Cold floors, and colder feet
Cowardly promises always fall through
Cold floors-- thin ice that breaks at the thought
Of being honest
So I'll smile and lie again, too afraid to
Fall.

I could snap you like a twig.
You give me that insolent look and in the instant it took to follow through,
I knew
You care not for size or matter,
Only that the latter
Hardly intimidated someone without the first
And yet, you know, the worst
is that
I could snap you like a twig,
And were I usual, conforming,
Maybe I would, but I would rather
Nurture you like a sprout
Til the twig has no doubt
That mind over matter stands without.

paper.
your skin, it's like paper;
pale, translucent, fragile, and yet --
it comes from something so strong.
i wanted to write all over you, make you
mine
but i couldn't, out of fear you'd shred
i was never good with words, i know, but try to understand --
it's the thought that counts
and the thoughts i pen down
on this, my temporary
paper

i'm awake.
i shouldn't be, but here i am,
floating in condensed night, wondering
where my body went,
and why i'm awake at all,
when i hear it again -- the herald of my awakening:
a voice softly whispering my name
my entire name
me
without a choice, i am pulled into the speaker's presence
and i swallow
because, if it was anyone, it would be him, wouldn't it?
he's clutching his pillow and he shudders and if i were able to speak,
i'd joke that he should really learn to be quieter when he does this
i'd tease him about the clamminess of his skin
i'd say his full name slowly, roll it around my mouth, part my lips and say it huskily
like i wanted nothing else but him
                                                  (it's not hard to act out the truth)
these are the things i would do if i could speak; as a silent spectator,
i'm forced into sobriety,
into knowing he's not jackin' off at all
he's crying
desperate, disgusting sobs
every shudder spikes through me and i have to leave
i'd rather stay asleep for a millennium then to be the object of his
broken affection

you were something i never was.
warm, breathing, whole
and wholly alive
and i wanted to hold you in my hands but i was afraid i would break
the porcelain in your skin
the glass in your eyes
and i wanted to feel every side of you but i was afraid i would tear
the cashmere of your skin
the cotton of your hair
and i wanted to make you mine entirely but i was afraid i would ruin
the sincerity in your smile
the longevity of your thoughts
and i wanted to be inside you but i was afraid i would banish
the innocence in your spirit
and i wanted to be with you but i was afraid i would destroy
the life in your bones
and i wanted to make you part of me, but one of us has to keep on living
it's okay -- i'll be your ghost.

i always end up in a different place
that's what happens when you use no maps, you see:
you stumble from point A to point E
but what happened inbetween?

or maybe you took a shortcut to the desperation,
skipped all the cutting, cut all the skipping
maintained a perfect profile of a perfect you because you went from
0 to 60 in half as many seconds
and no one could even tell that while you were discussing derivatives
you were suggesting solutions
that had nothing to do with calculus.

or maybe you intentionally got everyone lost,
headed straight for the marshes, marched straight for the heading
reading: YOU ARE HERE
and here was somewhere where, yes, they could see basic outlines
but no one could even tell that while you showed them an outline
you were writing a novel
that had nothing to do with words

or maybe you intentionally made words a mystery,
described things in a language that only you could read,
wrapped them in metaphors until they made no sense to
anyone else.
and no one could even tell that while you made your words flowery,
you were writing a poem
that had nothing to do with living,
and something to do with dying,
and everything to do with killing
until you were finally forced to tell everyone (and really, weren't you
avoiding telling yourself?)
until you were finally forced to write the words
directly, as they really were, the
bare
blunt
naked
truth:

You want to die

he told me that my ideas were stronger than my voice
and the metal frame shudders, threatening
to fall apart once and
for all.

look!
how rusted are the bolts, the washers nonexistent
with every movement, a creak and a groan and then
another bolt lost

she told me what they always say:
i would't if i didn't want to
unless, of course, you felt you had to
don't you see?
carefully manipulated by one
such as me

he told me there was no point in it,
in penning down words and phrases
of sifting through verbage to find what to say
because even if
even if someone listened (no one hears a thing),
it reads as
empty

so i wanted to try once more,
with feeling.

