drag me down into you
my soul was never a place in which i found comfort; too dark
too empty
but yours will suit me perfectly
let me coexist within you,
our own minds cohabit in peace and warmth
and then run
because you'll find out before long
that all i do is lie
lie
lie

my heart aches
in midnight summer i dont feel the silence you've left,
but i see what was once ours
in the evening breeze.
i spent years wandering around in the
void space
of my own heart, and i ran into you.
if you had played your cards right, i would still
revere you --
hold you in that special place only those of your kind have ever been.
but you stretched me too thin.

and now you're all alone, once again.

in empty halls i find solace
sitting on the floor
         head against the wall
                    eyes shut to the cracking plaster
i hear my heartbeat; signs of an ear infection,
from hearing all that black smoke you call
conversation.
legs crossed, i wait, head bobbing in a sea of
hit the heartbrakes
biding my time
enjoying the brief moments of forgetfulness, when i can sleep, ignoring
each
       buzz
               of your mind.
Once was enough, but I've always been too nice.
and now it's time to finally pay
that price.

i am atlas,
with the weight of the world on my shoulders
three of them
their life
and her life
and his life

i am atlas,
bending crushing sinking to the floor
and unable to let go
because
that means
nothing good for any of us

i am atlas,
and i am almost through
barely breathing barely holding everything up
i am atlas
and i am ready to shrug

I don't know what to write anymore.
I lost my motivation like I lost myself and
who knows when that was?
my skeleton aches to be let loose
my skin
to shed
and for lack of more to say all i want
is to be dead.

little and blue and two different shades of
something i love
it stuck in my throat the way my words always do
and later i read the description
the guide
and fluoextine hydrochloride may increase suicidal thoughts
isn't that what we were trying to get rid of?
why take it
at all?
or why only one
only once
a day

i could write poems about your eyes
and the scars on your thighs
from the nights when you stayed up so long you forgot how to sing.

i could leave kisses on your collarbone
and make you wish you were home
instead of wishing you were anywhere but where you have to eb

i could hold your hand at night
make sure you're safe and warm
where you can see the dark just enough to know its safe.

i could write your letters
to friends you hardly knew
to friend who hardly knew you or hardly wanted to

i could write your letters
in colors unacceptable
to friends who mean the world and teachers
who need to know
they mattered.

i could spread your wisdom teeth
like little seeds across your burial ground skin
and hope something finally
sinks in.

i could take you places new
where you could be someone else for just a day
and watch as you don't try
to change.

i could write poems about your eyes,
and about the scars on your thighs
from the nights you stayed up too long to dream.

i could leave you kisses on your collarbone,
if i could find it.

i could kiss the scars on your wrists
hold them in my hands and tell you
you're better than this

i could help you breathe
keep down the things you didn't want to eat
and speak softly until
you're calm.

i could bring you blankets
and blankets and blankets because it's so hot
but you freeze
in your loneliness.

i could bring you food
because you eat once a day and
you're fine with that.
you'd be fine with less.

i could sit with you
because you don't want to be alone
but you can't be there.

i could hide with you
in the small cavities of your chemistry
and we could make a star
together.

i could wrap my arms around you
hold you tight
never let you go

i could do all of these things if you were anyone else
and i would
because no one else will
but i can't.

and you can't make it alone.

foxfires,
& the monsters hiding in your closet
when it's 4:03 and the world's asleep and
streetlights burn truth into my veins,
the silence of your eyes
and
foxfires
sigh.

my mind, shaped like your mouth,
all sharp edges & wires &
hazardous,
dreamt of missing you in the way i miss waking up
at 3 am
only to fall blissfully back to
sleep.

I've seen 6 semesters of you, and
I wonder who I hate the most.
I still remember 10th grade, glad you finally asked
a question
and now I'm throwing pencils at you.
Some things never change.

i used to care so much
i cared more than you can quantify
i cared so much that it ate me up inside
and my acid spilled over because i just couldn't tell you how much i loved
everyone

and i started to love myself
and i blinked
and the world shifted

and i don't care about anything anymore.

time moves on eternal.
my greatest achievements, a lost dream;
my infamous failures, forgotten like the gods
and nothing
nothing
stays for very long
except to say
hello briefly.

time moves on eternal.
progress, by its very nature, will not cement in time
so why should mine?
the very comfort comes in knowing that
this, too, shall pass
the only sorrow in this is
that it won't be the last.

