this is not a ******* poem, but you could see it anywhere else i could post
and we can't have that
we can't have me talking to you, texting you, writing about you

and it's not ******* fair
i miss you
you won't talk to me anymore and i don't know what i ******* did

no one talks to me anymore
and i guess i'm not fit for ******* friendship
and i said it was okay if you don't always wanna talk
but you were supposed to still stick around!

i'm glad you're ******* happy
really, truly, i am.
but ******* i just wanna talk to you again.
you're driving me ******* crazy
and you're not even doing anything (but that's the problem isn't it?)

i wanna talk about when i'm scared and tired
and i wanna talk about when you're scared and tired
and i wanna be there for you

and honestly i want more than you just being there for me
when im about to throw myself out of a window

cuz everyone's ******* there when im about to **** myself
i want someone to be there when i'm not, too
i want someone to like me and talk to me (and keep talking)
for some other reason than
"you looked scared"
"i just didn't want you to be completely alone"
"you shouldn't **** yourself, i'll miss you" (well that's sudden)

and i thought you did. i thought we could talk about stuff that wasn't that
i thought we could talk about waffles and popcorn and annoying perfect people
we could talk about parks and rec and about being gay
we could talk about skateboarding and first kisses
and i hoped it would last more than just a little while
but i guess i was ******* wrong
and i always am

and im so mad at you for not responding except when i tell you
im gonna die
im so mad i never wanna talk to you again
******* for leaving without at least telling me why
but please come back  
i thought i had a friend

the feminine body, the feminine aura
was glorious. and she wanted to be glorious.
she could see it real in her mind's eye,
          feel it there in her body's soul.
the ***** of Her spine as She arches Her back
the curve of Her hips
the softness of Her touch...

          and men...
well, she never did see men as glorious.
          never could, it wasn't so.
there was a certain admiration, she supposed,
          one could hold
                    for their figure,
the magnificence of the human body.
but that gloriousness,
          the kind found in the tenderness of Her kiss,
                                      in the strength of Her self,
          that, they lacked.

so that's not why she envied them,
          but envy she did.
the way their clothes fit,
          the way they could move,
                    the way she could not.
they held convenience, she guessed.
she guessed.
          is that what she wanted?
          just a body so convenient?

the body of Woman
          still surely was not
          surely it was not
          surely not on her.
it was imperfect on her,
its beauty dimmed down.
a costume ill-fitted that she couldn't tear off.
and convenient masculinity
a disguise too well made,
an impression ill-suited that wouldn't wear off.

she was wrong, she was wrong!
          boy, girl, what?
was she wrong?
she wanted to be beautiful!
          it was Woman she admired.
she was not, they called her "boy"
          but of that role, she'd long tired.
help!
what happens if you never find a place to stick?
acutely aware
that nothing will ever fit
someone, please, make a box
          and shove her into it.

it is easier to swallow the idea that you don't care
than that you don't understand
(or that you can't or won't).

but when you don't understand.
you, who birthed me.
you, who raised me.
you, who i've trusted almost blindly with my feelings.
you, who supposedly loves me unconditionally.
you, who supposedly always has my best interest at heart.

when you don't understand,
                   can't understand,
                   won't understand,
who else will?

there is something beautiful about you
when you cry.
i don't know if it's the sadness
that leaks from your skin
or how your brain pain is near tangible.
nor do i know
why that should be beautiful
but perhaps it is just the softness
the relenting,
the giving up,
the most ****** up form of peace.
and the repeat realization
of all the reasons
you should feel guilty.

it shows on your face.
as your cheeks redden and then drain slowly of color.
through your muscles
as they tense, almost relax, and then shake.
your eyes, they are red.
they are red and small and drooping.

you see yourself in the mirror
and you fight an urge to smash it again.
you're ashamed, but you see it too:
you are so ******* pretty when you cry.
that robe of misery suits you so well.
maybe you were born for pain.

the whole point
is that it only hurts me.

fist connects with wall and the wall stands,
uncaring, unmarred, unaffected.
my fist though?

fist connects with wall and fist, no, i crumple up.
emotion heavy energy expels itself, i am relieved.

for an almost unnoticeable second, that is.
then i am in pain.

hot blood shoots to hot hands and hotter knuckles.
i slam them back against the wall and it stings like fire.

raging at the world, raging at myself,
but my skin is still colored like my own.
there's not enough purple, not enough red.
so i keep hitting until the burn is too much to bear.

at least i didnt hurt anyone else though.
at least i didnt hurt anything that could break.
at least i didnt hurt anything valuable.

i can take pride in that, i guess.
the whole point is that it only hurts me.

like looking at a ****** video of an alien
through hi-def 3D lenses, wibbly wobbly
(things that don't make sense to your eyes)
like laying in a field, still
while the rest of the world spins around you
like feeling all too much so it hurts
and wanting to feel so much more
crying and screaming and laughing
the urge to jump out of yourself
because your soul is packed in so tight.

thoughts bump into each other in your head
released from their cages they swim through your mind
they whisper or they scream and you don't know which is worse
you want to talk to someone, anyone
but you know the words would come out all too fast
plus who says this feeling isn't just a little nice?

lights on, lights off
colors flash as you open and close your laptop.
a threatening screen, yet welcoming, comforting at the same time.
a bright light in the dark of night
how can you help but stare?

more words swim faster
you laugh, don't try to stop them
let yourself go for the night
(the irony is that you're holding onto something anyway)
something intangible, unreal, but there
keeping you still, frozen.
euphoric, psychedelic, hyperactive
does anything really make sense?

standing up will pull you back down hard
listen and you hear a deafening empty silence
fill it with your sobs of frustration.
it won't end until you cry yourself to sleep
and the bed suddenly seems so soft...

[redacted]