cesspool of fat and numbers
of mathematical equations you could never solve because
for all your love (obsession) with variables,
you were never smart enough
to understand them.

in the back of the room you coagulate,
broken formulas and broken
you

you're an idiot to believe
And a heartless ******* to conceive
Or rather to ignore
What happens, thinking
About repeating
Coward.
Your troubles mean nothing.
There's not a **** thing wrong with you so
stop.

i'm a liar.
it's in my bones, in the dust on this floor, in the wind:
all the truths i never told;
in truth, i don't know where to begin.

shall i begin in crop circles of dust?
in ripped jeans and bruised wrists?
in torn lips, in broken noses, in sprained ankles --
in corpses, rotting from the inside out.

shall i begin in an empty parking lot?
in forced company and silent observations?
in bitten nails, in sleepy thoughts, in crossed ankles --
in statues, frozen from the inside out.

shall i begin where everything will end?
in musty earthen tones and cracking cement?
in rusted metal, in cracking branches, in broken ankles --
in angels, burned from the inside out.

all the truths i never told;
in truth, i don't know where to begin.

i still wait for you in the morning, though I don't see the signs
half in a conversation and half out the door
but you're not coming anytime soon
(or any time at all)

i still reach for the hand that accompanied mine, though I misinterpret
stomach shuffling nervously and a pocket
That seems too inviting.

i still listen to the same song everyday, as if by repeating this small ritual
I'll hold you closer, for longer
I'll keep you until you're really gone.

You're not coming any time soon,
Or any time at all.

i was afraid of you long before you were a nightly apparition,
and i'll be afraid long after
i whisper your full name into my sheets, thinking
that the power of a name can even
resurrect.

the image seared in my head of two people transparent
did not include one that did not breathe.

the chill of a metal bench soaks into my skin,
fibers of denim unconcealing
can you see my bones?
hoarse and quiet and barely there,
your voice is a ghost
the residue of something that once lived and is no longer
there.

high fives, fist bumps, live long and prosper:
thin hands that have seen it all
all except the warmth of yours
of a link that i never expected
to feel, or to feel so
empty

knees, rough and bruised from kneeling
from sitting in uncomfortable positions
from leaning over in the emptiness of a house haunted
by someone's ghost,
though if it's hers or yours or mine
no one can say.

the firsts are the only ones we count:
lips that linger,
brushing dust and stellar remains
on the lifeless collar of this lifeless boy.

syllables to words to full on paragraphs -- paper,
entombed in equations
with a sense of finality.

I can do that --
find the limit of a function as it approaches zero,
run until my heart gives out,
recite until my tongue is sore.
I can do that.

Eager to prove, and even more to disprove
the innocence that swells in their presence
because I laugh
out
loud
when they say I'm a child.

Seventeen.
Too old to make a careless mistake
Too young to be considered for anything
Too inbetween to be categorized accurately

Seventeen.
Old enough to make my own decisions
Young enough to get away with it
Perfectly in the middle for the comfort of others,
and
             too much so for your own comfort.

Oh, how I wish I'd only kept quiet,
So I wouldn't feel this same sickness again.
Pathos overrides with quite a riot;
Oh, how I wish I'd only kept quiet!
I should swear to them I mean nothing by it,
But anxiety is useful, now and then;
Oh, how I wish I'd only kept quiet,
So I wouldn't feel this same sickness again.

All I've ever had in my possession were bones.
The framework of a biological nuisance, something empty
on the inside, though full of what any of us may call life.
At the least, the semblance of which we can be convinced:
parading a corpse across the bridge, most talented thespian in space;
and medicine, the hobby you picked up so you could learn to ignore death.

You are too old, now, to foolishly believe you can outrun death,
the inevitable silence that haunts your dreams and soaks through your bones.
You breathe in too quickly, too aware of the emotional cavity, of the space
between your thoughts and your actions. Your words have always been empty,
a reminder of the very symbol of your own faith, though you aren't convinced
that you, yourself, can ever measure up to that vivacity that floods his life.

Repeat that in your mind, over and over; that the anomalies in this life
can be proven as effects of the reckless and the brave, that their death
is ultimately yours to cause or to save. So, of your own importance, you are convinced,
and you know you are the best, always have been -- always, Bones.
So don't waste your energy on the thought that all of his promises are empty
and trust, instead, that this lunatic, this love, will survive all of space.

