I can’t be

a lot of things:

those leaves in the wind

allowing a breeze to control them,

the lonely cabin in a forgotten forest,

rotting from too much rain,

the broken shoots of grass

stepped and trampled on,

the complex words you use so regularly

unaware of their true meaning,

the transparent glass house

with shattered walls and rooms of stones ,

the men and women in suits

casually walking the streets, nameless and rushing,

all the product in your hair

hiding natural things and looking shiny,

full sheets of paper covered in notes

thrown away once the class is passed,

the ****** books and movies

so many people enjoy and converse about,

high noon when everything’s illuminated

and the shadows have disappeared,

the abbreviated words in meaningless text messages

answering questions in the shortest way possible,

the maddening silence when you sleep alone

with the street lights blaring through the blinds.

I can’t be simple.

I can’t be bright.

I can’t be whole.

I can’t be meaningless.

I can’t be alone.

I can’t be the same.

I can’t be okay.

I used to be unsure,

Did this and that to ‘find myself’.

I used to have changing feelings,

Happy now and again, and sad, too.

I used to try my best,

Get it all done, done well, then play.

I used to have boundaries,

Don’t touch me there; I’m not taking that.

I used to care what people thought,

Apologizing and laughing when appropriate.

I used to have interests and desires,

Be what I should, I want to know more.

**** that.

Now , I know what I am,

Monstrous and dangerously alone.

Now, I feel very little,

Usually numb or apathetic.

Now, I do what I feel okay with,

A little here and there, sometimes all.

Now, I can’t say no,

Do what you want, give me what you have.

Now, you can all go to hell,

Approval is overrated and I hate you anyway.

Now, I know what I want and need,

Give me a journal and a pen.

Give me cigarettes and coffee.

Give me *** and *****.

Give me an idea and a place to go.

Give me a story and somewhere to write.

Give me nothing.

It’s already there.

Not sick of winter,

I like my fingers numb.

Don’t care about appearances,

I like my hair wild and colorful.

Won’t do the work,

I like being free and untroubled.

Can’t say your name,

I like the silence and loneliness.

Shouldn’t quit smoking,

I like controlling my own death.

Wouldn’t stop drinking,

I like when people tolerate me.

Couldn’t be myself,

I like showing you this mask.

Mother told me to be brave.

Father told me he wouldn’t tell.

Sister told me to have fun.



Mother gave me food.

Father gave me money.

Sister gave me drugs.



Mother told me too much.

Father told me too little.

Sister shared her thoughts with me.



Mother screamed at me.

Father ignored me.

Sister blamed me.



Mother cried to me.

Father lied to me.

Sister left me.



Mother lost me.

Father never had me.

Sister is still finding me.



Mother invaded me.

Father destroyed me.

Sister scared me.



Mother was proud of me.

Father was proud of me.

Sister was proud of me.



Mother made me angry.

Father made me sad.

Sister made me laugh.



Mother hugged me.

Father kissed me.

Sister held me.



I wanted none of it, and all of it at once.

We have spectacular moments.

We have deep conversations.

I call her many names:

Smoking buddy.

Liquored up.

My sense of humor.

Opened up to.

Shared experience.

Peer pressure.

Free of judgement.

Acceptance and giggles.

Sobriety is not our Forte.

Challenge accepted.

I beat you.

Pass the jungle juice.

Spike the coffee.

Smoke a square.

Spark up that bowl.

We aren’t dull.

We aren’t complete.

We are dumb.

We are lost.

A version of myself.

A version of her.

She doesn’t always say ‘yes’.

But ‘no’ can be quite rare.

She knows some secrets.

She’s seen some scars.

Boundaries broken.

Nights of puking.

Open opinions.

Desired suggestions.

This is only the beginning.

of a co-dependent friendship.

Reminders and meanings,

I need them to keep me going.

The wrist was the most painful;

veins rattling,

blood drying and crumbling,

pale, thin flesh violated,

permanently blackened,

but a pretty font.

Simple but powerful.



It tells me not to be like Her.

It tells me not to be like Them.

It tells me not to be Afraid.

