For my twenty-first birthday all I want is to drink alone.
I want to sip my sorrow
I want to slip away and walk the streets drunk
I want to sing modern baseball.

whatever souls are made of, I'd love to watch them
in their bare bones and swirls of color
darken, burn, and mold together
rather than just our faces. I'd like to sit
and observe each orb of love and hatred,
some consumed and lost to apathy, some bright
one way or the other, I'd love to see what happens
every time I meet someone new, every time
I lose someone old. I'd love to watch my heart flicker
and to know for sure the right or wrong by the
light I show the world- I'd love to see it, pure,
so that it's no longer a war of lies and masks and faces
I'd love to hold the raw, stinging, spitting essence
of someone close to me, so they can't deny it anymore
and I can't deny it anymore- the world would be good,
I swear, if we'd all just let go and open our doors
(although I'd like to see yours- I don't know if I could.)

It isn't like I didn't try to forget you. God, I tried. I tried it all. I banned you from my thoughts only to dream of you endlessly, mourning your appearance in that suspended place while secretly praying for more. I cast you away every time you spoke but found myself listening harder than before, ******* in details like the color of your shirt, or how your lips molded to the words falling from your tongue looked as ****** as how you might someday kiss a lover, whom I always dreamed was me. I ached for your touch only to deny myself oxygen when we were in the same room, relying on a supply of imaginary wishes to fuel my laughter. Most of all, I let your voice crack me into shards, the scales and spikes successfully keeping out both you and everyone else, effectively leaving me to my own filthy disease. I tried to forget you, and push you away - all of it, only successful when you were far from sight, excommunicated from my tumultuous brain.

But it never quite worked how I needed it to, because some part of me is still ridiculously and foolishly drunk with the idea of you... of us.

adulthood.
some restrained feeling
of weightlessness. some glorified
illusion of freedom. someone's swan song
towards the next novel of their fleeting life.

graduation.
ceremonial sacrifice
to the beings well-versed in
control. we dance for the puppet
masters until we are nothing more than
cogs in this twisting, rusted machine.

change.
excuses aren't acceptable;
shut up and do what they say.
be the person they're molding always,
every second, as the sun falls down and the
moon reminisces on your beaten down dreams.

thought.
an unadulterated process,
at least, it starts that way. we start
like a blank state, tabula rasa theory and all.
we end up "cultured", crammed with discrimination,
hatred, disappointment, and drowning in the media's grip.
we are all slowly dying, becoming the very thing we swore to
forget.

Gowns we never thought we would wear
Caps fit to ruin great hair

Gym floor shoe squeaks
Senior year: complete

Stuck between a friend and a ****
Watching the hands on the drowsy clock

Receiving a paper and a handshake
Twelve years too late

Cap in hand and smiles all around
My hat took flight, only to kiss the ground

But my timing was off
My clouded thoughts

Fuzzy and murky due to
A simple "I love you"

For the boy who waited
Seven years to say it

Know that I won't forget you