There's nowhere for you to escape this bitterness; indeed, no space
for you to claim as your own, your sanctuary. No chance of a separate life
when you've had all you can stomach of this insanity, this empty
endless game you've boxed yourself up in, until you surrender yourself to death,
to the simple cessation of your repetitive motions -- but, no, Bones;
he will never stop. His life will continue, his body and soul immortal -- of this, you are convinced.

No, he'll keep on going, as perilously as before; of his invincibility, you are convinced,
but you, yourself are, as ever, determined to follow his failures through space,
to diligently spout your expletives and condemnations and advice; you are now, as then, his bones,
and you never forgot that. Just as he never forgot who takes credit for his life,
his bones, his common sense --- you alone have, time and time again, forced death
to hang its weary head and return and yet, his own promises are empty.

You've learned to scoff at his vows of safety; his idiocy, you could handle. Still, empty, too, were his promises of faith. His loyalty, he proved, but you stay thoroughly convinced
that alone would he remain, had you considered your logic. Somehow still, like death,
the logic was an inevitability, and you learned to detest one trait in all of space.
You can see his faith fading as it goes, as logic proves itself a thief of your life,
and you lament the truest fact of all -- no longer could you be his bones.

And so I've managed to pull my empty shell together, as he never could, for in space
nowhere can I hide from the death of my ethos; yes, in space alone I dedicate my life.
And I am, as he was convinced, an honest man. I end as I begin -- with all I've ever had: Bones.

I know I must have lost my mind,
Reaching for something I cannot catch
Or virtue of a different kind.

I never thought that one could find
In someone else a perfect match
I know I must have lost my mind

In a subject so undefined
It's to this feeling I attach,
A virtue of a different kind.

Though after many I have pined,
From this one I can not detach
I know I must have lost my mind.

Oh, many scenes I have designed
But from these I have not a scratch
Of virtue of a different kind.

Were I to speak, and be declined,
To someone else I'd soon dispatch;
I know I must have lost my mind,
Or virtue of different kind.

Would that I were not a ghost,
Forever doomed to haunt thee,
To follow one I loved the most;
Would that I were not a ghost!
To watch as you resign your post,
Preparing to forget me;
Would that I were not a ghost,
Forever doomed to haunt thee!

The color orange puts me in pain
The memory, I seek to overwrite
The instances of which I would complain --
"The color orange puts me in pain!"
I recall the carrots, left out in the rain
And the red hair soaked with sweat by night
Yes, the color orange puts me in pain
The memory, I seek to overwrite

I've digressed to a point where I can't appreciate
making every decision with logic, without fail;
That's something I could never imagine I'd hate.

There was a time when my anger had a point to illustrate;
Now I curse and condemn and convey to no avail.
I've digressed to a point where I can't appreciate.

There was a time when my anger would not abate;
Now my cool and calm demeanor has learned to prevail.
That's something I could never imagine I'd hate.

There was a time when his endless curiosity, I'd sate;
Now his tirade of questions is aimed at another male.
I've digressed to a point where I can't appreciate.

There was a time when his mere image would aggravate;
Now my spirit holds not the anger his proximity should entail.
That's something I could never imagine I'd hate.

There was a time when I could be near and not disintegrate;
Now at the very sight of these two men, needs must I quail.
I've digressed to a point where I can't appreciate,
And that's something I could never imagine I would hate.

a disagreement
      between my bones and my logic
      my body and my mind
      torn between a choice
      and choosing --
      ****** if i do, ****** if i don't.
      my bones
and
      my logic
and
      my heart
at war,
      destroying this vessel, but
can't we all just get along?