I never tried to see through your eyes.
Sure, I projected myself into a mind I thought I could find,
but I never saw things the way you did.
In the aftermath it seemed clear, but the lenses of memory
focus and I know that try as I did,
Nothing ever made quite the same sense
I overestimated your emotional capacity
I underestimated your boredom
and I gave no thought to the synapses between
No; in looking back, I know most of all that
I never tried to see through your eyes.

one impeccable beam of moonlight
on the floor. I stoop,
aiming to grasp, and fall through
your mind
Cerulean thoughts and your umber veins
Dark fire and coldest metal
no love lost here; no,
no love at all
and shuddering I ran past iron and onyx and somehow,
lost in this waxing labyrinth, I wane
and all my love of the skies
could never again convince me to go to the moon in your eyes.

I am not a boy
I am a tumor
I am an angler in the deep darkness waiting
I am enclosed, claustrophobic, and suffocating
extrapolating, because
I am a calculator and I want all the solutions to your infinity
I am a sine function perfectly predictable
I am a cancer
I am a twig in your forest, and the words in your thesaurus
that bore us because
I am a scholar
I am a hunter
I am an architect through the desert sands that demands
and understands because
I am a boy.
And I am not a boy, because
I am a tumor.

it's when i see him,
his moonlight poured out onto a canvas
waxing poetic
and spinning with the ground, turning the tides.

it's when i see him,
his honey head an slow step in his movements,
that syrup from the bees and
honey of the seas.

it's when i see him,
his wax now beginning to melt,
that burning
in the stomach that means the candle is out

and i am out with it.

My pen is dry of hateful ink,
My thoughts are run amok.
In the din of madness I can not think;
My pen is dry of hateful ink.
In the mires of envy, I start to sink
and as far as creation, I've no luck.
My pen is dry of hateful ink,
and my thoughts are run amok.

I have cried over less, and I've cried over better
And I've spent periods of time within panic attacks
In the middle of the class when I can't count the facts
And over high numbers, my cheeks have been wetter.

I have cried over less, and for no reason at all
And I've spent so much time loathing me more and more
Late at night when it's all been for naught, I was sure
And over lesser failures, I would weep; I would bawl

I have cried over less, so it's safe to assume
That I've done what I wished and at least seem to think
That for once, it's not worth the time it takes to sink
Into my shallow depression and once more be exhumed.

I have cried over less, and I'm glad of the fact
That I see black from white and grey inbetween
And I'm smart, even now, and more than I seem
And my new year's resolution seems safely intact.

I sat upon the window sill
and thought - for thoughts are never still -
that if all the world my oyster was,
then all the world my choices stung
and if all the world a stage may be,
my part is such a site to see
a monologue, soliloquy
the question - to be, or not to be?

a poem in pentameter
but such exact parameters
find talent lacking quite a bit
to coin a phrase: "well, ******* ****"

the critics all prefer your prose,
but you can't quite see over your nose
reduced to quaint obscenities
and use them so uncertainly

but on the past, i must digress
and to my original thought regress
for window sills demand your calm
So I must cease, or I'll be gone.

old friends whose words once mattered none
now speak with dark, with heavy tongues
now speak which once made angels run
now speak to make the demons come

and tell their tales when dead men don't
and whisper fears that horrors own
now silent, umber, as it shone,
and paradox to bring you home

now listen, quiet, awe and fear
oh -- demons, that they've summoned near
within, without, no doubt, all clear
old friends who speak, though never here

and friends who wake the dead - to speak -
to speak of angels, to fear the weak
to face the things they could not seek
and finding more than they can keep

and finding that which none could know
would bring less cheer, would bring more woe
to try again, to stop, to go
to finder' keeper's, to tell and show

old friends, whose bodies rotted since
the time that they'd seek recompense,
rise once again, sit on the fence
and in the sanctuary convinced

tell tales of places far, yet near
of horrors, nightmares, monsters dear
They scare and yet do cry in fear,
Old friends who speak, though never here.

in the dark
in the half dark and in the half light of the half conscious
and fully awake
in the late and in the early
and in the silence of the overbearing noises a small sound
slides through,
and the butterflies in your stomach have all turned to
rocs
and you can't breathe and you can only think if only there was some way
because half concealed glances and whispered pleas just don't
cut it.
you need something you can touch.

half an age away from me & half a breath too near
silken sheen glowing from the lighthouse to the pier
would that you would look my way, instead of just appear
and would that i could speak just once and not shrink back in fear
and would that i could whisper once your name in tones endeared
and would that i could somehow make my efforts very clear
and would that i could, in a place outside of my mind, hear
you say in your own velvet tones a promise once sincere.