It tells me to say ‘Yes’.

It tells me I’m not actually Dead.



The shoulder is stained, too.

A life philosophy

in the words of a literary God.



It tells me what to expect.

It tells me to stay grounded.

It tells me to keep caution.

It tells me how the world works.

It tells me what I am.

Complex but honest.

I need a little fun in there.

Hidden away, but

don’t take myself too seriously.



It tells me of my childhood.

It tells me of my friends.

It tells me I’m a nerd.

It tells me I’m a kid.

It tells me to remember.

Symbolic but silly.

Will you still love me

when my makeup’s black smudges

across my face?

Will you still love me

when I drink too much

and bile’s lurking in my mouth?

Will you still love me

when I’m chain-smoking on the porch

and my teeth are all stained?

Will you still love me

when I don’t know what to say

and I can’t make you feel better?

Will you still love me

when I go for long walks

and don’t come back for days?

Will you still love me

when we wake up

and I can’t bare to look at you?

Will you still love me

when I won’t budge

and have stopped making sense?

Will you still love me

When I tell you I just don’t know anymore

and am not sure I ever did?

Will you still love me

when I’m completely reckless

and choose a drug-induced haze?

Will you still love me

when I scream obscenities

and say how much I hate you?

Will you still love me

when I’m restless and impulsive

and decide to drive from Chicago to L.A.?

Will you still love me

when I can’t tell you everything

and need to be alone?

Will you still love me

when I don’t call for days

and then fall in love with you again?

Will you still love me

when I make mistakes

and feel I don’t deserve forgiveness?

Will you still love me

when I question all that I am

and yell that I was never good enough?

Will you still love me

when the music stops

and we can’t think of what to say?

Will you still love me

when I need to write and sktech

and question the value of what I made?

Will you still love me

when my mind is melting

and I act like the shell of who I was?

Will you still love me

when I make stupid jokes

and criticize myself?

Will you still love me

when I don’t want to eat anymore

and survive only on coffee and water?

Will you still love me

when I beg you to sing

and your voice is fading and harsh?

Will you still love me

when I think about my past

and can’t get out of bed?

Will you still love me

when I’m cynical and despondent

and everything’s unreal?

Will you still love me

when I hurt myself

and still feel numb?

Will you still love me

when I don’t make sense

and I need to destroy ****?

Will you still love me

when I admit how isolated I am

and you can’t convince me to open up?

Will you still love me

when I push you away

and need you to stay?

Will you still love me

when I can’t see straight

and I’m okay with dying?

Will you still love me

when I’m awkward and shy

and do anything to avoid your eyes?

Will you still love me

when I think I want to leave

and know I can’t?

Will you still love me

when I run to the city

and I’m sick of seeing these stars?

Will you still love me

when I’m picky and annoyed

and just need to scream?

Will you still love me

when I tell you what I am

and how you just can’t fix the shattered bits?

Will you still love me

when I need all the blankets

and it’s winter outside?

Will you still love me

when I spend all our money on *****

and cigarettes and pills?

Will you still love me

when I’m losing control

and the only thing spinning is my head?

Will you still love me

when I’ve gone crazy

and won’t listen to a thing you say?

Will you still love me

when I write my world in ink

and eat the pages so you can’t read them?

Will you still love me

when I’ve written this all for you

and it’s not even good?

Will you still love me

when I’ve written this all for you

and won’t ever let you see it?

Will you still love me

when I’ve written this all for you

and will never mention it?

Will you still love me

when I’ve written this all for you

and I’ve lost sleep over you?

Will you still love me

when I’ve written this all for you

and I’ve decided it’s all impossible?

Will you still love me

when I’ve written this all for you

and you couldn’t ever see me “that way”?

Will you still love me

when I’ve written this all for you

and you never even loved me at all?

Could you ever love me

when I’m insane

and too scared to try?

