“Write about ***” I whisper to myself
“No. No, that’s disgusting” I respond with vigor
“Write about love.” I suggest in the condescending tone adults often take with me
But I do not want to write about love,
I have never been in love
I have never felt anything like love
I hate writing about love
I hate the pronouns
I always want to write about hers
About the smell of perfume on her dress
And the way her hair curls and twists like the plotline of an Oscar Wilde novel
I always want to write about she’s
And the way she never makes fun of my silence
And the way she laughs
And the way she cheats off of me in geometry,
Even though we both know my answers are always wrong
She’s like a triangle
A cute
But if I were a shape
I’d be obtuse
Because when  we walk to together in the hallway I always get the urge to grab her hand
But I never have
And  I want to tell her to take off her makeup because she’s just so perfect
And you know she cried last week and I didn't know what to say
I never know what to say around her
But she never minds, she can have a conversation with me and I never have to say anything
And some days it takes all my restraint
Not to write about her
And I want to write about how I love her
I want to write about the way I love her
But hatred always hits me in the gut
And pain in the face
And shame cripples my fingers
So that I can never write she
And when he comes out of my pen
I rip the pages of my failed poem out of my notebook
And cry
Because I can’t stand writing lies

I will never tell you that you look beautiful.
I will never tell you that (you) look lovely.
Because those statements hinge on sundresses
and too much time looking in the mirror.
After all, it is just a piece of glass.
And you (are) too,
because I see right through the beaming
reflections on your skin.
And you are deeper than the ocean,
calmer than it too.
As sweet as dripping honey,
and as (soft) as morning dew.
You’re that feel(i)ng at 2 (am), when the Sun
is asleep and somehow I still don’t feel alone.
And you are every gentle raindrop landing
on (quiet) rooftops in late July.
Your roots sink further than lofty White Oaks,
and your reach extends far beyond their branches.
You keep every beam of sunlight,
your eyes like glowing coals,
and every morning the horizon must borrow
from all the splendor that you hold.
They fill books with all your essence,
and it’s still never enough.
So I will call you what you are.
You are lovely.
You are beautiful.

I thought I would run out of words
when soft beams of light peaked past the horizon,
like the letters would sink down with the moon.
Because for years I’ve made the stars my ink
and the night sky my canvas.
I guess the sunlight just feels strange
when you’ve spent so much time in darkness.
But now it warms my frosted fingers,
pulsing liquid lava through my veins.
Sleepless nights becoming tired mornings.
But they are new.
And so am I.
I can write about hope,
even if I have so little left.
I can write about truth,
even though I lie right through my teeth.
I can write about peace,
even though I see none of it in me.
And I can write about love,
even though I haven’t the faintest clue
of what it could be.

she was the woman he couldn't save
as he sits there beside her grave
and remembers how it used to be
when they were young, they were free
he just wanted her to have it all
he watched her slip, watched her fall
into a darkness he didn't understand
it was in the way she'd hold his hand
the way she'd cry herself to sleep
he didn't know the sadness was so deep
he'd buy her gifts, bring her flowers
stroke her hair, hold her for hours
promise her they'd have more time, maybe tomorrow
it wasn't him, he just couldn't see all the sorrow
he found fear in the freshness of cuts on her skin
and he wishes he could just say i love you again
he didn't see how she felt so alone
and now it's too late, she's already gone
pills by the bedside, too many to swallow
and he's never felt so empty, so hollow
a note wrote in shaky hand
begging him to try and understand
that this wasn't his fault, he wasn't too blame
a pain so dark and deep it didn't have a name
nothing caused this, the break in her mind
maybe happiness wasn't hers to find
but she wanted him to know
that wherever he should go
she'd always love him true
there wasn't anything that he could do
because he was already the best
in the life she had, it was such a mess
she didn't know how to make the pieces fit
the game was over, she had to quit
because the days seemed never-ending
it hurt too much to keep pretending
that she could be more than what she was
he finds comfort in this bottle, too much drinking
but it eases the pain so he's not thinking
and remembering
the woman he couldn't save