umber spilled from his lips
and shattered light from his fingertips
when the helium of blue giants has all gone, his solar system
crumbles with it
and he grows
he grows as much as he can, holds on as long as he can, but
everything falls apart.
you can see the remnant of his supernova in his face, in his hands, in his shaky breath and tremulous words
in the heart, still glowing brighter and hotter than any Ia star,
but that pulsar, his mind, keeps spinning and spinning
long after he's nothing but
dust.

a split second headache,
a forced examination of fight or flight and thinking i've been here --
but not like this
not a sight that made me want to swallow my pride
although
not looking, not being able to look, wanting to never look away
ridiculous, i know
thinking about grass and legs intertwined and suddenly realizing
i can't breathe
but another glace another half second do i run do i hide and i wonder
isn't it better to die like this, to suffocate
under your eyes?

sometimes i look up and all i can think is, my god, she's beautiful.
and sometimes all i want to hear is your voice, the way you get excited, the way you sound saying anything or saying my name.
And I know.
And all I want is to hear your point of view, your words, your thoughts, and I never give you time to say them. All I want is everything I push away. And I can feel this happening again, I can feel it coming to an end and I can feel this cab hurtling to a collision and I am trying so hard to stop it and I don't know how
I have never tried so hard to keep something, never tried so hard to be so good
And I have never failed this badly.

I wish I had more to offer than anxiety and suicidal tendencies.
I wish I could string you a poem of beaded metaphors,
of  eloquent rhetorical devices,
but the truth is I am not a master bard.

you pour your soul into a bottle, siphon away your last redeeming qualities
and think, perhaps if i write a poem, i can save myself
perhaps if you wrote a poem, you would condemn somebody else.

you squint into the vial, notice the curlicues of ash
and that's weird, because you haven't burned anything recently
nothing except yourself

i thought about donning that visage, of veiling myself in black
i thought about a lot of things
of bruises on perfectly smooth arms
of the silver sheen of a sharp edge
of trying out ceramics and seeing if they're all that great

i remembered what you're supposed to do
or what everyone says you're supposed to do.
lay out your belongings in an orderly fashion
leave a note
what would i say? no one would take the time to read it
no one ever has

maybe this is the note
the note they'll never find
the note even i don't understand

all i wanted to do was talk to you
just talk
just to hear your voice, just to exchange a few words
and i don't know how this happened
i'm lost
and they ******* **** at making maps

and i am jimmi simpson all over again, dying not one not two not even three times
the younger generation of being possessed, of putting your points
in unexpected places
of being utterly unliked and useless

what's wrong with me?
things i don't even feel but i always lead it the same way
i always **** it up
i always do, every time, without fail
i'm no good to anybody, and least of all myself
and the only reason i'm still alive is because i keep thinking
that maybe just ******* maybe someone cares
because i keep thinking but what if
well **** the what ifs

no, the only ******* reason i'm still here is because i'm too much of a ******* coward to **** myself.

there are only two people in this house, and neither of them particularly
human.
you're a fiend.
you slither into the hearts of people, make them like you, and then you grow dark
and then you grow cold
and then you choke them in all the worst ways.

and the best part is, you insist you aren't doing it.

it's cute to watch you try to be something
try to be worth anything
try to be something light when you were only ever the heavy blackness.

you should take comfort in the fact that you have the one talent, at least; ******* things up so perfectly.

why don't you just do us all a favor and die?

you were fine.
you were fine, and you could breathe and you were dry
and now you want to *****
all you think is breathe breathe breathe and you type
type the same words over again
i'm sorry
i'm sorry
and maybe it will change something eventually, even though it didn't work
the first time.

when the wind comes around again and catches you,
knocks you off guard so you fall,
you can't remember why you're surprised.
things always go the same way.

you will be what you have always been,
what you've always been set to become:
your father.

it's all gravy
perched on steps so long your knees don't bend, shivering under the
icy calculations of relatives that don't even remember
your name.

you whisper incantations into your cup, stirring the air with your pinkie
and focusing on being thankful
you're thankful people put up with you -- even if they don't
share things
or even acknowledge your existence.

two turkeys in one day and you feel stuffed, stuffed with apprehensions and realizing
no one wants to talk to you

There was more that I never got to say.

The dance where you were jealous - well
So was I
And in the dim light of a middle school cafeteria, I wished vehemently that I
Was yours.

