i guess the point of all this was to say
i know that humans get better and pain
dries up like fainted leaves in the sun
but i've suffered.
i'll still suffer years from now when i come across
a misplaced memory of you that i tried
to forget existed, or tried to remember too well.
you can dress yourself in as many
exclamations points as you find fitting.
i will wear my skin as long and as often as I can.
when it's cold, i will not don anger
wrapped like a scarf around my throat
maybe i was never meant for scarves,
or exclamation points,
and maybe you were never meant
for skin.

3pm sunsets
and that squeaky drawer where we kept the condoms
I moved my bed, sideways
because things are different now and I made it so.
I'm not thinking about you
I'm just thinking about how much I like this book
and how her hair wisps at the ends
how his hands could fit my whole face
and how nice it is to sit alone,
coloring pictures not for you or him or her
but because I like coloring pictures
I like thinking of the future, for once.
I like romance and friendship and creativity
not because of you, but because of 3pm sunsets that fall
not because of you.

it's like a string gets cut
a piece of hair breaks by the will of your fingers,
or the will of your scissors,
or just all on its own
what has grown into a never ending strand of canned up regrets
forgets its necessity and splits non-aggressively,
progressively but passively
half sinks, the other floats.
not a friend notes the difference,
but you know it's there -
or rather not.
you are one hair shorter,
one tear bolder,
it's getting colder but
you wear a little less.
take a look at all the mess
you made, trying to take care of dying hair -

it's all dead anyway.

trust that it knows when to leave.
trust that you'll known when to grieve
and when the sieve has done its grimy work
someday, it might still hurt.
but you don't need to make sure
it's tucked in every night
bed story and light
rub it's back, "it's all right"
it's all right
do not bite the hand that feeds you
or feed the thoughts that bite.
it's all right.

the string stretched out too tight

And these boys, they have their stories
and they paint them on their foreheads
to try to show us that they're growing
when they're really only throwing off their clothes.
These girls, they have their memories
and they tie them to their ankles
so not matter how they grieve him,
they can never really leave him like they chose.
Momma, will I be just as scattered
as the life you drew before me
will the salt congeal in this wound?
will my healing always feel this far away?
Father, help me understand why
I choke on our own anger
feel it burning underneath me
feel it fighting just to keep me in my grave.
Can my hands become my own hands?
can this skin become my own skin?
if I can conquer what's in my chest,
maybe I can be the best that I can be.
Is my best enough to be, though?
something pleasant, something changing
I am frightened to be happy,
words that terrify and trap me in a plea:
A call for help is all I ask for
a simple reason to keep living
maybe meaning can be found here
if I ever come around here in the light.

eating big meals always
makes me think of Us.

we always ate too much
slept too much
talked too much
kissed too much
knew too much
grew too much
loved too much
and never enough.

you think about someone too long listening to a song
and they start to creep their way into the chords,
climb their way up on the staff, find their place in the rests
until there's no where you can't see them. hear them. miss them.

there are a lot of songs I can't listen to anymore
I will never be unsurprised by the injustice that just one person can do
to another by simply trying their best to exist.
I throw out favorite movies and favorite artists and favorite books,
I throw out pieces of me everyday because I can't carry them alone.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't keep us like we wanted.
I'm sorry that we weren't the strong adults we thought,
just small children who tried to make a home in each other's arms.
And maybe you don't feel that way - but when I hear the crooning
of a boy singing about how we were spoons,

I can't help but notice all the scars we left, two knives
pretending that we could never really hurt each other,
getting closer and closer
until there was nothing left to cut.