maybe I was the
biggest *****, but
you were the biggest


liar.

queen of your backseat
in overalls and grey skippies
mom said just ask him out
and risk getting rejected? please,
i'm hardly in any state of mind.

I said;*
let me
take my
hair down
for you, let
me slip my
sweater off,
let me leave the
doors all open
and leave the
lights all on

i am so mad at men
and I don't know why
is what I want to say
I'm almost positive it
is the redirected frustration
over what I couldn't control
gone rabid, but I am taking
it out on everyone and I don't
know how to

stop.

there is not
much to being
twenty, you
spend months
still calling yourself
nineteen in attempts
to get a firm grasp
on reality.

sometimes
the smallest
things can
shoot me
out of the








sky.

attached by heartstrings
my mom documented every
millisecond of my life which
ultimately included you, every
photo a timid look, loving glances
our hands permanently floating
gently draped legs, I hid behind
your glasses with you, i hid behind
your glasses with you, were we one
and is this why I
why i
why
i

I don't like cocky guys
I tell my mom, across the
counter. There is ink all
over my hands and the
bleach has dried out my
pointer finger. *So i don't
want to be near him. and
the espresso machine hums
in the background, Sammy's
cup stained lipstick red, my mom
gives me a look and she knows,
she knows I'm cocky too. So
I'll wait for him to come to
me.

(because I'm allowed to be by you in dreams)
we watched a movie
at my childhood elementary
school and unlike most dreams
where I spend the entirety trying
to tell you how sorry I am, I laid
my cheek on your shoulder and
answered simple questions and
for the most part we watched
the movie in silence
before I woke up
you turned and
said
*now that wasn't so hard, was it?

up above the city
I am encouragingly
alone and a shutter
of bodies share the
passenger seat, a
deck of faces shuffled
in defining moments
motion blurred, framing
me,
here.

at night I reach
out and scoop
the lights from
the rolling black
plain, all jewels
and boysenberry
syrup.

the red plaid shirt
you gave me hung
around my drivers seat for
10 months and the collar
bleached pink from the sun
I finally took it off a while
back and the left sleeve
was still fastened so that
it didn't slide up and show
your tattoo, and this morning
I stared at the little red button
that held the corners together
and undid it as if it meant something

maybe it did.

i hope on
a good day
you find a
strand of
my hair
still woven
into your
books.

there was a rising
from something
inside my body
that wasn't quite
inside my body
and echoed out
your standards are too high
and no. one. will. ever. meet. them.

so strange
to be jealous
so strange

for a while I've been confused---
lots of hours spent detangling
my hair in the shower, wondering
if I should sit down or stand up or
lean, wondering how it is possible
to be sort of sad or kind of not really
sad. I've always had problems with
letting go and I told my mom I haven't
tried with anyone because I don't like
feeling that way I don't like the strange
jealousies that come with falling for a face
but the truth is, it's all about chris and it
has been for months now.  Because loving
him is loving an old-self, because loving him
is loving an old-self, because who I love isn't
there? And who he loved isn't here (maybe I'm
just saying that) but there have been lots of hours
spent detangling my hair in the shower wondering
if I should sit down or stand up. Lots of hours.

have you ever loved
an old-self, a husk of
person no longer there?
maybe I am an old-self
too.

the song faded and
the crowd hushed
scott spillane played
a soft horn lullaby
and I watched Koster
love us, love us soft
so soft because we
were good listeners
without knowing
one another.

These Hefe filter sunglasses
only got me so far, kept them
only because I saw the mountains
the way you would have, I've had
this jacket long enough for it to be
mine, what's yours was mine, is
mine. Maybe you grew out of
me long ago but  I am
intent on leaving
naturally so when
the time comes, all
I have to do is stand
up and leave the

stage.

it's almost nine
and for a moment
I was at Ye Olde
Curiosity Shop down
by the bay, buying
grape pop rocks,
and you kept
asking for kisses
just to feel the spark
but your eyes said so
much more.

i hope that most
of your memories
of me are awash in
sunlight, too bright
to see anything else

have you ever noticed
the way county roads
glitter, a thousand rocks
or beetle backs shimmering
not unlike stars, we've been
driving on milky ways, on
stretches of stars, maybe not
all things that shine, shine all
the time, they're there all days
all ways, maybe not all things
that shine, shine all the time.

and it's because
you break through
this layered iridescent
medium that I keep
slathering on, I'm
almost done
trying.

