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 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

hello again
it doesn't matter how many wigs you put on; you're still the same
underneath.

Saturday was Halloween, and a year ago to the day you were
pressed into a couch with hands places you didn't want them

You're a wreck of lines and characters and you wanted to throw up, and
you lied
and said you were done

We keep coming back to this subject.
Do you really think anyone would believe you?
It isn't ****** abuse if you don't stop it
if you can't force the sound out of your mouth
if you keep pushing it down because this is supposed to be right
right ?
this is what people always talk about

isn't it?

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

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'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 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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

this feels like you, to me.
barefoot on the street with wind and nothing else in your hair
and a smile
on your face
trying to hold a phone and unwrap a starburst at the same time
you feel so much like you
you look almost happy
and so
i am.

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.

did you take your medicine this morning?
we noticed you haven't come out of your room all day. yes, the appointment is the 29th.

you didn't write down the homework. what homework?
you can't turn it in now.

if i help myself, i might lose you

you're a talented writer, i saw that from early on
but as a reader, it's impossible to like the narrator
he's sort of an immature ****
...yes?

the sound of an entry plug fills your senses
lcl
the primordial ooze
hair should be floating but nothing changes
nothing at all
did they really think this through?

dissociating
is an interesting thing
do you realize
that these lines dont make sense

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?

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?

i dont know when that gate was put up
but i remember when we were small enough to slide through that doorway
on our hands and knees
under blankets, pretending that couldnt see
my blanket was thrown out without choice
but you still keep yours close.

i dont remember how the floor felt when it was clean,
or what exactly the space behind the couch looked like without the pool table's frame and no christmas tree
logic tells me
that table didnt always block the fireplace,
but i dont remember it any other way.

we used to slide down those stairs on our *****
but that wide step in the corner was where i liked to sit
and that window by my door, where i learned
we can see rain.

why weren't we allowed in the back yard?
we didn't we want to go into the back yard?

so many nights spent sleeping on that couch
i know it couldn't have been my entire childhood but when did i
ever
sleep in that bed?

they trimmed back the hedges and painted our house.
everything is clean and respectable
and detestable.

i've never known what to do with myself.
i carried my heart away in the storms you raised
and i called myself your son, but only in name;
but, oh, what a name.
fear, fear in the eyes of men until they see me
a mere boy
a child, playing at games he knows nothing of,
like he had a choice,
and two brothers to hide
secrets he pretended not to know.
and he never knew what to with himself, because it never mattered:
everything was already decided long before the day he was born,
on the day where
the house was empty, and nothing had yet begun.
he set everything in motion.
i became a catalyst for a game i played from behind the scenes,
and let the main characters take the stage.

you always belonged in that light;
i'll make sure you never see otherwise.

how time changes things.
i used to believe that the old saying about how
time heals all wounds
was a lie;
it turns out, i just didn't have the patience
for recovery.
i was running in circles in my own mind,
pretending
that i had no other choice.
how frustrating that the light was always in reach, but
time heals all wounds
even for me.

it hasn't been long enough for the ache to fade
for the memory of how innocent and comforting it all was
you were there when i lost myself and at the end when i was
right there all along,
you smiled and told me it was okay.

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.

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.

for autumn's leaves have fallen much too soon
and i, without my eyes to see the clear
brilliance of the sun, the stars, and moon
can still make out what the heavens brought near

the warmth of heaven's gift i feel fornenst
i hear the sound true emotion does bring
my heart, it breaks through its final defense
and on the ice first does this new love sing

what spell's been wrought to bring me to my knees?
what magic has your presence on me cast
to turn me from my abhorrence of he
to lover's gaze which alienates the past

And sooner would I cast myself to flame
Then dare confess when you won't feel the same.

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.

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.

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.

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

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?

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.

when i go missing, the moon doesn't go out
gemini still shines even though
one of its own
is lost

through streetlights and

i would want to agonize over the
mistakes
that i made
But the truth is,
thinking about them is like walking on eggshells

your hair looks like dirt,
she said.
i laid in her lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, and for me
it was
i didnt love her.
i was never under the illusion of loving her, just
the idea
that maybe i could love her
that maybe she could love me

he walks around with her heart in a glass, doesnt even notice
when it rattles and threatens to
break

we were on the roof once, or was that a dream?
high as the sun in the sky, but it was night and the moon
in your eyes when you smiled
we couldn't name a single one of those **** constellations,
then or now
but i remember your laugh like i heard it not two minutes ago.
i never know when i'll see you again.
i wonder if it's okay with you?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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 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

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.

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.