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.

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.

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

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

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

some day, i'll see your face and
it won't be revulsion that bubbles out of my mouth.

someday, i'll see your face and
it won't be hatred banging against my skull.

someday, i'll see your face and
it won't be brokenness that i feel.

someday, i'll see your face and
nothing will happen.

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.

food, ***, and cigarettes
i swam through the grease and  your smile cut me to the
bone
and you handed me a light
is that right?
we never talked before
and now we never will again.

as simple
in death
as he was in life; one column posts
and the stark white of his soul
brevity became him, and every dust stirred by his breath
could count itself
lucky.

the bile in my throat turns to dust
as i die at the memory
of being in your
arms once
again.

my stomach tightens with your grip on my wrists
thousands of years but i still remember it.

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

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.

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.

the realization hits.
all of the pictures that i drew of him
of me
of us
the pile that grows day by day
the way i treat only those i hold in the highest esteem

you are my default
and with the sad knowledge of the truth
i draw your face again.

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!

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

i am not irredeemable.
there are permanent marks on people i've known,
left by the wars they fought against me;
i have done more wrong than i can ever remember,
     or begin to repair.
there are people for whom i'm a monster,
and i know the validity of that claim --
but i am not irredeemable.
does the sky ruin itself with storms?
does the earth make itself unholy with every quake and eruption?
i have struck with lightning,
           and been struck in return
but i am not all magma and thunderheads.
i am clear skies and gentle showers; i am
calm tides, and soft grass.
i am not irredeemable.

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'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.

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

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.

my hands, tangled in your hair,
brush back the years of insecurities so i can finally
see your eyes.

i noticed you breathe easier when it's just you and me
where no one else can see you or get to you or
hurt you

you were a small and broken thing,
curled up on my floor with a
painted smile
that always melts when you face the warmth
of someone who actually loves you.

i often think about your head in my lap,
gesturing at the ceiling
laughs on the edges of both of our mouths
content for a brief moment just to be

i often think about you coming in to my room at night
mouth twisted with hurt or with anger or with both
eating cookies and talking **** about people and doing all i can until
i bring that smile back

i will never understand what you saw in me
but
i know for sure you saw all the things i didn't want you to
and loved me for it anyway.

thank you.

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.

i heard you were abducted by aliens
that they took you up and dissected you
in your sleep

i wonder what secrets they found in the cavities of your body that
i never could?
i wonder if they found the place where you hold your happiness,
because i never could.

i heard you were abducted by aliens, late one night
that they took you up and dissected you
in my dreams

i miss the feeling i would get when i looked at you under the hazy glow
of a streetlamp
and the darkness of those suburban streets would wrap us together

i miss the feeling i would get when our hands would brush in the warm
air
and our thighs would graze as we sat on the steps of that playground

i miss the silence of the night and the silence of the day when you were still asleep and i would climb the internet to be a part of you

i miss that softness of our lips brushing the first time, and the jealousy
that encompassed me and made me feel like my chest was
caving in

i miss the nervous feeling when i saw you the first time after so long and how nothing had changed and everything had and your hand was still in mine

and of all things
i miss the feeling of being in love with you

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.

refracted light
in a place where light hardly touches, and you graze the floor
distaste
at the layers of dust you’ve let grow over the years
who did this? who was the one
who let the snow melt and the spring come and the summer fade
over and over
who was the one
who let the furniture grow restless with disuse and the shadows
lonely
and the skeletal remains of the dreams you played in your mind
and the streets in your home, worn thin with no travellers
going nowhere
now that you have gone

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

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.

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.

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.

dark bedrooms where people lay their coats during a holiday party
i sat on the bed
away from all of the noise;
even at 8, dinner parties were far from my thing

i dont remember much
the taste of my mother's mixed drinks on his breath and
the warmth of his hand on my thigh
what else?
what else?

it's not enough.

i'm tired but i push my nose to the grindstone
someone told me that's how
exfoliation works.

when i look into the bowl of cranberry grape juice and i see
no future
i guess i always knew i would amount to nothing.

it’s dark
three people sit on a couch, watching the movie
displayed on the tv.
once again, no dvd player is necessary, or even
available.
to your credit, you saw much more this year, though you said
much less;
you’re all over inconsistent in your
accidental traditions.
laughter bubbling up inside of you, to spill out in anxious words and phrases and breaths too fast too shallow and

three people sit on a couch.
you’ve whispered under your breath the words you said loudly last year
the shame curled inside you
wound up
a music box you wish you could rip out because you hated it then and you hate it now only
you couldn’t say anything and that hasn’t changed and

three people sit on a couch.
are they even paying attention?
are you?
why is it only in the dark you know what day it is and why you’ve been crying all day and

it’s dark
two people lay on a couch, and the feeling rushes in
reminders
of something  that happened too fast, too public, too
out of your control
impossible to refuse --
-- after all, you wanted it, right?

no
you knew that was wrong
so why did they tell you they didn’t want it
after pushing you down and forcing their hands into places they shouldn’t have been
why did they tell you they didn’t want it
and then go right back to doing it all
again

he's not you.
part of me knows that all of me knows that
but still
sometimes i think about it.
when you're gone, i think about it
but
i always come to the same conclusion:
he's not you.

i hate him.

i have never spoken to him, but i hate him.

who is he to show up out of nowhere, when i’ve been here longer?

i don’t know what to feel.

jealousy? irritation?

he admires me

what a joke i am.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.