I can promise him
and I can promise her
and I can promise myself
                                           but
i will never forget the warmth of summer sidewalks
and how it feels to lie.

i will never forget the beat of roshambo,
thundering in my ears
rock paper scissors

i will have instead forgotten the truest fact -
                 you came back first.

and isn't that enough?

streetlights
shedding darkness blinking
get on your feet

streetlights
swinging whispers, ochre
underneath slides

streetlights
weave the forests deeper
and remember

it's interesting
to hear them making plans
to leave me alone
to leave me behind
to leave me out

and it's interesting
to hear me agree emphatically
to hear me offer ideas
to hear me at all.

i want to distance myself from you
i want to be that green light --
                 near yet unreachable
ignore me
pretend i'm not here
and i won't expect anything from you
(i already don't)

i don't shine as brightly as anyone else;
in truth, i am a burnt out candle
out of wax
smoking and burnt but utterly
useless
to anyone
especially myself.

i know i don't matter
the hard part is being in a group of people
pretending that you matter
when a quick glance from any outsider will illuminate the truth:
they are a group
and you are a singular you
and you do not belong

to be honest, it's hard to pinpoint the beginning
of the invisible man
when you're pretty certain no one has ever seen you
you used to try too hard
and now you don't try at all.

perhaps the most detestable fact lies in that
i can not ever truly
break away
i can not sustain myself without companionship
but i am not one who
deserves it

the invisible boy; the contradiction

it is easier to be forgotten and to run away
than to face the fact that you're not included in a 'they'

it is simpler for a simple mind like yours to hide
than to face the fact that you are mostly cold inside

it's a painless thing to leave the crowd, the room, or even the group
than to admit to at least yourself you're in an endless loop

it shouldn't matter to me when i open a page and i see your face
(costumed, made up, wig or not)
it shouldn't spark a feeling in this cavity of a chest
but it does.

it shouldn't make any difference when i hear from a friend
rumours that were spread
or things that have been said about me
and i should take everything at face value but i heard that you lied
and it shouldn't make my stomach turn
but it does.

and when i see your face
(you know, it's hard to avoid someone when you're ******* facebook friends)
when i see your pathetic, amazing, perfect face
it shouldn't make me cry
but it does

and when i see you in the same place i am
i should be able to say hi
i should be able to say something
instead of staring, dumbstruck
instead of panicking
instead of not being able to breathe
instead of crying when i can finally escape
it shouldn't mean anything

but it does

I used to think
that gravity
held you up
on little strings connected to the earth
moved you as gently as any puppeteer
and guided you safely

I used to think
that gravity
was a thing
that loved and grabbed at the edges
of your sleeves when you passed
and clung to your shadow

I used to think
that gravity was a nice thing
that gravity was
f
r
    i
       e
          n
             d
                l
                   y

But I grew up
I know now that gravity swallows
gravity is a cage
and I used to ignore that
I used to ignore the way
a shadow will
attach itself to you
the very way that polar molecules
attract
and I ignored
the way the ground ***** you in

I wanted to stay
W  a  r  m
Wanted to stay attached because I was afraid of the openness
of space
But now I am afraid of the closing walls
of the hollow earth

I wanted to remain
familiar
wanted to keep myself in comfort among the same
familiar trees
blank faces
I was afraid  of the unknown
but now I am afraid
of the very domesticity
I once loved

I want to lie among the stars
hydrogen fusion bursting in my brain
i want to breathe in the supernova
and i want to be part of something
so much more
than my pile of bones
will ever amount to

i want to breathe with the quasars

my veins pump molasses

my dry heart belongs to the desert sands and i

cough

i cough up my childhood

memories scattering through the air like

d                   s

         u                      t

i have been parched since birth, since the beginning of this journey

that never ends

i measure my height in sunspots and in the time it takes to forget where i'm from

beached without an ocean

dry and cracking like the desert soil, no hope of rain and no sign

of life

empty and hot and alone

my dry heart hides behind my bleached desert bones and i

drown

in the sand

loud heavy music drips through
a
h e a v i e r
atmosphere
vibrations write our dialogue
i read your lips like
poems
scattered across the universe
the beat pulses intrinisically and
i am breathless
sweaty
out of my element and into yours
to a place where
i am the wrong puzzle piece
my hands are cold and yours are warm and i need to leave
i am afraid
i am homesick for a place i do not belong in
(your arms)
crowded floors turn topside and
i can not see
but i am aware of one thing, capable
of one last thought:
the holy light lies in your eyes

my breaths
your breaths
and two heart beats pulsing in the quiet grey atmosphere
pavement
soil
and two hands intertwined at night
and all i can think is that instead of lying on top of it, i would rather be buried
beneath it.