I'm never surprised, anymore; I even
Welcome the silence,
And the solace it brings.
Though I dreamed of a spiderweb of bruises
trickling like a drizzle down your neck
turn pale to purple in an instant --
It wasn't you I craved; it was your
Forgiveness.

there's a certain elegant aesthetic in the discoloration
of a bruise on pale skin
of knowing that yes, higher up means you are in big trouble
but higher up also means
the world can see
that she is
yours

I don't deserve to cry.
Not the first time, not now.
But here I am, a revolting collision of
Salt and wetness and blankets.
I don't deserve your explanation.
I was wrong about a few things - I know that,
But that was one day,
And you didn't ask so I didn't tell,
            Even though I knew instantly that I was wrong.
And nothing I say now is going to change
Anything.

I'm grasping at straws that don't exist
I'm losing something I needed
Something that must have seemed
           less important than it was.

I was wrong. And now everyone's paying the price.

if there are infinite universes, than in one i must
be something of more substance to you than just lust.

if there are infinite realities, than it must be so
that we have already jumped without looking out below.

if there are infinite possibilities, you can’t honestly say
that it will always be ‘not now’ or ‘maybe another day’

and if there are infinite universes, it must be true
that in one, openly and freely would i love you.

i wanted to compare you to the stars,
as i always have done,
and as i likely always will.
i wanted to describe the black hole of your pupils, the event horizon of your irises
and how on the other side of a black hole there is
(theoretically)
a white hole,
spitting things out as soon as they’re ****** in.
it’s true that you draw me in, you push me out, the cycle repeating:
wash, rinse, repeat.
it’s true that gravity drags me forward every time,
falling through your eyes
and even though i can articulate why you’re my europa, my solace, my escape from the devastating edge of the sun --
aren’t astronomy metaphors getting old?
you deserve so much more than that.

And so, back to the drawing board I go.

it's fine.
i'm an airy presence
a breath of maybe fresh air
probably not
just nothing
i might be dead already
a ghost
unseen and unheard
and maybe that's why
my parents never respond when i talk to them.

i'm digusting
i'm aboslutely revolting, in person
i seem smart
i seem worthwhile
i seem many things
but the truth is i am none of them
i am a thought
an illusion
an idea
when you remember something from your childhood and go, "Oh, that was great!"
and then you actually experience it again and go "oh, it actually wasn't that great. Why did I think it was in the first place?"
Yeah. That's me.
Some people are better imagined; up close, you see them as they truly are.
Awful.

it is me.
i am the ruiner of fun.
i am the destroyer of all things enjoyable.
i am unwated.
i am unnecessary.
i am
actually -- i am not
i am nothing
i am not

silence
over the call
what is the point of all of this?
i can try to mute it, but i know
that i am afraid i will miss something.
even though i know that i already am ---
even though i know that it's already too late.
i lost.
why not mute myself? since i am unwanted
since all i am is an aggravation
why not mute myself? since i am a nusiance
since all i am is an inconvenience

and yet no one will tell me the truth
please
just please
telll me that you don't want to
tell me that you don't want to talk to listen to be involved at all
just tell me
and i promise you i will
be gone.

and the mission moves to completion
operation: move the **** on, weighing in with a heavy win
you clung to the very thing you hated with desperation
and you let go
you ******* let go and you won you finally won
you finally did something good for you
self destructive tendencies, lessen
excuses no longer made, just a quiet
detachment
because you don’t deserve this
you don’t have to feel like this
*you don’t deserve this

On this night, Addison seems oddly quiet
It’s almost as if he’s a ghost, himself
He’s never loquacious, I won’t deny it,
But on this night Addison seems oddly quiet.
And an odd one he is, though I mean nothing by it,
But tonight it seems quite like he’s on a higher shelf
On this night, Addison seems oddly quiet,
And it’s almost as if he’s a ghost, now, himself.

an open field and a rain of acorns,
angry squirrels that have no interest in calculus.
cold coffee and colder thoughts and worried that somehow,
i’ll walk home by myself.
keys and broken friendships and hats that have been sold --
a tiny bottle for millions of tiny bones
and Bones, looking for all the world
like something you couldn’t leave behind.
overpriced doorknobs and overpriced pizza and being able to laugh,
laughing in the face of something terrifying
and feeling sick and worried but once the gate’s open, the water rushes in
and you don’t know how to stop, let alone
how to begin.
you long for fingers intertwined, for soft admissions
and softer, still, even smooth glances
for black mail and power abuse and somehow,
in all this,
still being the sweetest feeling you think
you’ve ever experienced.