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.

tell me i was wrong.
tell me the people who've given up on me
decided i was too much effort
or a mistake;
people who promised me things
that now
seem light years away.

tell me i was wrong;
you don't know the years that followed
and you don't know the things that happened,
because you left.

tell me i was wrong.
i don't care.
but tell me something;
don't just leave it empty.
you owe me more than that.

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.

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.

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?

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 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.

i still don't know what happened.
i wonder if you even remember us; we were friends, we were close.
then we weren't.
is it weird to still think about it? is it weird that it still hurts?
we deserved some kind of answer.
i don't think i'll ever be okay until i have one
i don't care what it is; we deserved something, at the very least.
what happened?

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 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.

last night i slept with him.

it wasn't intimate -
    at least, not in the way one might expect.
it wasn't skin against skin,
    the way some think it should be.
it wasn't soft conversation -
     (why am i the little spoon? because you're short as ****, that's why)
it wasn't kisses slipped between drowsiness.

last night i slept with him.

i didn't know he would be there;
as we crawled into bed, i settled down beside him
a familiar feeling
that i had forgotten.
brushing back hair, kissing the top of his head
all things brought back from long ago.

you know i missed you so much
but i didn't until i woke up the next morning

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

press your lips to
mine
we walk with our fingers laced enough, already
would it be so hard to sit on this bridge
watch the creek move slowly
and us move steady?

i woke up with the memory of softness in your eyes
and though i speak to you now it still feels like
goodbye

i thought about it.
that’s what makes this the worst, i think;
i thought about it --
-- and then i did it anyway.

i know recovery isn’t a straight line.
i know recovery is ups and downs, your own
mountain range of
improvement.
sometimes you slide.

i know.
but is it still backsliding if you thought about it?
because i did.
and then i did it anyway.

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?

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.

don’t you keep your secrets well? like i did
five years and counting and i was kneeling on your floor
chapped lips and oily thoughts of the summer breathing in your hunting eyes
i’ll tell them if you don’t
and i was far too young to realize that the only thing wrong was you
i grabbed at any chance to be acknowledged,
accustomed to my solitary confinement with the friends i had to make
on my own
that could never talk back to me
so i was fond of your attention
i owed it to you for talking to me, didn’t i
things i could barely comprehend
the meaning of
look at me
not enough
too slow
i think i hear them
hide under the covers
it’s okay
i’ll tell them if you don’t
dont you want to have a baby? we could right now thats a lie
encouragement
lying
pleading
   on your behalf
it wasnt just me, but she didnt live there
and the only person i ever told was a
repeat offender.

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 let your fingers do the talking
with your hips ground down unsystematically destroying
that which your mouth could not
in the darkness, door open, silent night and the american horror,
you let yourself show
i never told a soul, not even
myself
that i looked into your eyes and i saw something only
hell
could have described to the maker
frozen
churning
mind blank
body of wax melting
your hands shaping your legs locking you’re falling you push you know it’s wrong you fall
vomiting
again

kiss me in between the thighs, coyote with the bedroom eyes
three years have come and gone and i can still hear the stars
with all your sighs
your fingers woven in with mine, a tapestry too perfect to
complete and so
we pull away, and several times,
to watch the strings begin
to fray
and then again we patch them up
we bring them to, we sew it shut
the work of art that's ours alone to witness and to call our
own
the things i never wanted or the things i wanted just too much that
slip
finally from my mouth to yours, and slip from touch to touch
my neck is warm where teeth have been
god
when can i be with you again?
my thoughts don't coalesce anymore the pattern's disappeared
but your face i see, your mouth i taste, and in my mind its your voice i hear

so please
just
kiss me in between the thighs, coyote with the bedroom eyes
three years have come and gone but i can still hear stars
in all your sighs.

the warmth in my face hasn't left in
over an hour.
i wonder -
     is this safe ?

curved words forming around soft lips

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 found him
fumbling through childhood memories and sawdust
i saw him and his brothers
perched like crows on the wires
theres nothing about you on there
fitting.
why would you want someone to know who you were?
who were you, really
the boy who prayed on others or the man in the truck
or no one at all?

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.

how long can i last
at this rate
my seams will burst before too long
one week
two weeks
who knows?

the only thing honesty ever did was upset people
curl up into the fetal position and pretend you weren't thinking of their lips
didn't want to lean into them
and wrap your arms around their neck
and kiss them
of course you didn't

star eyes
heart eyes
sitting on someone's lap, legs shaking
it's dark

don't cry

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.

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