I'm still trying to
be supportive over
the strangest things
as if I am indebted
to you for the way
i acted, still think
it's my duty to
unconditionally
love you and
defend your
place to be
yourself but
it's not. It's
not, It's not.

but even so
but to be honest
but in spite of this
but really, chris


T'es toujours fâché contre moi?

waiting to be
beautiful like
a dry town
waits for
rain.

walked into his
mom's store and
he said my name
so sweetly, gave my
name more syllables
and my name only
has
one

I drew you on
the back of my
work schedule
and left it on
the counter
when I
clocked
out.

I saw me
in that. I
wonder
if your
pencil
still
draws
the curves
of my lips
and if it
does I
hope
you erase
in vain,
that you
can't deviate
from the way
my
philtrum
caught all
the shadows

I will be okay
and I'm still
patient just
so you know
I'm still waiting
for you.

the thing about
Alastair is that
there are so many
things about him
that you will never
understand, growth
you will never witness
and a simple text saying
he's thinking about me
hope you're well
made me realize
that a lot of people
probably think
about me

for once I want to
dream of me in your
head get trapped in
your nets, see you
pull me from the
seas with your hands
your eyes, your mind
see me, see me, am I
a siren in your thoughts
a beautiful thing in your eyes
caught in your hands, your
mind , see me,
see me.

I like your skin, the rough parts and the soft parts. The moles, bumps and other miscellaneous textures omitted to living on your arms like aliens. I like your back and how different it is, thin and lean with no fat, sometimes I can feel your bones under my fingers, and I’m afraid that during moments of various passions I will peel away what’s left.
I like your legs and how pale they are, how you sweat and recoil from my touch when you’ve napped and soaked my blankets.  I like the way you fumble for your glasses and fix your hair when it’s not even messy, the way your stomach heaves when you need to cough but won’t.  Just cough.
I like the way your earlobes connect and how sparse your beard is, how you threaten to shave it as if my compliments burn.  All my compliments burn you, in some shape or form.  But I give them out freely because they are true, and I want them to live in your heart forever.  In some cases you will not believe a bit of what I say, and I appreciate this as well.  However, I would like to know why, and how and when you came to these conclusions and why you settle there.    
I enjoy hearing you play guitar, when it’s not Zee Avi and you’re not gushing about how you saw her in concert.  I like that I am jealous of you, and you are never jealous of me. A trait that could pass over, but won’t. I like your capacity for apologies, sorry before, sorry after.  You are most sorry for everything that you do, and I am the one that put you there.   Should you ever become entirely mad at me some day, I shouldn’t be able to retaliate because you will have had good reason to be so.
When you speak, I like your voice. Deep and solid as if something inside you churns warmly.  A heavy bellied mammal, a trumpet of some sort. I can hear its footsteps when my head is on your chest, beneath your arm, under the blankets.  I like the gestures you used to describe things, and the high pitched sounds you make when I tickle you.  
I like the way you hide behind your arms when you’re naked, your knees, like magnets stuck together and your lips pulled thin in shame. As if I don’t like your body, you shield yourself.  But your defenses are weak and I love the parts you dare not to show. The red on your cheeks, a permanent stain, like your teeth kaleidoscoped white and the scars registered on your stomach.

I like the way you don’t let me love you, because I do.

Candace said:
all it takes is
one comment
one look in the
mirror, bending
over and feeling a
fold and i thought
maybe I am her and
she is me. And why
does it take a freaking
army for me to love
my body, in all it's
states and seasons
in the minutes that
it exists. If I am really
something like star
dust, valleys and
mountains then
why can't I
love myself
why can't
I love
my     self

You're an old receipt
from teavana that I
keep in a Legend of
Zelda Lunchbox on
the top shelf in my
closet, faded and
barely visible, you
can still see the date
and the date is what
stills me.

I only like myself
in the dim mornings
in the shade, in the soft
blues, when there's no
mirrors and I feel my
skin for what it is

I didn't admit this to myself until
now but the last night I was half
asleep while we were watching
Harry Potter on my laptop, you
tried to kiss me while i recorded
the pattern in your the way your
chest rose and fell but I pushed
you away because my breath
smelled bad. I can't tell if that
simple act of self-preservation
  was really that---
preservation or self...ish.

I thought back to when
I apologized to Jennifer
and she started her
response with the
fact that she did
not accept my
apology, but
i should not
have to apologize
for stumbling, for
tripping on myself
for losing my footing
for a while, for hours
for six months.

No. Jennifer. I am not sorry.