
a boy I don't know came up to me at the gay bar
he caressed my face and walked away and then walked back
to apologize for not being able to contain himself
his friend also apologized on his behalf and assured me that
it is not his friends fault that I am so charming
naturally I smiled in comprehensive shyness
it has been a while since a touch has felt like home
it has been a while since home has felt like home
you will fall in love with all the wrong girls
you will ******* your way out of the responsibilities of growing up
you will catch the attention of strangers
and you will mean so much to them
so many things
so many thoughts
so many names left unknown
sit out with me in stormy weather
we're both naive, broken, and delirious
with not much else to do, do it with me
roaming poet of the night, give me your words
*oh, pour me another drink
and punch me in the face
you can call me Nancy

the night has a thousand eyes.
only two of them make my heart flutter.
I love poetry because it makes me love.
there's a certain art to crying.
there's a certain charm to sadness.
I've a profound desire for long train rides to somewhere.
I've a strange frenzy for mail packages with my name written on them.
they remind me that I exist. they remind me that I am not infinite.
I don't know what it is about tomorrow, but I know I'll never be the same.
unsentimental, driving around, like the future is supposed to be.
before you go crossing that bridge in your mind, again
darling you're loved, they love you
I love you
I love you
*I'll love

quite frankly,
I am sick of all my words.
the clock ticks,
I keep sleeping.
marry me for my love, please.
for my love above all things.
choose my love over myself.
this is your hand
these are my insecurities
this is the rain,
this is what it does to you
through me.

people tend to look at you funny when you're by yourself.
a few give the stare of sympathy; apologetic for your being alone.
but I don't mind it, really. not at all.
I choose my solidarity. I enjoy my own company.
I enjoy the conversations of my thoughts with my heart.
I enjoy sitting at a table for three, alone, at a café underground.
I take my time, I take slow bites of my sandwich and long sips of my tea.
I write. I listen.
To the echoes of poetry in the pit of my stomach,
to other people's conversation.
I wonder why they choose to discuss the weather instead of their emotions.
I wonder if they have a favorite song, and what that song does to them.
I wonder which of all is their favourite colour.
I observe endlessly their gestures.
Their faces, the slightly visible creases beneath their eyes,
their humor, their tension, their kindness.
The waitress, keeping count of her tips when there's no one in line.
The artificial display of burning firewood on the plasma television.
Entwined dim lights and origami lanterns hanging down from the walls.
MGMT's Kids playing in the background of pool table and ceiling fan noises.
Control yourself, take only what you need from me.
I dedicate songs to myself. I disagree with their message.
Unapologetically, I pass time in the cinema of my mind.
It helps me connect with the anxious, suffocating,
void and pending urging twenty-one-year-old emotions beneath my veins.
Solitude helps me cope with myself.

And you pushed me around in a shopping cart in the snow
while I explained to you my strange fascination with candles
why I find them to be lovely
and how they also make me sad
because no matter how much they burn, burn, burn
like Kerouac's fingertips in the night
once its flare reaches the bottom
there is no coming back

And the day after I told you this
you picked me up from school
without saying a word
we drove in your car
to our secret spot

We got off the car
you took off your jacket
lied it flat on the ground
and directed me to sit

As I did
you pulled a paper box out from your backpack
quietly
you handed it to me

Without questioning
I delicately pulled the mint green twine
until the paper box opened itself

Wrapped in thin tissue paper was a candle
and a tiny pack of Birdie
that held only two matches

Not knowing where this was going
I placed them in front of me

Gently you proceeded
and sat across the unlit candle
and two matches placed between us

We stayed in stillness for a moment
staring intently into each others eyes

I reached down for the tiny pack
and handed you a match

Taking your time
you stroke the match
as if setting flame to an unwanted photograph

You lit the candle
still in-between us both
still without exchange of words

You sat there with me and watched the shift of
its burn-rates blend with the likeness of the sun

And when it began to sputter uncontrollably
and when I began to cry
you sat there with me, still
this time by my side
breaking the silence

Quietly you whispered
in the open space before us
as if making proclamation to yourself
and to the sky

"This light will not grow dim"

And every day after you said this
I've waited for you after school

Without saying a word
I drive my car
to our secret spot

Getting off the car
I take off your jacket
and lay it flat on the ground

I take out the paper box
and place the empty candle jar and single match
before me

- - -

*your light has not grown dim
although I sit here
without the candle of your eyes to look into
I can still feel you burning
in the core of my soul

There is something intimate in the way you place commas in sentence.
It's as if each paragraph alone is a love letter within a love letter.
You say "Gladys, good morning. I love you."
And I sort of melt a little on the inside.
You say, "*******, Gladys. Never, never tell me that
what I feel for you is not love."
And I know it in my veins and in my mind,
which are more endearing than my heart,
that I love you, too.

I hope you can feel the sincerity in my commas.

I'm
in love
with the sound
coming out of your mouth
when you say
*I
love
you

Is the moon dead
or is she alive
or is she, said moon, really a man
and does he have hands
and does she have teeth
and do they wonder
as they look down
what kind of star I am
if I am even a star at all
perhaps I am a meteoroid
I seem to be small enough
or perhaps I am a comet
pale, cold, and *****
constantly shying away from the sun
leftover from the beginning of time
~ ~ ~
Dear Cascabelera,
I am writing to you because
I've grown lazy in my heart
less patient in my mind
and my eyes, wide and salty as the sea,
foam with fear of depths

As you stand there, brilliant and luminous in all your ways
I lay here faithfully underneath you
as I have for the past twenty-one years
there is no greater devotion than ours, I know

Yet as I lay here, still,
underneath your gloaming
with nothing to feel
and no one to hold
but my sadness
I cannot help but wonder
are you dead
are you alive
are you here by choice
have you any tears to cry?

Cascabelera,
I want to embrace you sweetly in the early morning
lunita, lunera
I want you to lay with me in the dark