i think in puddles of oil, slick and polluting
when i speak it comes out as smoke
negative thoughts inhabiting negative people
i heard that secondhand smokers have it worse

i am okay with becoming another statistic
"a growing symptom of the world's disease"
-- as they put it
they can use my sleep as a method of change, as long as i don't wake to see it

in the morning, i sit in the quiet hallways and drown myself in music
because if i don't, i don't know which way is up and which direction is right
but why does it matter?
i always think right is left and i pronounce my words wrong and they say it's okay to make
mistakes but don't you dare make a B

i think about sitting on the edge of a nebula as it's forming,
watching things so much bigger than you and i take place
but we began there too

sometimes i think about the fact that time is a manmade concept
so i can't waste time or spend time
when it isn't real
so i can't give my time back to the universe
to keep the stars turning
instead of me breathing

sometimes i think that maybe if i am mean to everyone i care about,
they will leave
and i can stop worrying that they were like you
and never cared in the first place.

the class i don't cry in is the class i do the worst in and if that
doesn't say something
then i don't know what does.

you told me i was special.
who were you talking about?
you said that we would never amount to anything
and you yell
and you refuse to understand
and i could never tell you that those pictures are not of me
and that i don't want to be good at math
and that i want to crawl inside my own skin and hibernate until my cells dry

but it's okay because my dad said there's nothing wrong with me

Spare me your narrow mind --

the sharp edges of your thoughts cut deep into flesh better suited to bruise

Don't twist your words into the gaslighting of a sociopath

You smile in them, but I've come to realize it is the smile

of a wicked ticking crocodile

and I'm out of time.

Five is the magic number - phalanges to syllables to tiles on a floor.

Five years rambling around in the darkest of green eyes, in the raw fiber of sultry voices,

in the streetlight suburbs of an Orange city.

Weakness, vulnerability, idiocy -- your words to describe what I prefer to term

Optimistic, good-natured, hopeful.

Someone seeking the best in people.

I assure you, your words fit much better now. You saw to that.

You saw to everything, pulled on strings that would have been better off frayed.

You tasted of evergreen, made everything so clear and fresh

It was natural to confide in you, garner your unique perspective on the course of life

Not unique, of course, but so very rare, so very ******* coveted.

You always were the con artist, my love.

The taste of your bitter ash might come from the fact that you ******* us all over

So perfectly.



I really should have known better.

I can't meet your eyes. Your gaze is hot, like iron in a forge. I get embarrassed, I look away.

Looking away is always worse. That's when I see.

Long, thin piano fingers, tapping, twisting, restless.
Long, thin legs shaped like dreaming.
Straight Roman nose.
Slender hips.
Thin lips.

On anyone else, everyone might appreciate this.
On you, only one would covet these. Only one would covet you.

I didn't know what I was getting into. I tried to leave, but I was stuck. Ensnared by that dorky smile, that reedy voice, that obnoxious laugh.

I almost had to ask if you knew how loud your whispers were.

i was the earth and you
my burning sun
it's not poetic anymore to spin a metaphor
so i'll put it to you plain:

you came, i burned, and all life has been evacuated to mars.

cough crumble choke
see if i ******* care
slide to the                      edge
          and tumble through repetitions of
my renditions of
a half truth apology
I tried, I'm sorry, I did my best
and I'll bite my tongue until it bleeds and I'll laugh while you drown
Drown drown drown
and I'll hold you under
and pull you out
scream myself hoarse, do mouth to mouth
until we can't tell which one of us was the
          smoker
and which was the set of lungs.

you think your wants are the only wants.
you think your opinions are absolute.
you think emotion is a weakness.

i think love should be reciprocal
i think promises should be binding
i think we all deserve sanity

we think we should agree to disagree.

small hands
           And bleeding cuticles
and the promise of being cold in July.
smashed hopes and busted knuckles
all the rings ever made -- save one

i saw a car on the highway and the driver
The driver had your hands.
Your hands, without bandaids.
Your hands, without blood
Your hands, with perfect smooth skin.

I had always wondered what your hands would look like on someone who was more than a skeleton.