My mind is shattered

Green glass bottles lining a city curb

My body is scarred

Battle wounds from an inner war

I am awkward and shy

Mouths go mute and sound becomes silence

I am weird and uneducated

Care about myself like pigs care about wings

I choose emptiness and haze

Love is a fantasy, let the tab dissolve

I choose lies and incomplete thoughts

As interesting as a white wall

But I want you

Poetic mottos, background story, fluttering ideas

But I can’t have you

Age, timing, hopelessness, broken, sinner.

Would it be okay

if we played pretend?

if we didn’t have to label this?

if we could share our worlds?

I need this right now.

Would it be okay

if I let you see my wounds?

if you traced them with your fingers?

if you kissed them with your lips?

I need this right now.

Would it be okay

if we went back to your place?

if we drank and smoked too much?

if we fell asleep looking at each other?

I need this right now.

Would it be okay

if we opened all the baggage?

if we accepted how broken our souls are?

if we allowed the sadness to seep in?

I need this right now.

Would it be okay

if we played the music quietly?

if you sang along?

if I listened to your voice?

I need this right now.

Would it be okay

if we acted like life was perfect?

if we kept this to ourselves?

if this moment lasted forever?

I need this right now.

Father-

You were so many icons:

The Chief to me.

My ***** Harry.

The Chris to my Gordie.

An Alexander Supertramp.

The Rick of Casablanca.

Father-

You were so many nouns:

Protector,

Guardian,

Hero,

Breadwinner,

Rapscallion.
­
Father-

You were so many adjectives:

Funny,

Caring,

Interesting,

Strong,

Adventurous.­

Father-

You were my biggest downfall:

Five times I’ve seen you cry.

For me, always baseball games.

Three school events attended.

Too many addictions.

One ruined childhood.

Father-

You were so many villains:

Jack, the dull boy.

Gollum, with your own Precious materials.

Michael Madsen, every time.

Keyser Soze.

The ego of Marsellus Wallace.

Father-

You were so many roles:

Liar,

Gambler,

Alcoholic,

Promise-Breaker,

Black hole.

Father-

You were so many problems:

Unreliable,

Restless,

Invisible,

Hopeless,

Cold.

­Father-

I am what you made me.

I am evil and broken.

I am cold and emotionless.

I am restless and relentless.

I am insane and dark.

I am conflicted and confused.

Father-

I am everything you aren’t.

I am everything you are.

I am nothing good.

I am nothing inside.

I am a part of you.

I am because of you.

Father.

I wouldn’t be without you.

But I would have been better off.

We are rare, so very few.

Burning flags atop metallic poles.

We sway in the breeze like any other,

but burn bright and hot,

then drift through air as dust.



We are rare, so very few.

Shimmering gold in a pan of black stone.

We are hard and tough like you,

but so unique and valuable;

they trade us away for things they think they want.



We are rare, so very few.

Dark freckles on a young girl’s pure face.

Seen as flawed and undesired;

they cover us up, hide us away like rabid animals.



We are rare, so very few.

Lines of a poem printed in regal script.

We have depth and meaning,

but are tossed aside as incoherent, misinterpreted as nonsensical.



We are rare, so very few.

Dead branches of a winter tree reaching for the gray sky.

We are alive and bare, worn and transparent,

but only beautiful and accepted when the foliage grows anew.



We are rare, so very few.

We show our scars and embrace our past.

We admit to the shattered bits and expect no recovery.

We’re not afraid of who we are, only what we can do.

We walk in shadows because the world has left us there.

I had convinced myself,

so long ago,

that the world was empty and coarse,

that I didn’t need anyone to share it wih.

I had told myself

everyday since,

that people aren’t worth it,

that being hollow is having control.

I had made myself believe,

in such a short while,

that escaping was the only option,

that this place was just not for me.

I had stopped looking,

never letting expectations form,

knowing things are better in black and white,

knowing feelings are fleeting, and so unstable.

I had to be leveled,

at all moments, in all places,

so I could stay above dangerous water,

so I wouldn’t make things harder for myself.

I had to keep going,

don’t stop, don’t ever stop,

or my world would shatter,

or I couldn’t escape.

I couldn’t look back,

not once,

because then I would realize my regrets,

because then I would want to go back,

because then I couldn’t survive.