Happy Thanksgiving,
and that's when you
started losing grammar
as if you had no time to
use punctuation for me,
I wasn't worth the finality
of a period or a comma.

It's 10:36 Pm.




I had a dream two days ago and if it were a photo
it'd be a snapshot of browned notebook paper, all
the things I've ever written about you beside a vase
of flowers

You came out of an anger so deep and hugged me, I
said
i k n o w  t h i s  i s  j u s t  a  d r e a m but I miss you
and I felt my nose brush the bottom of your earlobe
you held me by the shoulders and told me you didn't
know.

on the leg press machine
I consider the serious things
in my life.

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

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.

Maybe you don't count the days
because you are in a hurry to escape
me, and for a while I was too, but I
wasn't afraid to look behind me
because my feet still moved
forward.
But it's been 126 days
and my name is
still the same.

I miss the things I never
did, the ferry ride I never
took, the brittle cold that
sunk to the depths of my
toes and the sushi place
down the street from my
house. You can whisper
that I'm doing the same
thing but I miss the leaves
at EDCC and the rain,
quality frozen yogurt
and the front row at
Loews Theater, I miss
the sound of my wheels
privy to the Boeing freeway

You can whisper that I'm feeling
the same way but I miss things I
don't recognize, the drive past
the lighthouse and the neighbor
who had music too loud, the
shy cashier at Fred Meyer
and also their apple
display that was
aesthetically
pleasing.

Today I wore a dress. It was cold and my skin
pinched up in the wind. I hurt a strange and
angry sort of hurt today. Where my bones
shook and my stomach hurt but with my
sunglasses nobody on I-5 knew the difference
between singing and screaming and I ended up in Seattle
where the roads are confusing and the sky is stretched through
shuttle bus wires and the blinkers never stop, I may have blown a red
light but nobody noticed--especially when I ended up in Ballard. who knew
you could get back to Everett by skipping half the free way and by the time I
ended up back where I started I saw myself leaving hours earlier down the ramp,
decided I couldn't go home because I wasn't ready. I asked the boy at the ticket
counter which movie was the least less full? Sorry, least most full? Which theater
had the least amount of people (to see me cry) and he smiled strangely, but asked
for my ID. For a moment I remembered I wasn't 17, 17 was just that age where
you're allowed, I was so past allowed but here's my ID anyway, it was sticky.
I didn't watch that movie, what even happened? A man sat behind me,
grunting. I tried to cover my phone but my mind was elsewhere in
an anger that did not let me be mad. Instead I could only consider
the situation a hundred times over, consider the words
I could say, should say, would not say,
should not say, the things I should do,
the right
things (whatever they were)
the wrong things. At this point I noticed
the movie was crude, disgusting even. I hadn't even
laughed once. What kind of humor was
this? But again, my mind
was
elsewhere
and Stephanie wanted
to know where I was, where
are you? Where was I? I was at Costco
with mom earlier, how did I get here? I was laying on
my bed when I got that text but here I am now, soaked
in salt, although my bones no longer shake and my stomach
no longer hurts but these blankets know the difference between
screaming and singing, I know the difference. But I'm. Still. Here.
God, God, I don't know what to do or say or be. I don't
know what to do or say or be or say or do.

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.

t h i s  i s  n o t  
p o i n t l e s s
meetingisnot
meaningless
t h i s  is  n o t
regret.

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

i wove a flower crown
for you; how could i
forget? i want to tell
everyone how much
i love them for all
the things i cannot
say to you, i'm
still trying to
write you
down.

Kendra posted a
faded picture of
you with the blurred
swatch of evergreen
at your shoulders,
I'm a universe and
a half, more pigmented
than I could ever be
at your side, at that
window, would we
have lasted? It's not
for me to tell.


Happy Birthday, Chris.

everyone i've ever met
has put me on the pedestal
with all the angels and saints
i saved them from the dark
or was better than their last
but the truth is I am no
different and no more
deserving,
than the
least.

warm inside
introverted but
i love the chatter
lip tint, gold eyeliner
beautiful around
familiar faces
no one would
ever break me
here. this is my

family.

You bought me a picture
of the eiffel tower at value
village, It's been in the kitchen
so long I forgot it was from you
I cleaned the surface half-aware
that I was disturbing your old
fingerprints.

I feel like
a lady bug
in a bull's
stead, yes
that's the
way you
make me
feel.

I tell her:
you will not
be ugly if you
cut your hair

because when
she was small the
kids called her
fat and the

boys called her a
boy which was
okay but not

so this long hair
was a rebellion
as she proclaimed
i really am a girl

i really am a girl

i really am a girl


won't you believe me?